


From the Ashes

by tarysande, w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Endgame, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 104
Words: 655,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Chantry explosion, sisters Kiara and Amelle Hawke attempt to make sense of an irrevocably changed Kirkwall, and to offer aid to a city that--perhaps--no longer wishes for their help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, after they’d both finished their playthroughs of Dragon Age 2, tarysande and w0rdinista got to talking about the things they loved about the game and the things they didn’t love quite so much. As it happened, their ideas overlapped quite a lot. At some point in this fateful conversation, w0rdinista said to tarysande, “Wow, our Hawkes could be sisters!” and tarysande replied, “I know, they really could.”
> 
> For whatever reason, this moment stuck with them. They chatted about similarities and differences and love interests. Later that day, w0rdinista sent tarysande an amusing little snippet of dialogue set at the end of one of tarysande’s Kiara Hawke fics, as if their Hawkes really were sisters, with her mage, Amelle, slipping into the little sister slot originally occupied by Bethany. Tarysande replied in kind. This went back and forth for several days. Then the bits of present-tense conversation grew a plot! And that plot began to thicken! Suddenly pieces of story were being written back and forth in past tense, with proper punctuation and everything! Backstory formed, because it was decided that these Hawke sisters weren’t going to be separated by Deep Roads or Circle.
> 
> And From the Ashes was born. Welcome! We hope you enjoy the ride.
> 
> For the purposes of this story we're going with Rite of Annulment because we like it better, and it's used both ways all over the franchise.
> 
> Also, this chapter began its life as a different fic, so if it seems familiar, you're not crazy, but it has gone through a vast number of changes and additions since then!

Afterward, with the stink of burning city and burning lyrium and burning flesh still defiantly tainting every breath, Kiara Hawke watched her companions walk off into the fire-lit darkness of the city without her. She saw their concerned looks, their troubled looks, their sorrowed looks. She felt their grief, because the same hammered away in her own breast, hard and sharp and strong as a hammer wielded by an expert smith.

She sent them away, all of them, with all of their looks.

And then she drank.

Her house she found whole, but empty. The facade was defaced, and though the fires were not as bright here—she dared not turn, dared not name the glow on the horizon, dared not think too hard about what caused that glow—she was certain at least some of the marks were painted in blood. The oaken door still stood sturdy on its hinges, however, and most of the windows were whole. 

For some reason, the unbroken windows and the unshattered door disturbed her greatly. Even with defacements painted in blood and shit and Maker knew what else, her house was still standing. For years she’d carefully built a life centered around this pleasant house she’d striven so hard to reclaim ( _for Mother_ , whispered her sister’s voice, _how desperately she wanted her home again_ ), but tonight had ended it all.

The Hawke-Amell estate ought to be a smoldering wreck, like the rest of Kirkwall. That it was not seemed… unjust.

But Kiara could not bear even to _think_ the word _justice_ now. Not yet. Not sober.

So she scoured her empty, whole house for liquor. She found half a dozen bottles of aged Antivan brandy buried under the rest of the junk she hadn’t yet found the time to sell or dispose of. A nice bottle of wine sat on her desk, untouched, next to piles of letters she’d been meaning to answer for days. She supposed the answers would be unnecessary now. Half the correspondents would be dead; the rest would no longer wish to hear from her. Grabbing the bottle, she abandoned the letters, and turned instead to the kitchen.

She found wine there, too, though of an inferior vintage, one best left to cooking. It didn’t matter; she added it to her collection. She knew she’d find better wine in the cellar, but the cellar made her think of the secret passage, and the secret passage made her think of—no. No, for now she’d make do with what she found in the house proper, be it bad brandy or cooking sherry. She’d drink the bottle from her desk first. It was a good one. Hopefully by the time she’d drunk it all, her tongue would no longer rebel at the inferiority of the rest.

Even with her arms full of bottles, she was afraid there wouldn’t be enough drink in the world to drown the thoughts she wanted drowned.

Kiara hadn’t expected to find Bodahn and Sandal still at the estate, but she was surprised to find Orana gone as well. The little elf girl rarely left the house, and even then always reluctantly. Kiara hoped the girl ran of her own accord. She hoped Orana found somewhere safe to stay— _is there any place left that’s safe after what you’ve done?_ —and never returned.

In her mind’s eye she saw her companions again, walking into the dark, walking into the fires, walking away from her, and part of her hoped they would all disappear, too. Someplace safe. Someplace hidden. Someplace far. _After what you’ve done—_  

It didn’t matter. Not really.

Kiara knew she would be gone by the time anyone came looking. She’d leave them all, and they’d be safer for it. She hoped.

 _Even your sister?_ said a voice in Kiara’s head that sounded eerily like that of her dead mother. Her dead father added, _you promised, kit. You promised to protect her._ Her dead brother echoed, _you have to, Kiki. You’re the only one left. It’s so much worse now than it ever was before, even when there were ogres._

“She’s better off without my kind of protection,” Kiara said aloud, daring the voices of her dead family to argue with her. They didn’t, and she smiled a fierce, terrible, triumphant smile. 

She knew she had to run. They knew it, too. Run or die.

Later, though. After the drinking. 

#

Victory wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Even three bottles of wine in, Kiara was pretty certain of that. She knew the tales of the Archdemon’s defeat, after all. She’d heard the bards and street-singers and even _Varric_ telling stories of the woman who slew the monster and saved the world, earning herself a king and a kingdom and the title _Hero_. 

Kiara dreaded the tales they would tell of her, of this night. Champion of Kirkwall. Never in all the years she’d worn it had the honorific seemed more absurd. _Champion_. The woman who’d named Kiara Champion was dead now, but it hadn’t been glorious. It hadn’t been a cleansing beam of light from atop the tallest tower; it hadn’t been a dragon with a glowing sword through its massive, hideous skull. It hadn’t felt like the kind of victory storytellers made tales of.

No, Kiara had watched a woman go mad, and die of it. Kiara had helped kill her. If she was honest—and drink made her honest—Kiara had wanted Meredith Stannard dead a long time. She wasn’t sad the Knight-Commander’s reign had ended. Not even a little bit. She was only sad it had come to blood and fire and the deaths of innocents.

Then again, didn’t it always? Even the Hero of Ferelden had dealt in blood and fire and the deaths of innocents.

Cullen would be Knight-Commander now. Kiara shook her head. It was growing fuzzy with wine and sad thoughts. Cullen’s intervention might buy her a day or a week or a month, but there would be no cheering crowds for the victor—or was she merely a survivor? An instigator? The distinction grew blurry—of tonight’s debacle. It was risky to stay even one night, but templars or no templars, she would grieve this life before she fled it.

“Where will I go?” she asked the bottle she was drinking from. When it didn’t answer, she merely gulped down another too-sweet swig and scowled.

Not Starkhaven, certainly; she did not doubt Sebastian’s vow of vengeance, even if it was somewhat misguided. Her teeth clenched when she thought of it. She was angry, true, but only a small part of that anger was directed _at_ him. She was angry he’d left without letting her explain, angry he’d turned his back on her, angry he’d _assumed_ …

Mostly she was angry _along_ _with_ him, though. As she would have explained, had he bothered to wait, bothered to listen. Her anger simply hadn’t taken the form of making martyrs.

Tearing a page from Fenris’ book, she dashed the bottle of wine against the wall. It made a beautiful crash, and an even more beautiful stain, but she regretted the action as soon as she realized she’d gone through the wine and was now left to the Antivan brandy she didn’t like half so well.

Antiva. She contemplated running to Antiva for a moment, until she realized her life would be just as forfeit there, given her previous dealings with the Crows. The King of Ferelden had intimated she’d always be welcome _home_ , but she wasn’t certain the offer stood if she arrived with holy war in tow. No. King Alistair would have trouble enough without her adding to it. They all would. Her turncloak, murderous mage had seen to that.

Orlais might do. Perhaps she could even join the Chantry, to hide in plain sight. Surely they wouldn’t look for her amongst the ranks of lay sisters or Revered Mothers.

Even as she thought it, she knew she wouldn’t do such a thing. Joining the Chantry really _would_ mean leaving her sister behind, and…

The voices of her dead family did not speak, but nor were they silent. She could hear their reproach loud and clear. _Oh, Mely. What are we to do? What are we to do now?_

Putting her head in her hands, she felt the room spin, but the thoughts did not stop and the darkness of the palms against her eyes did nothing to erase the fresh horrors running rampant across her eyelids. All her memories were tinted red. The red of her adopted city burning once more, the red of Meredith’s mad eyes and lyrium-idol sword, the red of mages turning to blood magic again and again and _again_.

The red of the terrible, terrible power that had leveled the Chantry and killed the Grand Cleric along with countless others. Countless innocents. Countless, countless.

Even though she had been an unwitting, unwilling participant, _accessory to murder_ was a terrible mantle to wear. It was far heavier upon her shoulders than Champion of Kirkwall ever was.

A sound brought the dance of memories to a crashing halt. It was a small sound, only a footstep and the brush of fabric against floor. She swallowed hard, not wanting to look up and see what she already knew she’d see.

 _Perhaps it is only Amelle returned home again_ , she thought desperately, knowing it wasn’t true. Amelle would have spoken. Amelle would never have attempted silence. Amelle knew better than to sneak up on her.

It wasn’t Amelle, of course. Kiara knew she ought to be surprised when she looked up from her hands and saw Anders kneeling at the cold hearth. Brief sparks danced at his fingertips, lighting the kindling Orana had left waiting, but even after the fire was lit he remained on his knees, head bowed, neck bared to her.

Kiara knew she ought to be surprised, but instead she simply felt weary and sad and old beyond her years.

 _I could kill him_ , she thought. _I could kill him here and no one would know. No audience. Just the silent, ignominious death he deserves._ That _would be justice._

But her bow was not to hand and there were words yet to be spoken.

Without looking at her, Anders said, “I am glad you were victorious, Hawke. All the city is talking about it.”

Bitterly, she retorted, “You mean the parts of the city that aren’t talking about what you did? The parts of the city still alive to talk at all?”

“That’s—”

“Of _course_ you’re glad. I’ve been a good little pawn for you, haven’t I?”

_I believe I have a formula for a potion that can separate Justice and me. Without killing either._

And she’d been fool enough to believe him.

If the deep lines around Anders’ eyes were any indication, she was not the only one who had been aged by the night’s horror. He barely managed to meet her gaze before he turned his face once again to the fire.

“We’re _friends_ , Kiara. I never intended—”

_There are always dangers with magic. But I believe this will be worth the cost._

Kiara remembered Elthina, and could not agree. Not even a little.

_No, no ritual. Just mix the ingredients up and… boom. Justice and I are free. And we can take our rightful place among free mages._

Boom.

 _What aren’t you telling me?_ she had asked, and he’d answered with a jape, a jest, a _deflection_.

She should have known. She should have _suspected._

She could kill him now. She could. No one would see. No one would know. No cause to take up his name. No martyrdom. That would be his justice.

“No,” she said calmly—more calmly than she felt; she thought it must be an effect of the wine. Her limbs were heavy, but her mind was oddly clear. “I have had quite my fill of your words. It is your turn to listen to me, Anders. Perhaps you failed to notice, but we have not been friends for quite some time, if ever we were friends at all. I believe I can date it exactly, if you’d like me to. Friends don’t lie to each other. Friends don’t resort to blackmail to get what they want. And friends answer honestly the questions asked of them, even if those questions have difficult answers. Perhaps _especially_ if those questions have difficult answers.”

Kiara watched him prepare to defend himself. It was so predictable; she had witnessed this selfsame transformation dozens of times. His shoulders straightened and his back stiffened. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed, and she thought she saw a flash of blue deep within their depths, just for an instant. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Before he could speak, however, she continued, “I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. I wouldn’t have understood. I still don’t understand. I don’t want to understand. _I will never understand._ Until the day I die—likely sooner rather than later, if the templars have their way—I will regret not pushing harder for the truth. I will regret not knowing enough to stop you. Perhaps you deluded yourself into thinking me a friend, but friends trust each other, Anders, and if I ever trusted you that time is long ended. Your story is too full of inconsistencies. Even I can see that. My greatest regret will be having ever trusted you at all.”

“This isn’t about me. The mages deserve—” he began to protest, singing the same old song he’d always sung, but she silenced him with a swift, cutting motion.

“I supported the mages,” she retorted sharply. “My father was a mage. My sister _is_ one. One who disagrees with you on nearly every point—”

Anders snarled, “Easy enough for her to _do_ , given that she’s never spent a day locked away in one of the Chantry’s prison Circles. She has no idea what it’s like for us. She has no idea—”

Her fingers twitched with their desire to clench into fists, but she did not let them. “Anders,” she warned. “Don’t even—”

“I don’t know why I ever bothered,” he snapped, the blue in his eyes now definitely more than a mere flash. “You may not wear their flaming sword upon your breast, but you’re templar through and through.”

She could kill him. She knew she could. With her bare hands, if she had to. It would be worth it, even if he took her with him.

Instead, coldly, she said, “If you had _listened_ to me speak instead of nursing your frustration because I wasn’t doing things exactly as you wished, you would have heard me support the mages time and time again. The only thing I refused was to capitulate to extremism and madness. From either side.”

Kiara wanted to close her eyes, to turn away from the raw, almost mad look on Anders’ face, but she was afraid she’d see the images of the monster Orsino had become. Worse, she was afraid she’d see the light going out of her mother’s eyes. Necromancy. Blood magic. Insanity. _How well did you guard your own mother?_ Meredith had asked, cruelly. _Did she not die by a blood mage’s hands? Cold corpses speak louder than abstract freedoms, do they not?_

The First Enchanter had seemed so reasonable, especially standing opposite mad Meredith, but he’d betrayed her trust. Kiara was not the only accessory to murder, oh no. Orsino’s hands had dripped with her mother’s blood, only she’d been too blind to see it. So she’d supported the mages—her father had been a mage, her sister was a mage—because Meredith was mad and because the Rite of Annulment was inhumane, not because Anders ranted and raved and frothed at the mouth. Maker’s breath, she’d supported the mages in _spite_ of Anders.

Damn the templars. Damn their Rite. And damn the mages, too.

Much as she wanted to wash her hands of all of them, she knew no amount of scrubbing would ever, ever completely remove the stains.

_Just mix the ingredients up and… boom._

_What aren’t you telling me?_

Swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, she added, “There’s a thing called diplomacy, Anders, and you’re the one who spat on it time and time again. Elthina was being careful so as not to incite unnecessary trouble, but she would have listened. I believe she would have listened. How does it help the plight of mages to kill the only reasonable person in Kirkwall? Was that your aim? To undermine the possibility of rational discourse?”

Coolly, he replied, “Talk is cheap. Talk changes nothing.”

“And cold-blooded murder changes everything, yes. Thank you for clarifying that. When they’re pulling the corpses of children from beneath the broken stones of the Chantry, I’ll be sure to plead your case.”

One corner of his lip curled, but the expression was neither smile nor scowl. It was some ugly thing caught between the two. “You keep using the word murder, but yet you didn’t kill me when you had the chance. If you truly thought my methods wrong, you could have executed me. No one would have stopped you. Your precious princeling would have applauded instead of leaving you.” At the mention of Sebastian—and oh, how it stung—Anders _did_ sneer. “But then, you never could choose sides, could you, Hawke? No wonder you got on so well with the wavering princely priest. No wonder you weep for the Grand Cleric. The lot of you would have waited and talked and taken your tea with sugar until every mage in Kirkwall was dead, or Tranquil.”

Tilting her head until the back of her skull rested against the warm wood of her chair, Kiara asked mildly, “Is that it? Have you come to finish the job then?”

His robes rustled. She almost smiled. She’d managed, at last, to startle him. After too long a pause, he said, “It was never about you. You were collateral damage. In a way… in a way, so was she.”

She noticed he was careful not to mention the others. And there would be others, she knew. All the Chantry folk, certainly, but also Kirkwallers caught in the crossfire. Innocents. Children. So many innocents.

She should have killed him the day he almost killed the girl, Ella. She should have known, then. Amelle had certainly never looked at him the same way afterward, but Kiara had been foolish—she’d thought him capable of reform.

 _An abomination isn’t capable of reform_ , her father’s voice said.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, glinting in the golden light of Anders’ fire. She wondered how long they’d been there. It seemed sad, somehow, as though the house was already certain of its fate, and was already fading toward it.

“I didn’t spare your life because I thought your cause just or because we were friends once. I certainly didn’t spare you because I agreed with your methods. I spared you because I didn’t want to hand your cause a convenient martyr to rally around. And because I had no wish to be painted the villain in the tales they’ll tell of you.” She twisted her head just enough to see the stricken expression slide across his face. “That’s your problem, Anders,” she admonished. “You never think through the consequences of your actions. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night, but knowing what I know now? I think you refused to tell me your plans for the Chantry not for my own good, not because you wanted to protect me, but precisely because you knew I’d think through the consequences for you. _All_ the consequences, not just the ones you wanted. I’d have asked questions you could not answer. I’d have doubted you, and you did not want to acknowledge even the possibility of doubt.”

Anders said nothing.

Sighing, she put her hands to the arms of the chair and pushed herself upright. The room remained surprisingly steady. “You came to congratulate me on my victory, and you have done so. I’d like to thank you for the courtesy, but the triumph is bitter, and I’m afraid it’s not one to be savored.”

 _I could kill you_ , she didn’t say. _I_ want _to kill you._

“I wanted to—”

She interrupted, before he could speak words she could not unhear. “Given your thanks, I cannot think what other possible reason you might have to intrude on my solitude. I can only hope you have not come seeking understanding or, Maker forbid, absolution. We have set the world alight tonight, you and I. The Maker only knows what will rise from the ashes. We have to live with that.”

“Hawke…”

“Leave now,” she commanded, ignoring the pain in his eyes. Once upon a time she’d allowed herself to be taken in by his pain, and she had regretted it ever since. Not for herself, no. Hers was the least of the lives destroyed by this one man’s incendiary, all-consuming pain. Like a fox in a trap, he had long since gnawed off his own leg in his desperate bid for freedom. When she’d agreed to take the little fox in, she’d had no idea how rabid it was. She knew now. She would not allow herself to be taken in again.

_Papa used to call me kit. His cunning red fox. He said it like an endearment, but what does it mean about me?_

Steeling herself, Kiara added, “This is the third and final time I will let you leave with your life. I think it best you disappear. If I see you again I will put an arrow through your eye before you can defend yourself, and I will make your body vanish before anyone can think to martyr you. That is my promise.”

By the determined set of his chin she thought he would resist, protest further, but he only stared at her. The blue light was gone from his eyes, leaving only hazel, slightly baffled. She wondered if, like she did, he saw a stranger looking back at him. He might wear a similar mien, but the man standing before her was not the man she’d laughed with over drinks in The Hanged Man, or whom she’d beaten at cards, or whom she’d fought back to back with in so many battles. The man staring at her was not the man who’d saved her life countless times, whose hands and whose magic had brought her back from certain death more than once.

No. That man had died when the Chantry did, if ever he’d truly lived at all.

The man standing before Kiara now was the man who’d killed the one person in the entire stinking cesspit of Kirkwall she’d respected, who’d cost her Sebastian’s friendship, whose actions would likely cost Aveline her captaincy and Donnic his position in the guard. This mage’s actions rendered the lives of all mages, Amelle— _oh, Mely, what will we do?_ —and Merrill included, forfeit. He had weaseled his way in and then he’d wantonly destroyed them all. He’d brought the whole damned world down around their ears.

The bastard. The bloody bastard.

He was no friend of hers.

Even if he refused to see the truth in anything else, she’d be damned if he didn’t understand _that_ before he left.

A particularly large log snapped in the hearth, sending a dizzying swirl of sparks into the chimney, and pulling Anders’ gaze from her at last. His eyes shone in the flare of light. She did not look too closely.

Very quietly, he said, “I understand.”

“Do you?” she replied, just as quietly. “I do not think you do. Do you remember what Isabela said?”

He frowned. “I doubt it. Isabela says a great deal, and very little of it is worth heeding.”

Kiara looked away from the fire. One of the full bottles of brandy rested near her foot and she kicked it lightly, watching it roll. Liquor, and the oblivion promised by it, had lost its appeal. She’d find no absolution in the bottom of a bottle. She knew that now. She ought to have known it all along, really.

Ignoring the snide cruelty in his tone, she said, “You were haranguing her about regrets, about the desire to fix past mistakes, to right past wrongs. She turned to you and said, ‘Our mistakes make us who we are’ as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.”

“If you’re wanting an apology from me, you’ll be waiting a long time, Hawke.”

 _Our mistakes make us who we are._ Oh, she had made mistakes and she knew it. For the most part, her mistakes made her stronger, because she would not allow them to make her weak. The entire city of Kirkwall was an object lesson in the cost of mistakes, but these mistakes sapped the city’s strength, left it a rotten carcass torn at by the opposing extremes espoused by mages and templars, ripe to feed slavers and bandits and thieves and corruption.

Our _mistakes make us who we are. Not his. His mistakes are his own._

He watched her, wary and sullen, and she found herself almost smiling. He’d murdered one voice of reason, but perhaps she might be another. Perhaps it was a mantle it would not shame her to wear. His mistakes were not hers, after all.

Perhaps running was what he _wanted_ her to do. Running would make her look guilty, just as killing him would have made him a martyr. The Grand Cleric had refused to run, had refused to leave Kirkwall, though she knew staying put her at risk. The people needed her, Elthina had said, and so she’d remained. 

The people _still_ needed someone.

Perhaps _Champion of Kirkwall_ could be more than an empty appellation, after all. Perhaps she might make the title _real_ , make it stand for something more than a tip of the hat for services rendered. If anyone needed a champion, an advocate, it was Kirkwall. 

Much as the title had chafed in the beginning, it was part of her now.

_The Maker never gives us more than we can carry, Kiara, but He does like to push us past the edges of what we think we can do, just to see us grow._

Her father used to murmur those words when she was throwing a tantrum about her inability to shoot an arrow straight, or when she was angry about having to take care of her brother and sister _again_ instead of running off to play with the older village children.

He’d said those words to her when Amelle’s magic had so brightly manifested, the fear in his eyes mixed with pride and love and _determination._

They were the first words she’d thought when she realized he was gone—really gone—and wasn’t coming back again.

“You don’t understand at all,” she said, unable to keep the wonderment from her voice. “Maker’s breath, Anders, you really don’t. You poor bastard.” Anders took a step away from her, and would have taken another, she thought, but the hearth was behind him and the hem of his robes was already too close to the flame.

To run now would be a mistake. The kind of mistake that would invite weakness instead of strength, and that would change her in ways she did not wish to be changed.

_That’s my kit. That’s my fierce, brave girl. It’s easier to hide, but sometimes it’s better not to._

Kiara heard the door slam open downstairs, and wondered if it was looters come to finish their dark business. A moment later, though, she heard Amelle call out. Anders winced.

“ _You_ should have run,” Kiara said. “But I won’t. Not for your mistakes. Not now. Not ever. If Aveline is with them, I won’t stop her taking you.”

“If she kills me, I’d still be the martyr you don’t want me to be.”

_I could kill you. Amelle would help me. They’d never find your body._

Kiara raised her eyebrows. She could hear Amelle on the stairs, her voice strained as she shouted.

“I’m in my room, Mely,” Kiara answered. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “You escaped the Circle seven times, but you can’t escape the Hawke estate? Did Varric embellish _your_ abilities, too?”

“I could burn this place to the ground.”

“You could. But you won’t.”

He glared at her. “Maybe I will.”

She shook her head. “No, you won’t.”

“You seem certain of that, considering you’re an unarmed woman facing an awfully powerful mage.”

Kiara narrowed her eyes. “You’d have to look me in the eyes as you murdered me, abomination, and you’ve already proven you don’t have the guts for that. So no, you won’t. Unless, of course, you’ve already laced the passage to the clinic with drakestone and sela petrae. _That_ I’d believe you capable of.”

Anders turned white—a terrible, inhuman shade—but Kiara only looked toward the door as Amelle pushed her way inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the battle is over, Kirkwall is still burning. Unaware of the confrontation going on between Kiara and Anders, Fenris and Amelle gradually work their way through the city, trying to make their way back to the Hawke Estate, and finding much to delay them on the way.

The city was burning.

The blast originating at the chantry had leveled the building entirely, killing all within.  The chantry courtyard was a wasteland of ruin of rock and twisted metal and ash thick enough to cloud the sky.  Nearby homes had been destroyed, the residents trapped within, or worse.  Fires burned, making the air nearly unbreathable — but not silent, far from silent.  Painful screams mingled with mournful cries; he heard people calling for each other, trying to locate friends and family amidst the chaos, and he was struck for a moment how many people were _not_ answering those cries.

The battle was over, and all that remained of Meredith was stone. Though by the end, driven by madness and vengeance and a poisoned sword, she had lost the hearts and minds of many of her men, Fenris was left to wonder how many would remain loyal to her, loyal to her ideals. His own opinions upon this point were… significantly muddier now.  There had been a time, not so very long ago, he would have joined Meredith’s cause without hesitation.  Hawke, however, had embraced — had _attempted_ to embrace reason where others had given up, and she had been unable to wholeheartedly support anything the Knight-Commander did.

After nearly seven years, he trusted Hawke. She had proven herself to him time and again, had earned his loyalty a number of times over, and so she had his blade.  It was… simple.  It was, in fact, one of the few things he could count on to be simple. Certainly much simpler than the mess mages and templars had made of Kirkwall.

It had been an impossible choice, and Fenris had not envied Hawke a whit to have been the one they all looked to for a decision.  To side with Meredith meant to invoke the Rite of Annulment. Perhaps Amelle was no Circle mage to be massacred with the rest on Meredith’s orders, but Fenris doubted Hawke could stomach taking the risk. And he knew her well enough to know she could not side with those who would perpetrate an act of wholesale slaughter. Fenris knew Anders could have blown up a hundred chantries — a thousand — and _still_ Kiara Hawke would not have allowed any harm to come to her sister. 

He wondered for a moment what such a thing felt like.  His own sister would have seen him dead — or worse, returned to Danarius as a slave, once again a possession.  Hawke, though, had practically walked through the Black City itself to keep her sister safe.

The least he could do was assist her in that endeavor.  Even if the sister in question was behaving recklessly beyond all comprehension.  Performing magic of any sort — even healing magic — under the present circumstances was _dangerous,_ as he’d reminded Amelle no fewer than three times.  But still the younger Hawke knelt upon the stones in this smoky side alley, her face smudged with sweat and grime and blood, pouring wave after wave of blue light into a bloody and burnt woman who would likely never know how she survived, if she survived at all.  He hoped, for the sake of the small child crying into his mother’s shoulder, she would.

Fenris watched from his post at the mouth of the alley as Amelle worked.  His exposure to healing magic had once been limited to Tevinter hunters managing to repair or undo damage he’d caused them, and so he’d had a fairly low opinion of healing magic on the whole.  Anders had summarily undone any progress Fenris might otherwise have made regarding mage healers.  

This left Amelle.  It had been she who had seen to their various wounds and injuries during the battle; she who had sensed their flagging energy and called forth rejuvenation spells that sent fire through their veins and allowed them to forge ahead; she who had flung up glowing barriers and glyphs to protect them all; she who had summoned ice and fire and lightning and until her mana drained to the point her hands shook.

She should have been exhausted.  And perhaps she was.  But if she _was_ , then fatigue was outweighed only by bald stubbornness as she continued to work upon her patient, coaxing the burnt, bubbling skin to smooth and fade to a less angry color.

All the same, despite her object and despite her intentions, the glow emanating from her hands ran the risk of attracting the wrong sort of attention.

“Amelle,” he growled, casting a quick glance beyond the alleyway.  No one had noticed them yet, but every minute they remained was another minute they ran the risk of discovery.  “You must hurry.”

“Shut _up_ , Fenris,” she ground out through gritted teeth. He heard a strange note in her voice — an odd timbre that indicated strain _—_ and when he looked back he saw how pale she’d grown, her short hair newly damp with perspiration.  He felt a flash of irritation that she would endanger herself so, when her sister had just waged war against the templars _to keep her safe._

Rather than arguing — or snatching her by the collar of the robes she wore and dragging her bodily to the estate — Fenris chose instead to watch Amelle work.  Beneath the blue glow, the woman’s burns were indeed healing, and her breathing seemed clearer, more natural.  Judging by the way Amelle’s jaw was set and the tense line of her shoulders, Fenris had to wonder if she was healing the damage through little more than brute force and raw determination.

Then, suddenly, the woman’s body jerked as her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a deep, gasping, desperate breath.  She lay there a moment, dazed, heedless even of her own little boy who had flung himself at her the moment she woke.  The light faded from Amelle’s hands and she sank forward, bracing herself against the stones as she sagged, recovering her breath and, Fenris suspected, her mana.  Trembling still, she checked the pouch at her waist, fingers lingering over the stopper of her final bottle of lyrium potion.  With visible effort she pulled her hand away and closed the pouch.

The woman she’d healed sat up slowly, wrapping one arm around her clinging child.  She blinked hard and stared at Amelle, first narrowing her eyes, then widening them.

“You… you’re a _mage,_ ” she breathed.  Amelle looked up, glancing at the woman from behind the sweaty fringe of her bangs.

“I am,” she replied evenly, though she was breathless with exertion.

This woman — a woman who had been more than halfway to death when they’d found her, a woman who was alive and whole and even then embracing her child _because_ they’d found her — scrambled to her feet as she pulled her child away, backing against the alley wall.  Her eyes were wild, like those of a cornered animal.  

“Please, listen,” Amelle began, reaching for the woman, who was wobbling unsteadily. “You’ve been through—”

“I know what I’ve been through,” she spat.  “ _Mages._   To the Void with the lot of you.  What did you do to me, anyway?  Plant a demon in my head?  Drain my blood for your _magic?_ ”

Amelle didn’t move, but Fenris saw all too well the way she flinched, her eyes closing suddenly as if she’d been struck.  Anger surged through him and he turned to face the woman — she looked strange indeed, her skin dark with soot and ash, but showing not even a shadow of the burns she’d had when they’d first discovered her; even her hair was singed, burnt away nearly to the scalp in spots.  But _she_ was quite well again.  Alive.

Alive and ungrateful for her own life.

“She prevented your son from becoming an orphan,” he snarled, inclining his head at her, even as he shifted his stance to block her route back to the open corridors of Hightown.  “You would do well to show some gratitude.”

“Let her go, Fenris.  Just… let her go.”

In the instant it took for him to look at Amelle, the woman fled the alleyway, dragging her child behind her.  Amelle still knelt, her shoulders drooping, and the anger he felt at the ungrateful wretch shifted suddenly to the mage who’d bothered healing her in the first place.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, his tone sharp, the words snapping out like a whip.  “You endanger yourself after your sister risked her life — risked all our lives — so you might be safe?  What benefit do you get from such fool—”

“Don’t you _dare_ call me foolish.”  Her head was still bowed, her body still trembling, but there was iron in her voice beneath the raggedness of smoke and exhaustion.

“Is it not foolishness? What reason could you have for—”

“Because it needs to be done, Fenris!  I didn’t save that woman for gratitude or thanks or _any of that_ , just like my sister didn’t go toe-to-toe with Meredith _only_ because of me. Meredith was a bully Kiara had to stand up to. I saved that woman because because she was dying and because _no child_ should lose their parent at such an age and because I _could_.  It was the right thing to do, and if… if all she saw was some kind of monster…” Amelle trailed off, shaking her head and slowly getting to her feet.  “Does it really matter, in the long run?”

He stared at her, not entirely sure how to answer.  In the silence, Amelle wiped her filthy brow with an equally filthy sleeve.

“Shouldn’t it matter?” he finally asked.

“Her mind was made up.”  She gestured angrily at the alley’s exit, where things still burned, where the air was still thick with smoke and the sound of Kirkwall in anguish.  “A mage did this.  And whatever the repercussions are, Fenris, I have to live with them.  Getting indignant isn’t going to solve anything.  Maybe later, after she’s calmed down, maybe she’ll see.  If not…” Her slim shoulders lifted in a tired shrug.  “It’s out of my hands. She’s alive. That’s enough.”

Fenris found it difficult to argue with her.  Oh, he wanted to.  But he could tell even now, by the stubborn tilt of her chin and the way her green eyes watched him so unwaveringly, it would be a fruitless endeavor.  He did not quite suppress his sigh, exhaling hard through his teeth.

“Very well,” he finally said, and the fact that he’d acquiesced seemed to quietly surprise and relieve her.  “We ought to return to your home.  Doubtless Hawke has been alone quite long enough.”

Amelle nodded once.  “We’ll return for a time.  I need a few potions and—”

“Do not tell me you intend to go out into this again.”

Amelle shot him a look _,_ her brows rising behind her bangs as she planted a hand on her hip _._   “All right, then, I won’t tell you,” she retorted. He blinked his surprise at the pertness of her reply.  “Come on.  Kiara’s probably worrying.”  With that, she sidled past him, leaving the relative safety of their niche, and they began weaving their way back to the estate.

They’d barely gone twenty yards when Amelle’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm.  She pulled, _hard_ , rushing forward to a far corner, behind a cluster of pillars, where a body lay in a pool of red — a body wearing armor that had once been white and gold, but was now stained and streaked with blood.

“Maker’s blood,” she breathed, her grip on his arm growing tighter. “It’s _Sebastian._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian had counted himself part of more families than most, and he had lost them all.

It was distressing when he started to think about _why_ and _how_ and _when_ he lost everything. He was, after all, far too culpable. More than he’d admitted. Even to himself.

The first family was his when he was Sebastian Vael, youngest son of Prince Lachlan of Starkhaven. His parents had their heir, a spare, and him. She never said as much, but he rather suspected his mother had wished him a girl; her eyes always held a particular disappointment when she looked at him, even _before_ he earned it, and she’d had a tendency to gaze at the little girls running about Court with troubled longing.

Sebastian Vael wore his place in his first family like an ill-made suit of armor and it chafed, so he sought the false god of pleasure, thinking it would take him in, would anesthetize him. What ill, wondered the young prince, could not be cured by love, by laughter, by singing in taverns until dawn?

He was wrong, of course, that naive princeling. The countless nights spent in the arms of nameless women with their interchangeable faces and bodies and breasts, and the countless empty bottles and empty tankards and emptied purses did little to drown his sorrows or fill the empty, aching space within him. These things magnified his pain instead of numbing it. Lying with a woman was not love, no more than buying rounds purchased true friendship. Sometimes, in the middle of a particularly vulgar verse of some drinking song or another, snatches of the Chant of Light would drift into his mind, and the evening would taste only of disappointment, and be spoiled.

He was older now, and wiser, and hindsight had clarified all too much. His actions then were those of a spoiled child, a child denied nothing, who expected his slightest whims to be obeyed and acted upon instantly. He had been selfish, so very selfish, and thoughtless. Until the day his parents committed him to the Chantry, he’d never considered how his self-destructive desires might be destroying them, too.

He knew now. Now, when it was beyond too late.

Too late for too many things.

Though he could recognize now why his parents thought it best to banish him to the Chantry, the loss still stung. More so, perhaps, because amends would never be made. No apology could bring his first family back from their graves. He had waited too long, holding on to the vestiges of indignation, telling himself he would return to Starkhaven a full Brother and apologize then. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted them to say, but his was fairly certain he wanted them to be _proud_.

Pride—having it, wanting it—was a dangerous thing indeed. This, too, was something he knew, now that it was too late. This, too, was something he had learned the hard way.

His second family called him Brother Sebastian and, almost against his will, the sanctuary of the Chantry became home. It was a family he did not want, in the beginning. Too many brothers and sisters, and no sense of how he fit in the hierarchy. He’d resented the Chantry. Hated it a little, even. Wanted to escape it, certainly. If not for Grand Cleric Elthina… but no. He could not bear to think of her, could not bear to consider this fresh loss.

For years he’d been a good son, a dutiful brother, and he’d avoided seeing disappointment in his new mother’s eyes. He had done all she asked of him, allowed himself to be guided, and he’d thrived. The hollow space within his breast began to fill, slowly. Love, Brother Sebastian discovered, could be found following the Maker. Laughter was often heard in the chantry, echoing in the nave, dancing amongst the buttresses. The first time Sebastian heard Grand Cleric Elthina laugh, he’d nearly wet himself. It hadn’t seemed… serious enough for a _Grand Cleric_. But Elthina was fond of laughter, the Chantry was not nearly as staid and melancholy as Sebastian had feared it would be, and the Chant brought song into his life that did not fill him always with dread and shame.

Still, however, he chafed. He clung to pieces of his past. He never gave up the fine armor his father had gifted him, though he knew the vows of poverty, certainly, ought to have included such an extravagance. Nights were long and lonely, and love of the Maker was not _quite_ the love he longed for, no matter how ardently he attempted to convince himself it was.

Still, he had thought himself happy with that second family. Happier. Less empty. But not full.

It was never quite enough.

No wonder, then, he’d been so willing to give it all up the day he discovered the fate of his first family. The line between justice and vengeance was such a thin one. So easy to step over. The Grand Cleric had known it. Sebastian had not. Not then. And though it galled him to admit it, he still wasn’t certain he knew where the distinction blurred.

He’d seen real disappointment in Elthina’s eyes that day. And though her disapprobation stung, still he had walked away, knowing he could never go back, not really. Even if he returned to the Chantry—as he’d thought then he would do—it would be a different Sebastian who walked in the door. Elthina had known that, too. But he’d been too blind to see her concern for what it was.

And now the second family, like the first, was dead. Murdered. All those brothers and sisters. Love, ended. Laughter and song, silenced. Elthina, like his own parents, would never hear his apology.

He would avenge them. He would avenge them all. Or die in the attempt. He could promise that much.

Much as he’d like to, he could not pretend not to know the expression Elthina would have worn at such a declaration, and it gave him pause.

_Death is never justice, Sebastian._

Too proud, too blind, too vengeful. His list of sins was grave indeed.

It was not until he’d walked away—a quarter of an hour passed, an hour, he wasn’t certain—his vow to Hawke still ringing in his ears, that he realized he was leaving a third family to what might very well be their doom. At some point he’d been adopted by Hawke; he’d begun looking to _her_ for guidance instead of the Grand Cleric. He’d seen the disappointment on Elthina’s face more than once when he chose to follow Hawke instead of attending to his other duties. And still he’d gone.

In Hawke’s little rag-tag family, he had been neither Prince nor Brother; indeed, he had constantly remained balanced on the knife-edge between those two extremes. With Hawke he was just Sebastian, and even when they didn’t see eye to eye, she never turned her back on him (as his first family had done) or tried to push him toward some desirable outcome even when it went counter to what he felt necessary (as had the second).

Until she’d turned and snapped, “Do not interfere, Sebastian,” he’d thought Kiara Hawke the best and truest friend he’d ever known.

The two images simply didn’t add up. He couldn’t see how the two faces of Kiara Hawke overlapped. It bothered him. No matter how he tried to ignore or deny one or the other, he couldn’t. For years, Sebastian had watched Hawke attempt to do the right thing, even when _right_ was not _easy_. For years he had admired her, even when he could not entirely approve of the company she kept. For years he had… but no. That, too, he could not bear to think of. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

_To change a person’s heart, one has to lead by example._

They were his own words, but they rang hollow even as he remembered them. _What kind of example are you setting now, Vael?_  

Worse: what kind of example would it have set for Hawke to execute Anders?

It would have satisfied vengeance, certainly, but not justice.

Her “Do not interfere, Sebastian,” had felt like the sting of a lash across wounds already torn wide by what the abomination had done. Was he meant to stand and watch, _again_ , the way she’d accused him of standing and watching so many times before? Even now, the thought of her countenance and the sharpness in her tone made his hackles rise, and he felt his hands clench into fists at his sides. _Do not interfere_ , as though he were some interloper, some common bystander, and not all but the sole survivor of the institution that had been family to him for more than fifteen years.

Do not interfere.

Who had more right to be angry than he?

And yet he found himself troubled as some unwanted recollection scratched insistently at the back of his skull, demanding his attention. When he tried to remember the scene he’d left, he could see only Anders, head bowed, sitting on his overturned crate, an insulting picture of penitence. _Waiting._ Hawke, pale with emotion—rage, grief, frustration, anger; some part of all of these—telling Anders to go.

He recalled surprise—genuine _surprise_ —on the abomination’s face, followed by the faintest flicker of something like disappointment. As if Hawke had, by her pronouncement, done the very last thing the mage expected her to do. The rest, of course, was lost to Sebastian’s own declaration, his own rage, but now, replaying the scene over and over as he stalked through Kirkwall’s smoky streets, he was forced to wonder if Hawke hadn’t somehow done the _opposite_ of what Anders had wished in letting him live.

Had she _still_ been attempting, in her almost-incomprehensible way, to do the right thing yet again?

Worse, had he _known_ on some level? Was that the reason he’d not simply put an arrow in Anders’ eye before anyone could stop him?

He could have done it. He knew it. Hawke had likely known it. And he hadn’t.

Shame flooded him when he thought of his words, when he remembered claiming he would raze Kirkwall to the ground if necessary. Sebastian swallowed hard. As if Kirkwall had not suffered enough. The city had been his home almost half his life, and his response was to threaten _war_ upon it to kill one man?

Did that make him any different than Meredith, with her Rite of Annulment invoked to kill all when the one she wanted dead didn’t fall under the Rite’s jurisdiction in the first place?

Did it make him any different than Anders, killing so many in an effort to start a revolution that might only reflect even more poorly upon those he wished freed, and might end with mages even more feared and oppressed than they ever were before?

What, precisely, did it make him?

Sebastian stopped, shaken. He put a hand out to steady himself but misjudged the distance between hand and wall and fell to his knees in a grim mockery of prayer.

Had he learned nothing? Was he still the selfish, spoiled child expecting his every demand be catered to instantly? A princeling who threw tantrums when they were not?

“I’ve never had so many opportunities to help people!” he’d once exclaimed to Varric, flushed with pleasure, with enthusiasm. Varric had rolled his eyes, but Sebastian was undeterred, because it was _true._ Being with Hawke—working with Hawke, helping her help others—it _was_ exciting. Fulfilling. _Real._

And he’d left her. In her time of greatest need, he’d been proud, blind, vengeful and he’d _left_ her.

He knew then he had to go back. If only to ask why she’d done what she’d done. If only to get answers. Too often he’d blundered through life acting without thinking, or thinking without acting.

He didn’t want this to become just another of those mistakes.

He didn’t want to turn his back on this family. If it wasn’t too late already.

It was easier to make the decision than to act on it, however. The streets were crowded—too many civilians, too many wounded, too many templars. Paths he would once have taken were closed off, barricaded by fire and soldiers with flaming swords upon their breastplates. The chaos tormented him, but he had no time to stop, no time to offer assistance. Instead, Sebastian did his best to avoid the conflicts, slipping through shadows, sliding over walls and through dim alleys. He sent prayers when he could, and hoped they would help.

His prayers did not save him. It was his armor that gave him away. Of course. It was so white, and he kept it so pristine even darkness could not completely mask its brightness.

“There! He’s one of hers!”

Sebastian was quick with his bow; he always had been. He had an arrow nocked, aimed, and ready to fire before the templar finished crying, “Traitor!”

And then the unthinkable happened.

His bowstring—the bowstring he’d worked almost his entire life to pull effortlessly, quickly, flawlessly—snapped, the broken end whipping back to lash him across one cheek. It stung. His perfectly aimed arrow flew wide; he heard the shaft shatter as it hit a wall. With the sound came pain, such pain, and at first Sebastian could not comprehend why the sound of a broken arrow might wound him so grievously.

Then he looked down and there, protruding from beneath the breastplate of his blinding white armor—how foolish to cling to a thing for so long; how foolish to blunder about in a war zone wearing a target; how many times had Hawke been seen or threatened or nearly killed because he was _proud_ of the princely armor his father had given him?—was a blade. At the end of the blade stood a man. Just a man, no different than he. Misguided, perhaps. Led astray, possibly. A man. Just a man. They were all just men and women and _mortal._

“Maker forgive you,” Sebastian gasped. His mouth tasted of blood, sharp and metallic “Maker forgive me. Maker forgive us all. Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to His right hand. Blessed be the—blessed—”

Without bothering to pull the blade free, the templar released his grip and stumbled backward. Sebastian dimly registered the man shouting orders to leave, to abandon him. The templar sounded… horrified.

_Death is never justice._

The true pain came then, bright and hard and cold, and with the pain came memory. Fenris, kneeling in prayer he would never admit to. Aveline’s eyes filling with tears she was too stoic to shed the day he told her he’d added Wesley to the memorial wall. Isabela, stealthily dropping the coins she won cheating at cards into the hands of desperate children. Amelle, always shy around him, but quick with a pert remark, even quicker with bright smiles, and quickest of all with her healing hands. Merrill’s childlike wonder, so wide-eyed and infectious. Varric, ever-smiling, ever-jesting, ever-boastful, and ever-watchful, so careful, so concerned about everyone staying safe, all while pretending not to be concerned at all.

Anders, wilting over a patient, unwilling to stop, unwilling to give up, pouring his magic into a body already too far gone to save. This memory pained him. Sebastian wanted to think only of the revolutionary, the murderer, the deluded traitor. He did not want to remember the mage as a man willing to give everything of himself to help dying refugees. He did not want to think of Anders as a man weeping over the dead he could not aid.

Misguided, perhaps. Led astray, possibly. A man. Just a man.

And Hawke. Oh, his Hawke. Laughing over a pint. The shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks as she bowed her head in prayer. The fierce desire to protect those less fortunate, those downtrodden, those enslaved. Her diplomacy. Her fire. How she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but it had never stopped her from singing. How much she loved her sister; he’d almost been jealous of that, remembering his own dead brothers, but jealousy was too wrong, and so he loved her for it instead.

He’d loved her for so many reasons. For teasing him; for questioning him; for pushing him always, always, _always_ to be a better man. 

 _Oh_ , he realized, _I’m dying. This is the moment of divine judgement._

_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity._

_Blessed are the souls of the faithful that they ascend to Your right hand._

He wasn’t sure how faithful he’d been, in the end. He wasn’t sure at all.

He would miss his third family most of all. It was not until now, staring down a blade at his own ending, he realized how little his life had chafed these past years.

How full his life had been. How tragic to only understand it now.

_Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven._

The glowing figures appeared as if from nowhere, one white and one blue. The blue one reached out, and the light that enveloped him was warm, so warm. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until the warmth seared along his veins, chasing the ice away. It pulled him slightly from his slide into memory. The figures were so beautiful. The pain ebbed when he looked at them. For a moment.

Sebastian breathed, “Blessed are the… to take… Maker’s side…”

Perhaps it ought to have seemed odd that divine creatures of the Maker’s will would pause and exchange concerned looks, but Sebastian could hardly focus enough to notice. His death was chasing him down a long, dark hallway, vicious as a rabid wolf, howling for his blood.

“I don’t know about this, Fenris. This is bad. It’s really bad. He’s far gone. He’s… not all here.”

“We’re not safe here,” growled the glowing white figure. “We must return to the estate.”

The blue figure gasped, clearly startled. _Estate_ , Sebastian thought driftingly. _Estate of the Maker, where I will walk at his side._

“I don’t think we can move him like this.”

“Then we must—”

“No,” said the blue. “I have to try. You know I have to try.”

The blue light grew warmer still, until it was too hot to be soothing. Cold danced with the heat, a strange, unearthly hotcold thrum that made him want to weep and scream and beg for mercy, all at the same time. Sebastian writhed under the force of the power, all the while hearing the half-uttered pleas of the woman—and she _was_ only a woman he saw now, not divine after all; Hawke’s little sister Amelle, with her shy smiles and healing hands—kneeling above him. When his vision cleared enough, he saw the white figure was Fenris, and that both of them were drenched in blood and gore and… substances not worth thinking too hard about.

“K-kia-kiara?” Sebastian managed to stammer past the hotcold burning his bones, his blood. “Is… she…?”

“Be silent,” the elf commanded, never taking his sharp gaze from the entrance to the street. In a slightly—but only slightly—gentler tone, he added, “She survived. We all survived. As to the rest? Time will tell. This battle is over. The war has only just begun.”

As the blue light began to fade, Amelle wiped a shaking hand over her face, indifferent to the fresh streak of blood that hand left in its wake. “Okay. I think that will hold. You’ll have to carry him home, Fenris. _Gently._ ”

 _Home_ , Sebastian thought. The darkness was pressing in now, and with it came the memories again, and the regrets, but he was suddenly certain it was not his time to walk at the Maker’s side. Amends. Apologies. Family.

_Aye, home. Take me home. And I shall do my best to make things right again._


	4. Chapter 4

Preoccupied by the necessity of finding adequate words to explain to her sister just what to expect downstairs, Amelle was momentarily caught off-guard by the scene waiting for her behind Kiara’s bedroom door. She wasn’t sure what shocked her more — the number of empty bottles on the floor, or bloody _Anders_ standing at the hearth.  It took only a moment to register his appearance — he looked weary and older than his years — and it took less than a moment for Amelle to decide _she didn’t care._   Her fingers tightened around her staff and she couldn’t have said whether she wanted to shoot fire at him or simply bludgeon him with the thing.  

For the moment, bludgeoning was winning out.  

So _blinded_ was she by the sudden rush of anger — no, it wasn’t even _anger_ ; it was fury, white-hot, and enough to make her blood heat as power and energy swirled beneath her skin — she almost, _almost_ forgot about the pale, still man so near death downstairs.  _Not now,_ she thought, sternly. _There are more important things at stake._   Amelle breathed in and pushed down on the eddies of power inside, willing herself still and quiet and, above all, _calm._  

“What is _he_ doing here?” Amelle managed, quietly, smoke and battle and exhaustion conspiring to render her voice hoarse and ragged.

“Anders was just leaving,” Kiara volunteered, her tone eerily even despite being unusually wobbly on her feet. “For good.” 

Amelle glanced again at the bottles on the floor and then looked up at her sister.  Kiara was drunk.  Very drunk.  She had to be.  And on the one hand, Amelle could hardly blame her sister; but on the other, she felt the faintest flash of irritation — there was too much to _do_ , too many people still dying.  _Sebastian,_ for the Maker’s sake — Amelle couldn’t be troubled with bloody hangover remedies later, not when there was so much she needed her mana for _now._

 _There’s too much to do and not enough time.  Maker, I need more_ time.

“Then go,” she said.  “ _Leave._ ”

A flash of _something_ burned in Anders’ eyes as he looked at her, something not quite human, something she’d seen more than once since meeting him, and she stood a little straighter, meeting his gaze steadily. 

“I did this—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say you did this for me, or any other mage,” ground out Amelle, taking a step closer.  “You didn’t.  You did this—” she shot one arm out and she pointed at the window with one shaking hand; smoke and soot and ash swirled beyond the glass, where things still burned, where the dead still littered the streets “—You did this because you’re _selfish._   You did this because you’re a complete flaming _idiot._   But you did _not_ do this for me, or for any other mage in Thedas.”  Her voice wavered and her eyes stung with tears she stubbornly refused to shed.  “I have been out in the streets and let me tell you, Anders, what I saw had nothing whatsoever to do with the freedom of mages.”  

Every time she closed her eyes, she still saw twisted, broken bodies, people whose lives had been ripped from them in seconds, who’d never had any hope of being saved, who’d never had any chance of being healed.  Their lives had been snuffed out with no hope of salvation — with no hope _at all._

Anders only shook his head, and there was a time when it would have been a condescending gesture, as if she were too young and simple and stupid to understand.  Now he simply looked tired.  “Things had to reach this point,” he said wearily, but it sounded strangely as if he were trying to convince himself.  “Don’t you understand?”

Amelle just shook her head back at him.  “Anders: _you made everything worse._   How in the Void do you think people are going to treat mages after _this_?  They won’t rest until they’ve hunted every last one of us down. Don’t speak as if you had no choice.”

“You of all people know I didn’t.”

“You had a choice!” she cried, cursing the fresh tears pricking at her eyes and thickening in her throat. “None of those people had a stake in this quarrel.  They were  going about their lives, and you _killed them._ ”  Amelle drew in a hitching breath that sounded too much like a sob.  “There’s always a choice, and you chose—”  Her voice cracked, and there, beneath the roiling anger, was the truth of it: despite their differences, they had both _healed_ people.  It was the one thing they’d ever had in common.  “Damn it, Anders! You were supposed to be a _healer!_ ”

Whatever else the mage was, whatever else he’d become, he wasn’t a healer.  Not anymore.  But Amelle was, and there was still work to be done.  She glanced at Kiara, still so unsteady on her feet, her eyes bleary with drink and tears.  She’d never seen her sister so _wounded,_ and where there had once been irritation, now Amelle found it hurt just to look at Kiara.  Her tears receded; crying was a luxury she’d allow herself later _._

Amelle closed her eyes and turned away from Anders; there were other people who needed her more.  They had so little time, and there was so much to do.

“You were leaving,” she whispered.  “So go.”

A low, gravelly voice from behind Amelle made her start.  She turned to find Fenris in the doorway, still streaked with gore and ash and filth, leveling a murderous look directly at Anders.  “I suggest you take your opportunity, mage,” he said.  “Their goodwill already far exceeds my own.”

“Fenris,” Amelle said, trying to read beyond the fury in his green eyes, fearing Sebastian’s condition had worsened, fearing she’d already wasted too much time _._ “What are you doing up—”

“So this is the company you _prefer_ to keep these days,” said Anders, shaking his head at her.  “You’ve put your trust in someone who hates all that you are?  You honestly don’t think Fenris would have handed you over to the templars at the first opportunity?”

Amelle opened her mouth to reply, but never got the chance.  A blur of movement was followed by a sickening _crack_ , and in what felt like less time than it took to blink, Anders lurched and stumbled backward, slamming so hard against the wall the paintings rattled.  Amelle saw his eyes flash wildly with the unearthly light that always presaged the appearance of the spirit within him; she drew in a quick breath of mana and adjusted her grip on her staff, a litany of defensive spells poised on her lips and power warming her fingertips, even as the soft voice in her head cried out, _We haven’t the time for this!_

“Do not _dare_ presume to know my mind, mage.”  Fenris’ words were a growl, his expression dark with rage, counter to the bright white light coming off his skin.  “You were told to leave — now _go._ ”

Amelle couldn’t tell if Anders looked mutinous or simply wretched, but with one last look at them all, he slunk from the room.  Fenris followed him out, leaving the sisters alone.  

Once they were out of earshot, Amelle turned to Kiara, rushing to close the distance between them and hugging her tightly, mindless of the soot and blood covering them both.  After the briefest hesitation, Kiara wrapped her arms around Amelle, squeezing in kind.  

“Kiara,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, “we’ve found Sebastian.”

At Sebastian’s name Kiara stepped back, holding Amelle at arm’s length.  Her grey eyes were wide, her face nearly bloodless.  “You what?”

“We’ve found Sebastian.”

She could see the calculations in Kiara’s eyes — reliving Sebastian’s unadulterated fury at her decision to let Anders live, no doubt — and something about her seemed to go almost preternaturally still.

“Are you… Did he hurt you?”

Amelle shook her head.  “No — he’s… he never made it out of Kirkwall.  He was wounded in the fighting.  He’d been injured by the time we found him.”

“Badly?” Kiara asked almost reflexively.  

Amelle nodded. “It’s… it’s not good, Kiri.  There’s more yet to do, but I… I _think_ I’ve got him somewhat stable.  Given time I…” she pursed her lips, wondering how much to tell.  Given the number of empty bottles on the floor and the hurt radiating off her sister in nearly palpable waves, Amelle decided to reveal as little as possible until she knew more.  “I think I can do it.  Heal him.  It’s—I need more time with him, but…”  

Kiara nodded wearily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Amelle saw her hand shake, and didn’t think the tremor had anything to do with the amount her sister had imbibed. “Where is he?”

“I had Fenris bring him into the kitchen — more towels there.  I… didn’t expect to find Anders up here, but—”

“That makes two of us.”

“ _But_ ,” Amelle said again, pointedly, “the way I see it, if I’m able to heal him, there’s a chance we could—it might—”

Kiara lowered her hand. Her expression was unreadable as she said, “You’re thinking it might… mollify him.”  From her tone, Amelle knew her sister thought it unlikely.

Then again, Kiara hadn’t been in that alleyway.

“Emotions were running high — everyone’s were.  I don’t believe he really—if he’d _killed_ Anders, Kiri, it would’ve haunted him.  I know it would have.”

“He didn’t just threaten Anders. He threatened _Kirkwall_.”

Amelle bit the inside of her cheek, remembering the way the scene had played out, Kiara and Sebastian toe-to-toe, both crackling with rage and pain, each unwilling to listen to the other, and Anders huddled between them. “I know,” she said. “But right now he’s bleeding in our kitchen, and Kirkwall has nothing to fear. From him, anyway. I… I’m going to help him if I can, and then we can see. He’s hardly a threat right now, and… and hasn’t there been _enough_ death?”

Kiara rubbed at her forehead, further streaking the grime there.  “Yes,” she answered wearily.  “Yes, there has been.”

She paused, peering at her sister’s face, trying to read _something_ there. Kiara’s expression remained unnaturally inscrutable. It made Amelle uneasy—even _more_ uneasy—as usually she had little trouble reading the map of her sister’s face.  “And maybe… maybe we can make him understand.  Maybe he’ll see reason.”

“You honestly think so?”

“I think we need to at least _try_.” Together they went into the kitchen where Sebastian lay on the floor, a folded towel beneath his head, his breastplate hastily pulled away from his injured body and discarded.  The bleeding had slowed for now, but had not stopped entirely.  She looked down at her patient then rocked back on her heels a bit, giving her sister what she _hoped_ was an optimistic smile.  

“And if it backfires horribly and he tries to kill us all?” Kiara asked, a shadow of her old tone creeping back into her voice.

“…I think I still have one of Varric’s tar bombs. That should give us a head start at the very least.”

Kiara glanced down where the injured prince lay, but Amelle noticed her sister seemed not to want to look _too_ closely at him.  And she would have sworn she saw pain flash across her face the moment she took in the dark red cloths covering the wound — but that expression vanished too quickly.  Finally, she sighed.  “At least it’s a start.”

“And that, sister dear,” Amelle said, squeezing Kiara’s hand, “is better than an end, any day.”


	5. Chapter 5

Knight-Captain Cullen woke gasping, unable to remember the nightmare but still somehow caught within its grip. His heart pounded, his ears rang with the screams of long-dead brothers, and the phantom scent of ash lingered. The worst dreams were the ones that left traces behind even once he’d woken. Unfortunately the worst dreams were not the rarest ones. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Cullen sat on the edge of his bed and willed his heart to slow and his head to clear.

The scent of smoke remained, taunting him.

Knowing he’d sleep no more, Cullen rose and dressed. A faint glow through the drawn curtains hinted at the coming dawn, though he felt he’d hardly slept at all. Sometimes nightmares accounted for that, too. Battling demons and reliving deaths all night—so many deaths, so many demons—brought no rest. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he decided a stamina draught might be a wise addition when he broke his fast, and he sent up an idle prayer for a quiet day.

It wasn’t until a terrified recruit barged into his room, babbling about the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter and the Champion of Kirkwall, about the mad mage Anders and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina and the invocation of the Rite of Annulment that Cullen realized it hadn’t been a nightmare that had pulled him from sleep.

It had been the demise of the Kirkwall Chantry.

The glow on the horizon was not the sunrise. The smoke in the air was not a dream.

_I have seen firsthand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded._

Cullen had the recruit help him into his heavy armor. By the time he raced through the halls, he could hear Meredith calling the other templars, screaming epithets of hate and vengeance masked by the words _protection_ and _justice_.

When she looked his way he nearly flinched at what he saw in her eyes. “Knight-Captain,” she snapped. “You will attend me. Send others to rally our forces. The Champion has turned against us and is hard on my heels. We must be prepared to face her when she comes.”

Cullen inclined his head. “Is it true? Have you invoked the Rite?”

Meredith’s mad eyes narrowed. “It was necessary. A mage killed the Grand Cleric—”

“A _Circle_ mage?” he pressed, already knowing the answer.

Meredith’s lips twisted in a snarl bordering on feral. “He was once.”

“Knight-Commander…”

Meredith’s hand clenched into a fist, and for an instant he expected her to pull her blade on him—perhaps even to kill him then and there. He blinked, unwavering. Behind him, he heard some of his brothers and sisters muttering amongst themselves.

But Meredith did not draw her sword. A mask of something almost like cordiality slammed down over her face instead, curling her lips into a smile even he could see was utterly insincere.

“And the Champion?” he added, gaze never leaving Meredith’s face. “She is no Circle mage. She is no mage at all. The Rite does not apply. What do you intend to do with her?”

The false smile stretched wider. “We will… arrest her, of course, Knight-Captain. Question her. Rules must be followed, after all. The law must be upheld. Order must triumph.”

He didn’t believe her, but still he followed her into the courtyard. Better at her side than locked up himself; he’d be no help to Hawke from a prison cell. As soon as the other templars turned away to gather their fellows and arm themselves for battle, Cullen saw the smile slip from Meredith’s face. The glare she sent his way said what her lips would not: his life was forfeit. Even if she had no proof, she sensed his betrayal and he would pay.

_Even if we win today, her blade will find my back or my throat or my skull. She will make certain it happens in the heat of battle, when blood is high and memories are short. She will blame Hawke, but I will be just as dead._

“Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” Cullen intoned.

Meredith scowled, as though he’d spoken blasphemy.

#

_Enough!_

Sweat dripped into Cullen’s eyes as he fought. He paid it no heed, though with arrows flying all around him he rather wished for his helm. Meredith shouted taunts and curses, her voice hardly recognizable. If any doubt of her madness had persisted, that doubt was done away with every time she opened her mouth.

_This is not what the Order stands for._

Whatever magic Meredith’s sword commanded brought forth gate guardians and slave statues, twisted creatures of darkness. Cullen’s arm was heavy and exhaustion pulled at him, but still he lifted his blade. Again and again and again. Slash and parry, lunge and recover. Hawke shouted; Fenris answered. Amelle sent down a rain of fire, and Cullen clamped down on the instinct to level her with a holy smite. He had to remind himself they were on the same side. _You’ll have to go through me_ , he’d said, never thinking Meredith would do it.

“Knight-Captain,” Amelle cried over the din, suddenly at his shoulder. He cringed; she was no warrior, and being at his shoulder put her all too near the thick of the battle. “Cullen, do you need healing?”

He shook his head and fought on. Slash and parry, lunge and recover. Again and again and again.

_Knight-Commander, step down._

“I will not be defeated!” Meredith growled. “Maker… heed… your humble… servant…”

And then the scream. Cullen knew screams like the one Meredith screamed then, at the end. He’d heard those screams before. He’d _screamed_ those screams before, trapped within Uldred’s cage of horrors. 

He knew by the tenor of her scream that it was too late. 

_I relieve you of your command._

As Meredith burned, calcified, was destroyed by her own madness, her own folly, Hawke’s eyes met his. She was pale under the blood and gore she wore, her fiery hair lank, her weariness so palpable it made him more tired just looking at her. He hardly recognized her. _The world she knew has ended_ , he thought. _The world we all knew is ended._ For an instant he saw fear in her eyes, plain as day, and he knew it was him she feared. She feared what he would _do_. Amelle, staff in hand, panted at Hawke’s shoulder, but he did not look away from the Champion, and the Champion did not look away from him.

_Duty._

 Templars—his brothers and sisters in arms—flooded into the courtyard. Cullen raised his blade, taking a couple of steps backward, and with a barely perceptible nod he gestured toward the gates. Hawke’s eyes widened just a trace and the fear disappeared, replaced by understanding and… gratitude, he thought.

He did not lower his sword until Hawke and her companions had disappeared into the smoke and the mist. The courtyard was so silent he could hear his own heart thudding beneath his heavy plate. A piece of the… _thing_ that had been Meredith Stannard broke with a crack and fell to the stones. Cullen shivered, though he was far from cold.

“Knight-Commander,” said a voice near his shoulder, pleading, anxious. Futile.

Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, singing songs of other victories. Dashing the back of his hand over his sweating brow, he was unsurprised when it came away bloody. Meredith’s blood, he realized. He and the elf and the guard-captain had fought shoulder to shoulder for most of the battle, while Meredith parried and struck and gave as good as she got. Of course her blood had spattered him from head to toe. His ears still echoed with the whistle of arrows—Hawke’s arrows, and Varric’s; he wondered, just for a moment, what had become of the Starkhaven priest-prince in his white armor. He wondered, just for a moment, if Hawke had killed the mage Anders; his absence during the battle had been conspicuous.

“Knight-Commander,” repeated the voice.

The stench of burning flesh and burning lyrium mixed with blood and smoke and ash, reminding him of other battles. Another piece of Meredith cracked and crumbled. _She cannot hear you_ , he wanted to say, but he remained silent.

A third time the voice said, “Knight-Commander.” Then it added, “Please, what are we to do?”

“Knight-Commander Meredith walks at the side of the Maker,” Cullen said, though the words sounded strange and hollow, like lies in his ears.

“I know,” said the voice. Ser Hugh, Cullen realized. Ser Hugh, looking wide-eyed and terrified and somehow sad. “You are acting Knight-Commander now, Ser Cullen. Should we—Knight-Commander, what should we _do_?”

_Stop calling me Knight-Commander, for a start_ , he didn’t say. The young templar was right; the chain of command spoke clearly. Though he imagined the Divine might have choice words for a Knight-Captain who’d actively opposed his Knight-Commander, mad or not. He’d been all but mad once himself, thanks to Uldred and his demons and his crushing cage of desires. He imagined he could teach the Divine a thing or two about madness, if she cared to ask. _No time for that. No time for that now. Order must be maintained. The law must be upheld._

_The dead must be buried._

Ash tickled his nose, and landed in his hair. Ash and worse. Cullen kept his face carefully still even as his stomach threatened to rebel. The Chantry. The Grand Cleric. Kirkwall.

_I have seen firsthand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded._

Perhaps Hawke’s fear had been well-founded after all. Perhaps she’d been right to wonder what he might do.

_Idiot boy. What have you done?_

What he’d promised himself he’d do, once, long ago, when he’d first begun to doubt Meredith’s grip on her sanity. When the time had come to act quickly, act _rightly_ , he’d done so. Hawke was not the enemy. Even Hawke’s mage sister— _all mages must be watched_ —was not the enemy. This battle was done, but he knew, oh he knew, the worst was yet to come.

The Chantry. The Grand Cleric. Kirkwall.

“Report,” he said.

#

The tall bronze statues that had once stood to mark the entrance to the chantry had toppled, along with all of their smaller kin. They had crushed the great staircases beneath them, and were half-covered in rubble themselves. Fallen soldiers they were, who’d never seen the enemy approaching. He couldn’t blame them; he’d missed the enemy’s approach as well. They had all been blind.

And yet the statues had fared better than the rest of the square.

Where once the chantry stood remained only a smoking hole, and vast boulders had crushed the courtyard and all the neighboring buildings. The explosion had vaporized much of the chantry entirely, but enough had fallen down again to cause untold damage, a stone rain of death. If rebuilding was even possible, it would take years. Decades. And some things could _never_ be rebuilt. The countless lives lost were lost forever. Cullen raised a hand to brush ash from his face, and realized the stinging in his eyes was not only from the befouled air.

He knew at once he would find no survivors here, not this close to the wreckage. Snapping a series of brisk orders, he sent all his templars out into the city. “Expand outward in a circle,” he ordered. “Look for survivors first. Clear civilians from unstable buildings. Offer aid to anyone who requires it, highborn or low. Stay in pairs, and keep an eye out for trouble.”

_Trouble_ meant renegade mages or mage-supporters, though Cullen did not have to speak the words aloud. His templars knew. Trouble always meant the same thing. Now, though, he wondered if _trouble_ might also mean any rogue supporters who still believed Meredith’s madness. He could not warn the templars of that, or he’d merely cut off the stem without digging up the roots.

Warningly, he added, “Preserving life is paramount. I will have no more bloodshed, and no more death. As acting Knight-Commander, I revoke the Rite of Annulment. Mages who yield are to be treated with courtesy and given quarters. _Comfortable_ ones. Anyone who defies me will be sent to the deepest cells of the Gallows, and they will stay there until Kirkwall is once again clean and safe. I imagine it will be a very long wait.”

One or two templars shifted uneasily; he made note of their names and faces and paired them with men and women he trusted.

Then Cullen broke his own rule and walked the streets of Kirkwall alone. The air was so thick with smoke and ash he was forced to rip a strip of fabric from his uniform and tie it around his face, and even then it was difficult to breathe. His eyes burned and watered, and no amount of blinking brought relief. Soon the fabric mask was damp with sweat and tears.

There were too few people on the streets. Cullen feared it was because of how many had perished. Those who saw him ran the other direction, and he wondered how much harm Meredith’s men had done before they made their way to the Gallows.

In the Hightown market a woman approached him, her ash-stained face streaked with sweat and tears and blood from a gash in her forehead. “Please,” she begged in a voice rough from screaming, “please, ser, please.”

When she reached out to him he saw her hands were raw and bloody, the fingernails all but gone.

“Please, ser, please. Please. Please, I’m not strong enough, ser, and it’s the children. Please, ser.”

Children had died when the Tower fell. Mage children, some too young even to be proper apprentices. He remembered seeing their bodies afterward, all lined up in one of the dormitories. The white sheets they’d been covered with had done little to hide their smallness, their brokenness. In his cage of despair, Uldred’s demons had shown Cullen his own children—children that had never existed, would never exist, though it had felt terribly real at the time—and Cullen had lived their deaths over and over and over.

But this woman’s plight was not a demon’s pantomime. “I’ll help,” he said, already all but certain there would be little he could do.

As he’d feared, the woman’s house was a wreckage. The chunk of masonry to blame was finely carved, with hints of gilt under the soot. She immediately ran to one corner of the stone and began pulling at it, her bloody hands leaving red stains where she scrabbled at the immovable rock.

“They’re _in_ there,” the woman said. “The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying? They’re crying for me. Ser, can’t you hear them? The baby will be so hungry, ser, please. Please, you have to help me. It happened so _sudden_ , ser. We were sleeping. Me in the front room and them in the back, same as always. We were all just sleeping when the crash came. Can’t you hear them, ser? Can’t you hear them crying?”

But Cullen heard no one crying save the woman with her torn hands and her filthy face and her heartbreak. To soothe her, he tried to move the stone, but it was beyond his strength. Suddenly, the woman stopped, staring at the torn flesh of her hands. “They’re dead,” she whispered, burying her weeping face in her bloodied palms. “All of them. Aren’t they?”

The woman fell to her knees, and her grief was so great he had to turn his face away. He felt like an intruder, a voyeur. Once he would have taken her to the chantry for succor, for respite, for sanctuary.

Elthina would have known what to say. 

“They… they walk at the right hand of the Maker,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The woman raised her face. “No,” she said, her eyes wide with horror. “The baby’s too little to walk. The baby’s _too little_.”

Cullen had no words at all, then, but when he offered the woman his hand, she took it, leaning heavily against him. _Broken_ , he thought. _What will become of us now?_

As he stood there, wondering where to take her, the answer came in the form of one of the girls from The Blooming Rose. The soot on her face did not quite disguise the garish paint, and she was dressed in little more than a houserobe. “I’ll take her,” the girl said softly. “We’re… we’re collecting survivors at the Rose. There’re rooms there, and food, and wine. I… I daresay she could use a little wine.” The prostitute looked lost for a moment, staring past them toward the ruined house. “We have blankets. Everyone needs blankets.”

Cullen stared too long before nodding once, sharply. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll… I’ll tell the others. It is… thank you.”

The sky was so dark with soot and smoke Cullen never knew when the sun rose.  Perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps days passed. Perhaps the sun was dead, lost when the Chantry died. The light from the fires kept the city bright enough, however. He rarely stopped moving. Every now and again he saw his templars giving aid or taking survivors to the Rose or The Hanged Man. He helped them when he could, but mostly he walked alone.

For every person he managed to pull from the rubble, there were three corpses. When he searched the buildings nearest the chantry he found only pieces. _This hand was a person, once. It picked flowers, maybe. It caressed a lover’s cheek. It raised food to a mouth. Maybe it wrote letters. Certainly its owner dreamed dreams._ So many bodies were broken beyond recognition. Heads smashed by falling stone, limbs crushed, spines twisted. He lost track of how many prayers he sent skyward, how many blessings he spoke over the dead. Faced with such despair, they all sounded hollow.

After the first few hours, he could no longer even feel rage. Despair shoved everything else aside.

He waited for numbness to overtake him—longed for numbness to overtake him—but it never did. Every corpse wounded him. Every weeping mother or stunned father or screaming child cut him to the quick.

Holding a dead infant in his arms, Cullen could only weep. _Maker, preserve us._

The Maker was silent. Silent as the babe. Cullen almost hated Him for that. _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying?_  

Early on, he stripped himself of his heavy plate, leaving it in a pile next to yet another destroyed house. Even with that weight gone, he grew weary. His limbs felt made of lead, of stone, but still he lifted them. He helped half a dozen merchants lift a broken beam in order to pull free the pregnant woman trapped beneath. He carried children to the Rose, followed by their weary, dazed parents. Once he came upon a dog digging and whining at a pile of stones, and when he helped pull them away he found a young man curled beneath, wounded but alive. The dog licked his hand.

Cullen dug countless corpses from the rubble, and he soothed their kin as best he knew how. He feared it was not well enough. All the faces blurred together, a mosaic of grief and heartbreak and despair. Wounds and broken bones. Hands and feet and blood and death. He remembered the little corpses under their white sheets. He did not want to imagine how many white sheets the dead of Kirkwall would require.

“Knight-Commander,” one of his templars pleaded, after an hour or a day or a lifetime, “you must rest.”

“I am not weary,” he lied.

“You’ve been out here a night and a day _,_ Knight-Commander. You _must_ —”

“No,” he demurred. “Soon. Not yet.”

Hours and faces and pleas might blur before him, but when he saved another child he was glad he was not asleep in Templar Hall.

He was doubly glad when he turned a corner and found Hawke in the Hightown marketplace, backed against a wall, hands raised helplessly. An angry crowd screamed all around her and Cullen shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, trying to make sense of what he saw. Hawke’s eyes met his across the courtyard. Blood trickled down her face from a cut to her scalp, and her clothing was smeared with filth the crowd had thrown.

It was then he noticed she was not wearing armor, and she was not armed. Her ever-present bow was nowhere to be seen, and her clothes were wool and linen with not even a protective scrap of leather. 

 As he watched, a bystander threw another stone; it bounced off her shoulder and she winced, lowering her face.

She looked defeated. The woman who slew the Arishok in single combat, defeated. The woman who’d fearlessly faced mad Meredith, defeated. _The world she knew has ended. The world we all knew is ended._

“What is the meaning of this?” cried a voice he knew. He thought, at first, it was one of his templars, but when he scanned the crowd he saw the guard-captain’s tell-tale hair, bright as the absent sun. Aveline was flanked by several of her guardsmen, and none of _them_ had made the mistake of venturing out unarmed.

“It’s her _fault_ ,” shouted one of the rock-throwers. “All of this! My mother’s dead, and my son. Where was the Champion of Kirkwall for them?”

“There has been enough bloodshed,” Aveline snapped, her fierce gaze scanning the crowd. Those eyes narrowed when she saw him.

“Easy enough for you to say,” cried another. “You’re one of hers. You’ve always been one of hers.”

“ _I’m_ not,” Cullen replied, raising his voice. _Am I not?_ The words cut through the air, leaving silence in their wake. “You have seen me here toiling. I have helped rescue your families. You know me. But I would not see the Champion harmed.”

Straightening his tired shoulders and stiffening his aching back, Cullen strode through the crowd as though he expected them to part, and part they did. Aveline’s gaze on him was still wary, and the naked steel in her hand glinted, promising retribution if he betrayed them. When Cullen reached Hawke’s side he saw tears on her face. He wondered if she knew she was weeping.

“I only wanted to help,” she whispered without looking at him. “I wanted to… I wanted to do _something_.”

“Go home,” he said softly. She seemed so much smaller without her armor and her weapons, stripped of the charisma she’d always had before. Almost frail. Defeat rounded her shoulders, and he did not want to name the ghosts he saw wandering in her eyes. The woman who’d once—when near-mortally wounded—kept him from dragging her sister to the Gallows, defeated.

“Home,” she repeated without inflection, her voice numb. It was wrong. Hawke had always met Meredith barb for barb, had kept her wit and her defiance against all odds. _Broken_ , he thought. _What will become of us now?_ “Cullen, I didn’t _know_. I only… I only want to help.”

“And they only want someone to blame. You’re here. He’s not. Go home, Hawke. Please. I… I can’t protect you and do my duty to the city at the same time.”

Aveline drew near. Her soldiers were dispersing the crowd. “Hawke?” the guard-captain asked. A world of questions lived in the single word.

“Our mistakes make us who we are,” Hawke said quietly, staring at the stones beneath her feet. “I didn’t know.” Clearly as startled as he by Hawke’s transformation, Aveline lowered her guard enough to exchange a startled glance with him. 

“Hawke?” Aveline repeated. “Are you—?”

Hawke interrupted, “I have to go home. Walk with me, Knight-Captain?” Her lips twisted in a painful smile. “No. Knight-Commander, now. I know that.”

Hurt tinged Aveline’s face for a moment, but by the time Hawke looked up none of it remained. “I’ll report to you later, Hawke,” she said. “This is temporary. When we find the mage—”

“You won’t,” Hawke replied. She sounded so sad. So sad and so lost. The woman who’d clawed her way from refugee to Champion of Kirkwall by sheer bloody force of will, defeated. “He’s gone. Help the ones he hurt. That’s all you can do now. That’s all any of us can do.”

Aveline looked startled, but didn’t protest further.

Cullen nodded at the guard-captain before offering Hawke his arm. He was surprised when she accepted it, and even more surprised when she leaned into him. Her steps were slow and uneven; she moved like an old woman. After a few minutes she said, “It needs to be you, Cullen.”

“Hawke?”

“I thought it could be me, but it can’t. I see that now. It needs to be you.”

He frowned, concerned, peering more closely at the cut to her head. It didn’t look deep, but head wounds were notoriously tricky. “Are you unwell, Hawke?”

“Oh, I’m well enough,” she retorted, and the cruelty in her voice was all turned inward. “I’m alive. My house is whole. My sister survived. No wonder they hate me.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his. The shadows of exhaustion beneath them were almost black in the smoke-choked light. “Kirkwall needs an advocate. They won’t let it be me. It has to be you.”

_No_ , he thought. _I will not be another Meredith. Do not give me this weight to bear. You do not know what you ask._ “Give it time, Hawke. Their wounds are fresh. Soon they’ll realize what you did to save them.”

She shook her head and said nothing. When they reached her estate, she looked up at him again and he thought he saw a hint of something like her old spirit in her eyes. _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying?_ “You look tired, Cullen. Kirkwall needs you strong. Get some rest.”

For a moment, a heartbeat, he thought she was going to throw her arms around him. _I knew an Amell once._ Then she shook her head and dashed into her house, slamming the door shut behind her.

But Cullen didn’t go back to Templar Hall. He did _consider_ it. He made it as far as the steps to Lowtown before a child waylaid him, asking him for help locating his mother, and sleep seemed an indulgence in light of the boy’s distress.

Without the reliability of the sun to inform him, Cullen had no idea how much time had passed when he finally succumbed to exhaustion. It was Ser Hugh who found him and shook him awake; Cullen was embarrassed to realize he’d fallen asleep leaning against the wall of someone’s broken home.

“Come with me, Knight-Commander, ser,” Hugh insisted.

Cullen began to protest, but Hugh shook his head firmly. “You’re exhausted, ser. You’ve been out here two nights and most of two days. Rest a bit. You need to rest.”

“I was resting.”

Hugh almost smiled. “They’ll have a bed for you at the Rose, ser. With pillows instead of stones.”

Cullen knew he was exhausted when he was too tired to protest sleeping beneath a brothel’s roof. All his weariness disappeared, however, the instant he stepped into The Blooming Rose and sensed magic at work. When he attempted to summon the will necessary for a smite, he found only the hollowness of his exhaustion. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the source. Highborn survivors lay on pallets next to merchants, and merchants lay next to servants. Madam Lusine presided over all. A child darted past her and she paused to ruffle his hair. Neither of them was the source of the power he felt, however, so he quickly looked away.

There. It was nothing so obvious as a staff and a rain of fire, but he saw it nonetheless: a cloaked and hooded figure bent over one of the pallets, half-hidden hands glowing a tell-tale silvery blue.

Healing magic. He didn’t begrudge the survivors their healing, but the cloak… if it was _Anders_ beneath it, all the healing in the world would not save the man from justice.

Denied his templar skills, Cullen crossed the room as quickly as he could, weaving through the crowd. He heard Hugh call out behind him, but before the young templar could catch up Cullen grabbed the healer’s shoulder and wrenched him around. The healer fell with a grunt, nearly landing on his patient.

But the healer was not a _him_. Amelle Hawke glared up at Cullen, her green eyes filled with all the fire and defiance her elder sister had lacked in the Hightown marketplace. “Hello to you, too, Knight-Captain,” she said, drawing herself to her knees and then rising to her feet, brushing the wrinkles from her dress and adjusting the hood of her cloak. She arched an eyebrow. “Maker.  You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

He frowned. “What are you _doing_ here?”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “I should think it’s pretty self-evident.”

Hugh caught up to him then, breathless and gasping. “Knight-Commander, would you have me—”

“I would have you remain silent for the moment, Ser Hugh. And I would have you find me something to eat, if you would.”

“But she—”

“I know who she is.” _I know what she is. I knew an Amell once._ He saw her brow furrow, and wondered if she’d noted the change in his rank.

The patient at their feet groaned, and Amelle twisted her hands into the fabric of her skirt. The moment Hugh departed, Cullen said, “As you were, Mistress Hawke.”

“As I—oh.” She gave him a considering look. “It’ll only be a moment. Then I’ll—”

“Join me for something to eat,” he interjected firmly. “You look as bad as I feel, and I feel wretched.”

Amelle snorted, dropping back to her knees beside the wounded man. She sent Cullen another sideways glance and then turned her body slightly, so her glowing hands would be hidden from as much of the room as possible. The patient groaned once and then sighed his relief, and Amelle rose to her feet again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Cullen said.

“Kirkwall needs healers. They have me. I’m… being discreet.”

Cullen shook his head. Madam Lusine had a table cleared, and Ser Hugh brought food. It was only bread and cheese, but Cullen ate as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Which he hadn’t, come to think of it. Amelle watched him, chewing her own piece of bread much more sedately, her expression rather more bemused than afraid.

“Not discreet enough,” Cullen said. “I sensed your magic right away, and Kirkwall is crawling with templars just as able as I am. Ser Hugh would have you in the Gallows without thinking twice. They all would. It’s their duty.”

Amelle nodded. “I know. But… look at these people, Knight-Capt--um, Knight-Commander. They _need_ me.”

Cullen scowled at the honorific. “Your sister needs you, too. Things are _mad_ , Amelle. I cannot ask the templars to make an exception for you, and I cannot promise to keep you safe.”

Amelle glanced down at the bread in her hand and frowned. “I know.”

“But you’re still going to take the risk?”

“I have to. I _will_ be discreet. Madam Lusine knows who I am—”

“Of course she does.”

“—And she can tell me if there are templars here before I enter.” Amelle almost smiled. “I thought healing in the brothel _would_ be safe, Knight-Commander. I must admit this is rather the _last_ place I expected to find you or your brethren.”

“As I said, things are mad. You cannot assume—”

“I know.”

They ate in silence a while longer, almost companionable. _I have seen firsthand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded._ “Amelle, your sister—”

“I know,” she repeated, her voice heavy with sorrow. Sorrow and understanding. “I know that most of all.” Then she reached across the table and touched the back of his hand, her fingertips tentative against his bare skin. He didn’t flinch, but he felt a faint heat rise in his cheeks. A moment later that heat was followed by the alien rush of magic as it swept through him, leaving strength and wakefulness and rejuvenation in its wake.

“You should have saved that for someone who needed it,” he admonished.

Her grin was almost impish, so pleased was she with herself. “Oh, I did, I assure you.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to argue with her.

Amelle rose to her feet and pulled the hood over her hair once again. The cloak, he noticed, was too long. He imagined she’d pilfered it from her sister. Her poor sister. Champion, defeated. _Broken_. Grudgingly, he had to admit the cloak _was_ more discreet than a robe and a staff.

“Good evening, Knight-Commander,” she said. “I would say ‘see you soon’ except to see you soon would likely mean I was being indiscreet. And neither of us wants that.”

He did smile at that, just slightly. “Only _acting_ Knight-Commander,” he corrected. “Good evening, Mistress Hawke.”

One or two of the survivors reached out to touch Amelle’s hand or the hem of her cloak as she passed; she paused and spoke to each of them. True to her word, she was discreet. No hint of magic clung to her. Not even the ghost of power betrayed her. _Hope. She gives them hope._ At the door she turned, and he thought he saw her smile beneath the shadowed cowl.

_You’ll have to go through me_ , he thought, but wasn’t sure just whom the thought was directed _at._ He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. _I knew an Amell once._ His reaction was too sudden, too fierce, too strong, and he was all but certain it wasn’t meant for the apostate mage.

_I am acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. And you will have to go through me._


	6. Chapter 6

Amelle had never been more acutely aware of the passage of time.

It seemed impossible that once, _before_ , whole days—whole _weeks_ —had passed in a blur of everyday activities, none more taxing than deciding what to wear, or what to eat; whether to accompany Kiara on one of her jaunts, or whether she wanted to spend the evening reading or playing Diamondback at The Hanged Man with the others. She felt panicky remembering all those wasted moments, all that time she’d allowed to slip away from her.

She’d have given just about anything to have some of that time back, now. A day. An hour. Even just a few minutes.

There weren’t enough minutes in an hour. There weren’t enough hours in the day. It had been nearly a week—six days and a handful of hours, Maker knew how many minutes—since the chantry’s demise. Six days since she and Fenris found Sebastian in a pool of blood. Five days since Kiara returned from the Hightown marketplace with a bleeding scalp wound and something broken in her eyes. Four since Knight-Captain—no, acting Knight-Commander, now—Cullen had caught her healing the injured at The Blooming Rose and had once again allowed her to escape the Chantry’s grasp.

Every single moment of every single day was spent trying to fix just some tiny portion of the damage Anders had done. The enormity of the task was too daunting; Amelle couldn’t even attempt to grasp its entirety. Instead, she did what she could and wasted no time bemoaning what she couldn’t change. She broke her days into manageable blocks, dealing only with whatever matter was before her and most required her attention. When Madam Lusine sent one of her girls running, Amelle went to The Blooming Rose and healed whomever required healing. Those trips were fewer now, as too much time passed for hope of survivors. Amelle ate when someone—Kiara, usually—thrust a plate of food under her nose. She slept in snatches, never more than an hour or two at a time. She splashed water on her face and even remembered to change her clothes, most days.

After that first horrible day, Orana had returned, having taken refuge with the neighbors. The elf cooked and cleaned from dawn until midnight, as though cooking and cleaning the Hawke estate might somehow undo some of the horror still contaminating the streets of Kirkwall. It meant Amelle always had leftovers—loaves of bread and pots of soup and as much baking as the Hawke estate pantries would permit—to bring with her to The Rose.

Amelle wasn’t entirely certain what Kiara did. Worried, mostly. Fidgeted. Helped Orana. Paced. Waited for Aveline to bring news of the city, of the recovery efforts. The guard-captain stopped in at least once a day, and if the expression on Kiara’s face afterward was any indication, once a day begged the elder Hawke to remain indoors.

Kiara felt useless, Amelle suspected. She’d have worried more if she had time. Uselessness wasn’t something her sister handled at all well. Kiara’s feelings of uselessness too often led to Kiara making grand gestures, and grand gestures were what had brought them to this in the first place.

But she didn’t have time. The time she’d normally have spent worrying, she spent instead trying to help Sebastian, trying to remove _that_ worry from her sister’s burden.

Sometimes, when Amelle was in with Sebastian, she thought she heard footsteps outside the door, but Kiara never entered, and Amelle never called out.

She didn’t want to make promises she couldn’t keep, and Sebastian’s condition was far too precarious for anything else.

Amelle wondered if Kiara came and sat with him when she wasn’t there. Sometimes she thought her sister must—she would return to find the blankets shifted, or the bedside chair in a slightly different position. But it might only have been Orana arranging things in Amelle’s absence, and she didn’t want to press her sister into an answer it might make her uncomfortable to give. 

Questioning Kiara might lead to Kiara questioning her in return.

And if Kiara asked, “Why isn’t he getting better, Mely?” Amelle didn’t know what she would say.

Sebastian wasn't waking.

Amelle had never seen anything remotely like it.

It didn’t make sense.

She scowled as she pressed her hands against his chest, covering the wound.  Closing her eyes, she focused, feeling the tell-tale rush of ice and heat as the healing power of the Fade funneled through her and into the injury.  She peeked through her lashes to watch his face, his handsome features lit by the glow of the spell, but there was no response, not even the faintest flickering of his eyelids. His body _was_ healing, of that she was sure, but it was doing so too slowly—as slowly as any wound might naturally heal, without the benefit of the endless waves of magic Amelle expended in an attempt to expedite the recovery—and he hadn't shown any signs of waking since she and Fenris had found him so near death.

In truth, though Amelle hadn't told her sister as much, Sebastian had been more than just _near_ death.  When they'd found him, there'd been no breath in his lungs, and his heart was quiet.  But his spirit remained, and she'd sensed it, clinging to him, _fighting_.  Amelle _still_ wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed it, but after what had felt like hours kneeling in that alley, Sebastian's blood on her hands, soaking into her clothes, she... well, if not _restored_ him entirely, she'd at least managed to convince his spirit not to depart.  He breathed and his heart again beat, and that had been more than enough for her. He’d even woken, for a time—long enough, at least, to recognize them, and to ask about Kiara. Amelle found herself remembering those low, stuttered, broken sentences. At the time they’d seemed a hopeful sign, definitive proof of healing. Now, after days of watching him _not recover,_ she half-wondered if she’d imagined his wakefulness. She almost wanted to ask Fenris if he’d heard the words, too, or if they’d been some strange hallucination borne of exhaustion and distress and overuse of magic and the desire to put at least one wrong thing right again.

Sebastian lay pale and still as wave after wave of healing magic soaked into the wound. Several hours each day were spent with him, checking his progress, such as it was, and attempting—and unfortunately _failing_ , for the most part—to keep him nourished. Even after only a few days, she could see him growing thinner. His cheekbones were more prominent and the hollows of his cheeks deeper, even under the beard that was growing in. He looked… depleted. And there was so little she could _do._

She straightened, the blue light fading from her hands, and set to work re-bandaging the injury, to let nature do what magic could not.

Once she was done, she examined her work.  She had the unsettling feeling her magic was keeping him from dying, but only that. It wasn’t _healing_ him. Even the work his own body was doing, knitting skin and muscle and tissue, seemed forced. Sighing, she dragged her sleeve over her forehead and blinked back the ever-present exhaustion and grief and need for more _time._

Amelle crouched down, her mouth by Sebastian's ear, and whispered sweetly, as she had done every day since she'd first started treating him, “So help me, if you die, I am coming into the Fade after you and kicking your arse, Sebastian Vael.  You know I can, and you know I will, so heal, damn you. I am _not_ telling her you gave up, so stop being so _stubborn_ and _heal_.”

He didn’t so much as twitch. His skin remained too wan, his breathing too shallow. Not for the first time, she wondered if she hadn’t done something wrong, something _unnatural,_ attempting to bring him back at all. She shook her head. When she used her magic, she could feel the _resistance_ in him, but it wasn’t _wrongness_. Reaching down, she gently brushed his hair back from his brow. Just for a moment—a heartbeat—she thought that brow creased under her fingers. Then he was still again.

It was a sign of hope where there’d been none, and she wasn’t going to turn away even a glimmer of optimism, if it was offered.

For now, it was enough. It was just enough. 

#

Kiara hovered in the doorway, watching her sister work. Completely focused on her task, Amelle did not see her. Kiara knew very well she’d be shooed away otherwise. Amelle was so damned _particular_ when she was stressed. And whatever else was happening, Kiara knew Sebastian’s injury—to say nothing of all the other healing she _knew_ Amelle was slipping out of the estate to do at The Blooming Rose—was weighing heavily.

Even from a distance, as Amelle pulled back the poultice, Kiara could see the wound was still refusing to heal. Amelle had been healing bumps and bruises and scrapes, sword-wounds and arrow-wounds and magic-wounds for more than fifteen years, and Kiara had never seen one so persistent about remaining red and swollen and infected.

Kiara had been stabbed more times than she could count, and had taken wounds as dreadful, but Amelle almost always had her fit and ready and healthy in no more time than it took to focus her mana and convince torn flesh it really wanted to knit and be whole again. Even the worst injuries Kiara had ever sustained had not been beyond her sister’s power, though it had seemed a very near thing at the time. In all honesty, she’d always taken such healing for granted. Maker, Amelle had all but brought her back from the _dead_ after the horrible duel with the Arishok, and though that healing had taken longer, Kiara had been _awake_ , at least. Sebastian’s long, unbroken sleep unsettled her; it didn’t seem natural. The longer he slept, the more certain she became that all the healing in the world wouldn’t be enough to fix him, to wake him.

Amelle set the bandage to the side, grimacing at what it revealed. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and her hands began to glow the familiar silvery-blue of her healing power. Kiara was no stranger to this side of the process, either, and as an observer it… seemed impossible to see what she saw. The power left Amelle’s hands, danced over Sebastian’s ashen skin, and was absorbed. The skin remained pallid. The wound remained inflamed, accompanied by the stomach-turning stench of sepsis. 

For such a tall man, he seemed so small, tossed aside like a broken doll. A part of her wanted to hunt down the careless children who’d left him like this. Another, larger part couldn’t bear the thought of more bloodshed. Kirkwall was still so unstable, and for once she could not see a way to fight or talk or charm her way out of the problems she’d helped create. The altercation in the marketplace had taught her that much, at least. Even _if_ she’d wanted to take her chances, even _if_ she wanted to go against the request she stay out of sight made so pleadingly by Aveline—and Cullen, of all people—she wasn’t willing to take the risk others might be hurt in any dispute her presence on the streets might arouse.

Better to stay indoors. Better to remain unheard, unseen. Kiara shook her head. She’d never particularly _wanted_ the notoriety, and she certainly hadn’t _asked_ to be Champion, but she did wish she could _help_ more. Amelle was helping, and Fenris—thank the Maker—was keeping an eye on her (at Kiara’s behest, and, of course, unbeknownst to her sister, lest she protest, and she would have). Cullen was helping. Aveline was doing her best.

Kiara hadn’t seen them, but she imagined Merrill was tidying the alienage with the same devotion she’d once lavished on that blighted mirror; Isabela was likely collecting orphan children and finding them safe spaces to hide, all while pretending at indifference; Varric would be pulling strings and telling tales—sometimes both at the same time.

And Kiara could do nothing.

Nothing outside the _house_ , in any case. And inside, she wandered from room to room, wishing she could do more. Sometimes, when Amelle was out, she sat at Sebastian’s side, even though that was where she felt most useless of all.

Even wrestling with her feelings of ineffectuality, however, Kiara was grateful for the small mercies her companions had been granted. She was grateful there were people for Amelle _to_ heal. She was grateful her friends hadn’t all fled (or been run out of) Kirkwall as she feared they might.

She was grateful Sebastian wasn’t dead.

And she was especially grateful that Aveline, at least, seemed in no danger of losing her position. Kiara had dreaded the repercussions the guard-captain might face for her willingness to stand at her side at… against Meredith. But people desperate for order and stability wanted the security Aveline stood for. They needed _someone._ They no longer had a chantry to look to, after all. And oh, oh, how that wound still stung. The white heat of it burned Kiara to the core, filling her with equal parts rage and horror and sorrow.

Much as Kiara wanted to help, wanted to rebuild, wanted… to be _useful_ in some way, to make amends, to _apologize_ , the marketplace had taught her Kirkwall no longer wanted _her_. There were those in the city who would see the Champion of Kirkwall dead, and Cullen and Aveline couldn’t be responsible for her safety until they had their own people returned to some semblance of routine and order. Aveline’s words, delivered calmly, but with pain in her green eyes.

Kiara understood. Much as she wished she didn’t, she did. She couldn’t argue, and Aveline knew it.

Shaking her head in evident disappointment, Amelle began to rebind the wound using more traditional, less magic-dependent methods of healing. Though the wound must have been horrifically painful, Sebastian neither moved nor made a sound as Amelle laid a new poultice down and began winding her bandages about his breast.

Kiara wasn’t noticed until Amelle turned away from the grim task in order to wash her hands.

“Oh,” Amelle said, the syllable hanging between them like an odd sort of apology.

“Give me something to do,” Kiara said.

“He’s… he’s still just the same. There is nothing—I’ve done everything—Kiara, I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“ _Give me something to do_ ,” Kiara pleaded, desperation making her voice waver. “Please, Mely. Give me something to do or I will run mad.”

Amelle’s expression somehow managed to combine fondness and concern and dismay all at once. It was a look Kiara knew all too well, and one she wished she did not evoke from her sister quite so often. “He needs sustenance. Magic can only do so much, especially since he seems so…” Amelle drifted into silence and shook her head. “Do you think you could try giving him some of the broth? It’s tedious work. A few drops at a time, and then you massage his throat to make him swallow.”

Kiara gave a sharp nod and crossed the room. The broth had long-since gone tepid, but of course Sebastian wasn’t to care. At first she stood beside the bed and tried to maneuver the broth and the force necessary to keep Sebastian’s jaw open, but she failed miserably. The liquid splashed on his face, and she felt tears burning hot behind her eyes.

“Kiara…”

“No,” she said. “No, I can _do_ this.”

“Of course you can,” Amelle soothed. “But it will be easier if you sit with his head in your lap. The angle of his throat. Here, I’ll help you.”

Kiara clambered onto the bed. From here, even the medicinal tang of the poultice and its composite herbs couldn’t quite mask the lingering scent of disease. With Amelle’s help, they soon had Sebastian’s head carefully resting in Kiara’s lap. His skin was dry, pulled too taut against high cheekbones, and so very, very hot. Kiara ran tender fingers along his burning cheek, startled at the stubbly feel of beard, and then snatched her hand back, embarrassed. Amelle said nothing.

 At first, Kiara poured the drops of broth and Amelle showed her how his throat needed to be massaged. After a while, and using a great deal of concentration, Kiara managed both tasks on her own. Her legs were falling asleep, but she considered it a small price to pay. Amelle looked exhausted, and Kiara felt abruptly horrible that she was only noticing the full extent of her sister’s weariness _now_.

“Have you been doing this every day?”

“Of course,” Amelle replied, a little taken aback. “As much time as I can spare. He’s—he needs everything he can get at this point. Every drop helps.”

With defiance that had nothing to do with feeding a dying man a little soup, Kiara declared, “I’ll do it from now on. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You shouldn’t—he’s my—let me help. Just let me help.”

Amelle’s hand on the top of her hand was gentle. Kiara felt a rush of rejuvenating, cooling power sweep the length of her body and she glared at her sister.

“You’re _tired_ , Mely. Don’t waste your power on me. I’m _fine_. I’m just bloody _fine_.” Kiara glared at Sebastian’s brow as though it could offer answers, as though she could foretell the future in its lines of care and pain. “Will _he_ be fine for a while?”

“For a while, yes. Keep giving him the broth.”

“I will. You go sleep.”

Amelle began to protest, but Kiara was adamant. “Come on, Amelle. You’re worn out. You and I both know you’ve been doing double duty. Get some rest. I can hold down the fort. I promise to scream my bloody lungs out if anything changes. They’ll be able to hear me down at the docks. You know I’m capable of it. Mother always said I had no concept of _inside voice_.”

The sympathetic hand slid from the top of Kiara’s head to cup her cheek. Kiara didn’t realize she was crying until Amelle brushed at the tears with her thumb.

“This isn’t your fault, Kiara Hawke. Are you listening to me? This _isn’t_ your fault.”

Kiara nodded, not believing a word of it, and Amelle sighed. “I can _tell_ you don’t believe me. Fine.”  Amelle crouched slightly, the better to meet Kiara’s eyes — or, rather, force Kiara to meet _her_ eyes.  Which she did, reluctantly. “But I know—and everyone _else_ knows—you are not to blame. For any of this. Even if you don’t know it yourself, yet.”

Kiara sniffled, pulling her face away and scrubbing her tear-stained cheek on her shoulder to banish the evidence.

Amelle paused in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Thanks, Kiri. I-I do appreciate the help. Even though I know you’re doing it as some kind of punishment or penance or something. It—I think it can only do him good, wherever he is, to know there are people who want him to come back. Talk to him, if you want. Maybe he’ll hear you. Maker knows he needs to listen to _someone,_ the stubborn blighter.”

Kiara had nothing to say, at first. And it seemed a silly thing to talk to a person as deeply asleep as Sebastian appeared to be. Like talking to a wall or a chair or a bottle of Tevinter wine. Not that she hadn’t been known to sometimes have _those_ conversations, especially with the wine bottles. Instead, she silently emptied the broth into him drop by drop, and when she was finished, she laid the backs of her hands against his skin, hoping their coolness would soothe him.

“Where are you?” she asked him at last. “I… I never remember my dreams. Mely says dreams are our connection to the Fade. Are you in the Fade? I’m sorry if you are. I was never much of a fan. I-I wish you’d come with me, that time, when I had to go get Feynriel. You were so _angry_ with me for going, do you remember? I’m sure you do. Sometimes you got—get—angry with me for the strangest things. I only wanted to help. Couldn’t you see that? I only wanted to help.” Kiara sighed. Her hands had grown hot, taking in his fever, so she turned them until her cool wrist rested against his forehead. He didn’t move. He hardly breathed. “Even Fenris turned against me there, Sebastian. It was… horrible. I… I don’t think you would have listened to the demons. Amelle didn’t. Amelle wouldn’t. But Fenris and Isabela... I-I didn’t like the Fade, is all. I hope it’s not like that for you, if that’s where you are.” Kiara’s chest felt tight with emotion and her exhale brought no relief. “I… I never thought you’d turn against me, Sebastian. I never imagined it. Never once. I suppose that was naive of me, all things considered. I… I took your loyalty for granted. I did. If only you’d let me explain. Why didn’t you let me _explain_?”

Of course Sebastian said nothing. His chest kept rising and falling. His eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks. His skin burned hot. Nothing changed. He kept on refusing to heal, slowly dying. Kiara swallowed hard and pushed a rogue lock of hair from his searing brow.

“If you die… don’t die, Sebastian. _Please_. Don’t die. We can’t—things can’t end the way they ended. You can’t die with _those words_ being the last spoken between us. I won’t let you. Do you hear me? Do you understand? _I won’t let you._ ”

She was crying again, but without Amelle to catch them, the tears just fell.

#

The Hawke estate was quiet when the elf girl opened the door to him. “Mistress Amelle is sleeping,” Orana said, her own voice hardly louder than a whisper—she always seemed particularly nervous around him. “Mistress Kiara has been in with… with the patient for some time.” On Fenris’ crooked eyebrow she explained, “No, he sleeps still. Mistress Kiara feeds him.”

“It’s Hawke—Kiara—I’d like to speak with,” he returned. “I’ll await her in the library, but it is not urgent. I would not wish to disturb her. Or her patient.”

Orana nodded. It was a simple enough request, and one he knew he was free to make. In truth, Hawke had often told him he was free to come and go as he pleased, especially as he so often made use of the Hawke library. His education was coming along slowly—frustratingly slowly, to his mind—but he could read now. It took effort. He found it easier to read than to write. 

It was to the library he went now. He was working his way, very slowly, through a book of children’s stories. Tales of great soldiers and beautiful damsels, for the most part—he suspected Hawke had recommended it for the scarcity of magic within its pages. Still, her recommendation was a good one; he could not deny he enjoyed the book.

He was just finishing another story when he heard the door slide open. Hawke looked wretched. Hair in dire need of a wash was twisted away from a pale face marked with the heavy shadows of too many sleepless nights. She found a brief, weary smile for him as she sank down next to him on the divan. He set the book aside and she hesitated a moment before leaning ever so slightly against him.

It had taken him some time to grow accustomed to… Hawke’s tendency toward physical contact. At first her casual touches had startled and even displeased him—the first time she’d thrown her arm around him unexpectedly he’d very nearly killed her before he knew what was happening—but now he saw them for what they were: the Champion of Kirkwall’s desperate attempts to remember she, too, was only mortal. To connect in some tangible way with the world around her, separate from the various titles she’d been given. Things were so often expected of her, and those things too often kept her apart from others. He… understood that. Touch was an anchor. He thought she used it to prove those she cared for were still with her, still breathing, still _whole_.

And though he still found himself occasionally startled when she stood close or touched his arm or braved the spines of his armor for a brief embrace, he no longer begrudged her the contact.

“You are weary, Hawke.”

“You’re observant,” she quipped back, though her usual spirit was somewhat lacking.

“Not too weary to jest.”

She nudged him lightly. “Is that good or bad?”

“It is you,” he replied.

She sighed. “I suppose you may be right about that. You’ll know to worry when I can’t find anything to joke about. Orana said you wanted to speak with me?”

“If you are tired—”

“Plenty of life in me yet. Can I get you anything? Wine?”

“No,” he said.

She was sitting so close he felt her sudden stillness. “A serious conversation, then,” she remarked. “I’ve never known you to turn down a glass.” With another heavy sigh, she pushed herself upright, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Ahh, Fenris. Are you to be the first then?”

He frowned at this, and mirrored her pose. She chuckled mirthlessly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. At length, he said, “I confess your meaning escapes me.”

“Then you haven’t come to tell me you’re leaving?”

He stiffened, his armor creaking. “This is what you _expect_ of me, Hawke?”

She had the grace to look chagrined. “I know my actions… and the actions of…”

He could not bear the plaintiveness of her voice; it smacked too strongly of weakness, and Hawke was not _weak_. The mage had destroyed too much already; Fenris refused to let him damage this, too. “You think I will abandon you because Anders betrayed you?”

She flinched when he spoke the name, and he would have regretted giving voice to it save for the lingering anger. At the mage, certainly, but also that Hawke might think _him_ too weak to stand at her side. ”You cannot forget I sided with you when you chose to support the mages. This… this is not you, Hawke. If you have cause to doubt my loyalty, speak it, but otherwise—”

She interrupted him, and though she spoke quietly, her honesty was enough to silence him. “Forgive me. Please, Fenris. I did not intend to cause offense. It is only… I would have none of you suffer if it can be spared. If I can help spare you.”

He could not quite erase the anger from his voice—nor did he wish to—when he replied, “You dishonor us, Hawke, if you would believe any of us so easily swayed. I cannot speak for the others, but I will only go if you push me.”

“I don’t _want_ you to go. You misunderstand me.”

“I understand better than you know. You fear further betrayal. You think to push us away first, before we may hurt you. You seek to protect yourself. Poorly.”

She sat very still next to him, but she did not raise her voice to argue.

“You are not my master, Hawke. I am not your slave.”

_This_ she tried to protest, her expression genuinely distressed, but he spoke over her, curt and immovable. “I follow you because you have earned my loyalty, not because you have forced me, or because you have bought me. A great harm was done you, and you are yet recovering from it. I know this. It is why I will permit this one offense. If you doubt me, say so. Do not cover your disapproval with platitudes. Do not attempt to protect yourself by hiding.”

“Fenris…”

He settled a hand on one hunched shoulder, and felt her startle. “I do not say these things to injure you, Hawke. Surely you know this. As a friend, I would not see you suffer. Anders was a poison. I would not see you lost to it. Or irrevocably changed by it, even.”

She leaned back, a faint smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. Reaching up to run her hand through her hair, she paused when she realized how filthy it was and grimaced. “So was there a group meeting? Were you the one designated to confront me about my wallowing?”

He offered a half-smile of his own. “You are missed at The Hanged Man.”

“Isabela misses my coin, you mean.”

“Our purses don’t run quite as deep as yours, it’s true.”

She chuckled. “You lot could come _here_ for a change. I daresay my wine cellar’s better stocked than The Hanged Man’s. And I _never_ water down my booze. Or serve mystery-ingredient stew.”

Instead of shrugging it off as a jest, Fenris nodded. “Perhaps there is merit to that suggestion. For the time being.”

Kiara flushed slightly, and then he heard her swallow, hard. “So. What brings you, Fenris? You’d best tell me, since Maker knows I’ll only guess wrong again.”

Fenris clasped his hands and bowed his head. “There is to be a memorial service for those lost. I thought you mightn’t know, as you’ve not left the estate in some time.”

“Aveline and Cullen asked me not to.”

“It was not an accusation, Hawke. Only an observation. I am observant. As you say.”

She smiled at this. It was still a weak, pale thing compared to her usual grin, but it was better than outright sorrow. He had not realized how much he’d come to take her good humor for granted until now, when it was a much rarer commodity. But the smile faded as quickly as it formed, and she asked soberly, “When?”

“A fortnight hence. I believe to give the recovery effort—”

“Time,” Kiara whispered. “Yes, they… would need time. Of course. Thank you for telling me.”

“You don’t think you’ll be welcome.”

Hawke cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “You disagree?”

“You have always had enemies in Kirkwall. That has not changed. You have also always had friends. That has not changed, either. You have friends to mourn. Mourn them.”

“Oh, Fenris. When did you get so good at perspective?”

“I had a good teacher,” he replied evenly. “Now tell me, how fares Sebastian?”

She glanced toward the fire, her gaze steady and unblinking, but he did not miss the shine in her eyes. “Unchanged. Bearded. Thinner.” The last she said as though she blamed herself for it. “Amelle is… concerned. More concerned than she’ll say, but I can tell.”

“She overextends herself,” he said abruptly.

Hawke shot him a _look_ that seemed to say _please don’t tell me you’re just figuring this out now_. “You think I don’t know that?” She huffed a disconsolate laugh. “Moreover, you think I can get her to stop?”

Fenris’ brow furrowed and he rose suddenly, pacing several steps. “A mage must not—”

“Please, Fenris,” Hawke said wearily. “No tirades against mages tonight.”

“It is no tirade. She must take better care.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “Amelle knows her limitations. I daresay I’m more likely to end an abomination than she is, magic or not.”

“You misunderstand me. I speak out of concern for her wellbeing, not because I fear she’ll fall to a demon’s lures.”

“ _Really?_ ” Hawke did not even attempt to keep the astonishment from her tone as she drew out the single word to twice its usual length. “I’ll have to tell her you said so.” Wryly, she added, “To think only a short time ago I was forever having to stop you tearing out her heart.”

“I would not have done such a thing. She is your sister, Hawke. You trust her. That is enough.”

She got to her feet, shaking her head ruefully. “It was a joke, Fenris. I must be getting rusty if you can’t even _recognize_ them anymore. Now, I know you said you didn’t want one, but I’ve had an endless day and I _do_ , so are you sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine?”

He watched as she fetched a particularly fine vintage from a sideboard. “Oh, very well,” he sighed. “I would not wish to be rude.”

Her lips quirked again. “No, you wouldn’t wish that,” she said, pouring him a glass and clinking the edge of hers to his. “To not wallowing.”

“To not wallowing,” he agreed. “And to hope.”

“Yes,” she echoed, “to hope.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sebastian wasn’t waking.  Still. 

Amelle sat upon the heavy chair by his bedside, her legs drawn up beneath her skirts and arms wrapped tightly about her knees, watching her patient.

_Why isn’t he waking?_

Sebastian lay beneath the blankets as he had for nearly a fortnight—twelve days—a new bandage pristine against his skin.  His eyes were still closed, his chest still rose and fell with the slow rhythm of one deeply asleep, and his face sported an unfamiliar beard that did little to hide the gauntness beneath.

But he drew breath, and that, if nothing else, reassured her.  He was healing too slowly and was still largely unresponsive, but he breathed.  As long as he breathed, hope remained.

Dear Maker, she _hoped_ there was still hope.  Her eyes ached with exhaustion and she closed them, pressing her palms against her eyelids, letting her hands go cool until her eyes stopped burning.

A soft cough pulled Amelle’s gaze up, and she saw Kiara standing in the doorway.  Her sister’s hair was damp from the bath Amelle had insisted she take (“You’re not going to wake him up with your stench, Kiri, no matter how hard you try.”) and the clothes she wore were old and careworn, but clean and soft.

“Feel better?” Amelle asked.  Kiara lifted her shoulders in a vague sort of shrug.

“I don’t feel worse, so I guess that’s something.”

“Ever the optimist,” replied Amelle, unfolding herself from the chair and pushing to her feet.

Kiara jerked her chin in the direction of the bed.  “How is his wound?”

Amelle fought the urge to sigh, struggling to sound optimistic.  “Healing.  Too slowly for my taste, but he’s healing.”

Then Amelle found herself on the receiving end of her sister’s piercing gaze.  It was rarely a pleasant place to be, for Kiara was annoyingly astute, and always exactly when Amelle didn’t want her to be.  “And how are _you?_ ”

This time Amelle _did_ sigh as she rolled her shoulders.  “I’m… getting by.”

“You look wretched.”

_Well, that’s certainly the pot calling the kettle black,_ thought Amelle.  But all she said was, “I could probably use a nap.”  She frowned.  “And a bath of my own.”

Kiara smiled suddenly, and it pained Amelle to realize she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her sister _smile_.  “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I asked Orana to draw some water for you.”

“You did?” asked Amelle, her brows lifting.  Kiara just shrugged, the smile softening into fondness.

“You can thank me for my brilliant foresight later, when I can stand the smell of you. Run along. I’ll stay with him for a while. I asked Orana for broth, too.”

#

The water was hot and soapy and smelled wonderfully of lavender, and as Amelle sank deeper into the tub, she groaned as the hot water worked its magic on her back, loosening muscles tight with stress.  She closed her eyes and let her head loll to the side, stretching out her legs and curling her toes contently as the warm water swished and swirled all around her.  This was exactly what she’d needed — there were few things Amelle liked better than a hot bath — and she made a mental note to thank her sister later.

_Forget thanking her,_ she thought sternly, _just get Sebastian well again.  That’s thanks enough._  

Honestly, Amelle _hoped_ it would be enough.  She’d long wondered about her sister’s feelings for the priestly prince, and she’d _seen_ the look on Kiara’s face when she’d spied Sebastian bleeding out on the kitchen floor.  And, yes, he’d said horrible things before he left, but he’d only _said_ them.  They were still only _words._   There was a chance — a slim chance, but a chance all the same — that he’d come to realize… _something._   That he’d spoken in anger, that he really didn’t _mean_ it — _something._

Granted, all of this was moot if he didn’t start healing properly.

“It’d be easier if he weren’t being so bloody stubborn about it,” she muttered sleepily, flicking her fingers over the surface of the water, sending ripples across it.  “And even if I _could_ talk sense into him, he’d probably still be stubborn. He and Kiara have _that_ much in common, at least.  Bloody stubborn archers.” _And, besides, to talk sense into him, I’d have to first be able to_ talk _to him.  And it’s not like I can do that when he’s stuck somewhere in—_

Amelle sat straight up in the bath with a loud splash, water sluicing down her shoulders and rushing precariously from one side of the tub to the other, wet hair falling into her eyes.

“Maker’s _balls,_ I am so _thick_ sometimes.”

Getting out of the tub was a wet, drippy production, made worse by the fact that Amelle wasn’t of a mind to be careful about it.  She wrapped her towel haphazardly about herself and dried off in a rush, bare feet slapping loudly against the floor as she hurried to her armoire, looking impatiently for clothes.  Everything stuck uncomfortably to her still-damp skin as she tugged on underclothes and then the first dress she laid fingers on.  She swiped the towel over her hair just enough to keep rivulets of water from dripping down her back, and used her fingers to comb it messily into place.  Then she pushed her feet into worn leather slippers, snatched her satchel and a staff from a rack, and ran as lightly as she could down the stairs.  

Kiara thought she was sleeping.  Surely that bought her a couple of hours.  It was all she’d need, _surely._

And then, closing the front door behind her with a quiet _click,_ Amelle Hawke dashed out into Kirkwall’s lengthening dusk, slinging her bag onto her shoulder.  She knew all too well which way she was going, and she’d made so many late-night and early-morning runs to the Rose that she knew where to step to avoid the largest cracks in the stone and the largest chunks of debris.

Still, when Amelle found herself standing in front of Fenris’ door, the urgency that had pushed her out of the bath and out of the house nearly fled.  Her hand rested on the door as she paused, biting her lip and gathering her courage.  She’d never come here alone, and while she was sure Fenris would do anything that meant helping Kiara, she likewise knew she was about to make an incredibly unorthodox request and the last thing she wanted was to bring the elf’s temper down on her.

Still.  _Still._   If Fenris yelled, she would bear it.  This would _work._ It _had_ to.

She tried the door, unsurprised to find it unlocked (after all, Fenris had made something of a name for himself over the years), and took a deep, fortifying breath as she stepped inside.  It was darker indoors than out, for the dusky sky allowed very little light to shine through the filthy, broken skylights, and Amelle found she had to make her own, lest she trip over the remains still littering the floor of Fenris’ mansion even after so many years.  The flame flickering in her palm cast long, ominous shadows through the foyer and she stepped carefully, picking her way up the winding stairs.

“Fenris?” she called out cautiously, perfectly aware of the fact that it wasn’t only stupid for anyone _other_ than Kiara Hawke to wander through Fenris’ mansion uninvited, it was suicidal.  Particularly if one was a mage.  “Are you here, Fenris? It’s Amelle Hawke.”

Fenris appeared on the landing above her, the light cast from the fire throwing him into silhouette.  All of him but his hair, at least, which caught the firelight like a white flame. 

“Amelle?”  Fenris took a step forward, tilting his head to peer at her in the dimness and there was no mistaking the subtle shift in his bearing.  “Is it Hawke?”  He paused.  “Sebastian?”

This made Amelle smile faintly.  She’d long admired Fenris’ unwavering loyalty to her sister and now was no exception.  “No,” she answered quickly, likewise hurrying her steps as she climbed the stairs.  “Well, technically… yes, it’s Sebastian.  But nothing’s _wrong_.  Not more than usual, at least.  But that’s what I came to talk about.”  By the time she joined Fenris on the landing, she saw he’d narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her.

“Speak plainly, Amelle.”

“All right,” she said with a nod.  “I need your help.  How’s that for plain?”

“Better.”  Fenris turned, silently inviting her to follow.  Amelle did, letting the flame wink out the moment she stepped over the threshold.  Magic was not welcome here and Amelle had no wish to offend, particularly now.

Fenris crossed the room, dropping with innate, boneless grace into a chair by the fire, while Amelle perched primly on a nearby bench, trying not to think about how _strange_ it was, being here without Kiara.

“You require my assistance,” Fenris prompted, picking up a wineglass and drinking deeply from it.

Amelle nodded, setting her staff gently on the ground and sliding the satchel from her shoulder to join it.  “I do.”  She twisted around, the better to face Fenris, bracing her palms against her knees.  “Sebastian isn’t healing.  You know it as well as I do.”

“You’ve been telling Hawke otherwise,” Fenris said, with a hint of censure.  At this, Amelle sighed.

“He’s _healing_.  He’s just not healing as fast as he ought to with the amount of magic I’m pouring into him. And he hasn’t woken. Not once. Not since we found him.”

“Has it not occurred to you that you should have—”

“Left him in that alley?”  At the elf’s nod, Amelle sighed again.  “Fenris, if Sebastian was truly dead, if he’d passed through the Veil, I _wouldn’t_ have been able to pull him back.  This isn’t me abusing my power, I’m sure of it.”

“He may yet die.  You know this to be true.”

“ _If_ Sebastian dies,” Amelle responded hotly, “it will only be after I know I’ve done all I can do, and not a moment sooner.”

Fenris did not speak for several moments; instead, he leaned back in his chair and simply _looked_ at her.  Amelle tolerated the scrutiny, suddenly acutely aware of her damp hair and her disheveled appearance.  Breathing in, she straightened her spine and tilted her chin up, meeting Fenris’ gaze with her own steady one.

“I’m not giving up on him.  I can do this with or without you, but… well, I’d rather do it _with_ you, to be honest.”

“You haven’t yet told me what _it_ is.”

“I need to go into the Fade,” Amelle blurted, and she saw the effect her words had on Fenris. He stiffened, sitting up straighter in his chair.  After a moment, he very carefully set the wineglass down on a nearby dilapidated table.

“You are a mage,” he replied evenly, but there was no ignoring his cooler tone.  “Surely you travel to the Fade nightly.”

“That’s true, but this is different.  I need to _find Sebastian_ in the Fade.”

“To what end?”

“I need to find him and… and _talk_ to him and see if I can find out what’s keeping him from recovering.  I need to see—he may be doing this himself, holding _himself_ back.  He may even be stuck there.  He could even be trapped, like Feynriel was.”  

“The boy was a mage, Amelle. A dangerous one.”

“Be that as it may, I still need to find out for myself what’s going on.  I can get into the Fade easily enough, and I… I’m nearly certain I’ll be able to find him.”

“Will you need to recreate the Dalish Keeper’s ritual?”

Amelle tapped her fingers together.  She knew it _normally_ required a combination of mages, _plural_ , and copious amounts of lyrium to make any sort of intentional journey into the Fade.  She’d certainly read enough on the subject to glean that much.  So when Marethari had sent them into the Fade with Kiara, Amelle had been paying very close attention — it was the only way she had to learn, by watching, studying, and then… trying.  The problem was she hadn’t yet had any opportunity to attempt the ritual herself.  

She swallowed hard and licked her lips.  “Yes.”  There was a pause, filled only by the sounds of the fire.  Amelle bit her lip and added, “Sort of.”  Fenris’ expression darkened and Amelle grimaced and shook her head.  “Feynriel’s circumstances were unique, and Marethari had to send _several_ of us into the Fade, so I think…”  Amelle bit her lip.  “I wouldn’t be sending a bunch of people into the Fade, so I should be able to find Sebastian… fairly easily.”  _I think.  I hope.  Oh, Maker, I hope I can find him._

Fenris’ brows furrowed as he turned and stared into the fire; several long seconds ticked by in silence.  “And you… wish me to go with you. Do I have the right of it?”

“Actually, no,” Amelle replied, smiling faintly.  “I wouldn’t ask that of you, and I… don’t think it’s necessary.”  He nodded once, but the question never quite left his eyes.  Amelle took her opportunity and plunged on, adding, “But, all the same, I don’t want Kiara to know, in case it doesn’t work.”

“You don’t believe traveling into the Fade is too much of a risk?”

“That is… part of the reason I’m asking for your help.  It _is_ a risk.  But it’s one I feel is worth taking.”

“And yet you don’t seem terribly worried that I might attempt to talk you out of this… _plan_ of yours.”  He placed particular emphasis — ironic emphasis, if Amelle’s guess was right — on the word.

“Like I said, I’m doing this with or without your help. You can try to talk me out of it, but—”

“But you will likely carry through with it, anyway.”  Fenris let out a sigh.  “Of course you will.  You are a _Hawke._ ”  The elf rubbed a hand over his face, and Amelle could tell, despite his annoyance, he was considering.  He clearly thought this was a bad idea, but he was still _considering._   He hadn’t rejected her out of hand, and that was a relief in itself.

After far, far too long, he said, finally, “Tell me what you require.”

“I only need you to stand guard,” Amelle answered soberly.  “I’m entirely aware of the danger, and if… if I—if something goes badly…” Here, Amelle took a deep breath and let the words come out in a rush: “If I come back and I’m… I’m _wrong_ somehow.  Or possessed.  Or _something_.  I need to know I can count on someone to… address the issue in the… appropriate manner.”  

She held her breath, waiting, watching as Fenris followed her words and realized where they led.  

“Amelle.  You are asking me to… kill you?”

“No.  I am asking you to do what would need to be done in the _very unlikely_ event of a _worst-case scenario_.  If I come out of the Fade talking crazy about entering into a working relationship with a _demon_ —”

“Very well,” interrupted Fenris brusquely, looking into the fire.  “I will… do as you ask.”

Amelle felt a strange sort of relief settle over her.  Tension she didn’t realize had been growing suddenly released and she felt almost lightheaded as she nodded.  “All right.  Good.  Just… just promise me you’ll make it quick.  If it happens at all.”

He shot her a wry look.  “I would prefer _you_ promise me you won’t enter into any foolish bargains with demons.  I doubt Hawke will be so sanguine about such a thing, were it to transpire.”

“I’ll do my best.”

A frown carving its way into his features, Fenris asked, “And when did you wish to attempt this?”

“No time like the present,” replied Amelle brightly, reaching into the bag and withdrawing a vial of shimmering lyrium.  “Kiara thinks I’m taking a nap anyway.”

Fenris’ expression remained characteristically inscrutable.  “So you think to obey the letter rather than the spirit of your sister’s wish?”

Here, Amelle sighed.  Again.  “There will be time enough to rest _after_ he’s healed, Fenris.  And besides, technically I’ll be asleep.  _Technically_.”

Fenris’ frown remained firmly in place, but he jerked his chin in the vague direction of the corner of the room.  There, by the grimy window, was Fenris’ bed, the covers mussed, the pillow dented with use.

“You… want me to use your bed?”

The elf arched an eyebrow at Amelle.  “You need one to complete your task, do you not?”

“W-well, yes, but I thought—” In truth, Amelle wasn’t sure what she’d thought.  It was the logical, obvious answer, borrowing Fenris’ bed.  She could have stretched out on the bench she was sat upon, or even the floor, but going into the Fade did require going to _sleep,_ which was easier when comfortable.  She realized her silence was stretching on too long, and Fenris’ expression was morphing from impatience to something like affront.

“You thought…?”

“But that’s… _your_ bed,” she said, lamely, feeling a sudden warmth at her cheeks.  “I wouldn’t… want to impose.”  But even as she said the words, she wondered, in some traitorous corner at the back of her brain, if the sheets smelled of him.  A thought or two floated forward, suggesting the scent of leather blended with the sharp tang of oil, but Amelle shut off those imaginings with a jerk.

Either Fenris hadn’t noticed her twitch or he was choosing to ignore it — the latter, probably — as he nodded once again in the direction of the bed and said, with more than a trace of impatience, “I have few enough places for you to attempt this endeavor, Amelle.  If it is as important as you say, we have little time to waste arguing over the location.”

A sound argument, and Amelle suppressed the urge to mutter under her breath as she picked her way across the floor to sit gingerly upon the edge of the bed.  Uncorking the lyrium, Amelle tipped the vial against her lips and drained it, shuddering at the taste before setting the bottle down on the floor. Fenris stood and watched, folding his arms, but came no closer.  The mattress was neither soft nor overly hard, Amelle thought as she gave the bed a gentle test bounce before swiveling her body and lying back.  Her head sank against the pillow and she closed her eyes.  The bed did indeed smell of Fenris, but not the cold leather-and-oil smell she’d imagined; no, as Amelle breathed deeply, letting her body relax in the strange bed, the earthy scent of cypress — or maybe pine — filled her senses.  She heard the sound of the crackling fire, of the boards creaking beneath Fenris’ feet as he shifted his weight, of the wind outside, whistling softly through a crack in the window, of Amelle’s own heartbeat.

One breath, two, three… and then the smells surrounded her, twining about her, enveloping her. The sounds wound around each other, blending and fading into a deep, slow pulse, growing softer with each deep, thudding beat, and Amelle felt it beneath her, that pulse, carrying her along until it became her, or she became it, and the scent of cypress became faint, until that, too, became part of her, pushing along, everything growing softer and fainter until there was nothing at all, nothing but silence and a vibrantly purple sky and no trees to speak of.


	8. Chapter 8

As always, the first few moments in the Fade were disorienting ones.  Too much was distorted — familiar things crooked and twisted in such a way that always left Amelle feeling faintly seasick until she settled herself, and found her feet.  As it happened, she found her feet standing in the middle of what looked very much like Darktown, but for the sky above — and the color of the sky was as wrong as the fact that she could see anything above at all; being all but completely underground, Darktown tended not to offer anything resembling a _view._ Beyond that, everything stood at strange, jagged angles, from doors to crates to the walls themselves.  It was Darktown remade through a different lens, and while one was depressing, this one was… disturbing.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, though of course, unlike the _real_ Darktown, not a soul was nearby to hear her. “Not an ideal starting place, but I’ll take what I can get.”  She turned around once, taking everything in, in an attempt to get her bearings, muttering, “ _Maker_ , but I hate this place.”

She cast about for a moment, deciding which way to go.  The closer she got to Sebastian’s lingering spirit, the better she’d be able to sense it, but for now, she was stuck with one option:  blundering around until she _began_ to sense it. Him.  Amelle hoped there would be less blundering than sensing; she didn’t want to spend a minute longer here than was absolutely necessary.

_Find a familiar spot_ , she told herself, looking around.  _Somewhere to anchor yourself._

The clinic was nearby — or should have been — and, in theory at least, home was a mere ladder’s climb from there. There was no telling how closely this Fade construct of Darktown followed the real thing, but finding that spot felt like the right place to begin, so Amelle took a few hesitant steps in the direction that, under normal circumstances, would have taken her to the clinic.

She’d barely gone five feet before she heard the guttural roar _,_ and felt a hard, hot wind blow at her back as a rage demon gurgled to life.  One, then two, then a third hideous fiend, all heat and wrath, lurched at her.  This was, if nothing else, indicative Amelle was at least in the right neighborhood. If Sebastian’s presence in the Fade was attracting demons, it surprised her not at all that rage demons were the ones finding themselves drawn to him.

Still: not pleasant.

She took a step back, breathing in and focusing her mana, and drew the staff she knew would be at her back.  A wave of frost issued forth, freezing over and slowing the trio of demons, their enraged screams making her ears pound.  Flinging her hand forward, her fingertips tingled with energy as she sent a blinding chain of lightning at the demons; it was enough to shatter one, but it only irritated the others.  Working quickly, Amelle called forth another blast of frigid air and rushed forward, slamming her staff hard into another of the iced-over demons.  It was slower work, but they were gradually weakening.

But the spell faded as Amelle was swinging the staff around, and one end of it became lodged in the demon’s molten hide.  With a particularly vicious curse, she threw her hand forward, sending out yet another blast of cold air, then closed her eyes and gathered her mana, unleashing a fireball and flinging up a barrier the second she let the flames loose — it was too late to try and get any sort of distance between herself and the demons, but she could at least avoid incinerating _herself_ in the process of pushing them back. 

The sudden, blazing heat made the ice encasing the demons crack dangerously, and the creatures let loose a pitiful wail as they sank again into the ground.

“Right then.  Let’s try to avoid any more of those,” she muttered, turning and hurrying down the flight of stairs that she hoped would take her to the clinic — or at least the Fade’s version of the clinic.

Hopefully there’d be no similar encounters _there._

_#_

When Amelle found the clinic, she was relieved.  

When she opened the door, she was _baffled_.

The space looked nothing at all like the one she knew from the waking world.  This version was… pleasant.  The broken-down, dilapidated furniture — the blood-magic exsanguination tables — were gone.  Window-boxes running wild with elfroot and spindleweed, the greenery peppered with bright embrium blooms, hung in the clinic’s narrow windows.  Heavily-constructed tables — no, _beds_ ; real and proper _beds_ — lined the walls, covered with clean linens.  Even stranger, the dimensions and the proportions of the room and everything in it felt _right._   Nothing was crooked or broken-looking.  Everything was whole.  Bright.  _Clean._

In the center of the room, curled in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the clean windows, was a cat.

For all Amelle knew Fade demons and spirits took on a number of different forms — and surely, this cat was either a spirit or a demon — she still felt faintly absurd clearing her throat, stepping forward, and saying, “Hello.”

The cat, an orange striped tabby, perhaps a hair too vibrantly colored to be considered normal, lifted its head and regarded her.  It slowly blinked its jewel-green eyes once.  Twice.

“Hello,” it replied in a voice that was both male, and surprisingly soothing.  The cat tilted his head at her.  “You are Amelle Hawke.”

“I am.”  She tilted her head back at the cat, mirroring his expression.  “And you have me at a disadvantage.”

The cat unwound itself and stretched languidly, his tail curling at the tip as he extended its claws and yawned.  He padded to her feet and looked up at her.

“You may call me Compassion.”

She looked around at the clinic once more.  “A pleasure, Compassion.  I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“I have not done this, Amelle.  You have.”

She arched an eyebrow down at the cat.  “I’m… _fairly_ certain I haven’t.  I think I’d remember something like window-boxes.”

“This construct is yours.  The Fade shows little the way it is; you know that to be true.  This,” the cat said, with a swish of its tail, “is merely an image of potential fulfilled.  Just because it doesn’t look like this now does not mean it can _never_ look like this.”

“I see.  I think.”  She looked around again.  “So this is… my… mine?”

“Your anchor in the Fade.  The one you seek is… anchored as well.”

“I’m not sure I like the way you hesitated just then,” murmured Amelle, a tiny niggle of worry pulling at her.  Sebastian.  This spirit knew he was the one she was looking for.

“Do not think I am ignorant of the reason you seek him.  Though he is anchored, that hold is… tenuous.”  The cat paused.  “He needs you.”

“Mmm.  I was afraid of that,” she said on a sigh. After a moment, Amelle crouched down by the cat, looking wonderingly at him.  “So you’re… a Fade spirit of compassion,” she said slowly, reaching out and giving the animal — spirit — _whatever_ — a gentle scratch beneath the chin.  Closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch in a remarkably cat-like manner.

“Surely you are aware spirits and demons of the Fade can assume myriad forms.”

“Yes, but…” With too many good reasons to be suspicious, she hadn’t the time to make mistakes.

Though the cat’s head still pressed against her hand, he opened its eyes and gave her a long, searching look. “Ah.  You have questions.”

“That may be understating things somewhat. And I .. am in something of a hurry,” she added, apologetically.

The cat rubbed his soft head against her knuckles.  “If it will ease your mind, child, ask them.  I will answer all to the best of my ability.”

“Fair enough.”  Amelle looked around them.  “Why here?  I could understand the rage demons — under the circumstances, and given Sebastian’s… frame of mind the last time he saw us all, I _expected_ rage demons.  But you — Compassion — are a surprise.”

“As I said, this construct is yours, Amelle. I am here for you.  It was compassion that brought you here. It is compassion that urges you to seek out Sebastian.  You require a guide.”

She digested this, still petting the cat’s head, her fingertips tracing the silky triangle of one ear.  “So you’re here… for me.”

After a moment, the cat dropped its head slightly and sighed.  Amelle quirked an eyebrow at it.

“Quite a world-weary sigh for a cat,” she remarked, dryly.

“You would not be the first human I have attempted to aid.”

“ _Attempted._   You… failed once before, then?”

Sorrow crept into the soothing voice, making Amelle’s heart ache a little.  “I fear I did.”

“What happened to her?”

“Him.”

The cat went out of focus slightly, and the light emanating from him expanded outward in tiny threads of color and light so painfully, blindingly bright Amelle had no choice but stand and step back, shielding her eyes.  When she looked again on the spirit, it had taken on a markedly different form.

Amelle stepped back again, her eyes going wide as myriad emotions — anger, panic, _betrayal_ — surged through her, hear heart clenching as her lungs grew tight, mana sparking beneath her skin.  She drew her staff and clutched at it, not quite aiming the weapon, but not letting the spirit draw too close.  _“Anders?”_

The form was unmistakable, though the colors composing his appearance seemed more vibrant and yet translucent at the same time.  Unless she missed her guess, his expression looked strangely… sheepish.

“You are no spirit of _compassion_ ,” spat Amelle, trembling all over.  _Careful,_ her better sense whispered to her.  _Careful, or the rage demons will sense this, and they’ll find you._ But her own admonitions fled — it was all still to clear, too painful in her memory: the moment, the exact _second_ all of Kirkwall turned red with spellcasting and innocent blood, and she once again felt the nauseating twist of betrayal in her gut.  Lightning crackled at her fingertips as the spell gathered strength; she’d called upon it without even noticing.  But the spirit only _looked_ at her.

“This mage… turned his back on me.”

“Oh, _that’s_ putting it mildly,” she snorted.  She did not lower her staff, and lightning still hovered at her fingertips.

“It was not always so.  Please, allow me to… _attempt_ an explanation.”

Amelle took another half-step back and looked hard at the spirit.  After a moment she noticed while it certainly _resembled_ Anders, there were differences.  Subtle ones.  The spirit was taller, she was nearly sure — or at least he seemed less stooped, and his hair was longer, pulled back into a neat ponytail.  His robes were clean and untattered, and so _blue,_ all of it giving this version a far different bearing than the Anders she’d known _._ Even his face seemed different — kinder, somehow, and lacking the haunted, haggard quality that always lurked in his features.  His expression was not pinched in disdain, his lips not pursed with self-righteousness.  And, perhaps most incongruously, an earring winked jauntily from his right ear.

“He told us he had a cat,” Amelle said, finally lowering the staff and letting the lightning spell subside.  She did not move any closer.

The spirit bowed his head.  “For a time, I lived life beyond the Fade, in the mortal realm.  In the body of a feline.”

Amelle stared as she processed this and all it meant.

“Anders’ cat was a _Fade spirit?_ ” she blurted, blinking hard.  “You — _you’re_ Ser Pounce-a-Lot?”

At this, the spirit looked away, sadly.  “It has been… some time since I have been called that.  But yes.  I suppose I am. Or was.”

“But he said the Wardens made him give up his cat.”

Compassion made a pained face.  “The entire story is… somewhat more complicated.”

“What a surprise.”  She paused and looked more closely at him.  “All right. So answer me this — why are you here now?”

“In the Fade at all,” he asked with a gesture, “or… here, in this portion of it?”

“Both, if you please.”

“Animals succumb to the darkspawn taint.  I was able to… protect my host’s body, allowing it — and me — to survive longer than might otherwise have been the case.  But the animal’s body eventually perished.  When that happened, I was returned to the Fade.”

“So his cat… died?  I don’t understand. You said Anders turned his back on compassion. On _you_.”

“And so he did.  Upon entering into a pact with the spirit he had befriended.”

“Justice?”

The spirit looked away sharply, as if the very mention of the name _hurt_.  “At one time.”

“But not afterward.”

“Spirits and mortals are not meant to join as they did.  Anders held anger in his heart, as do many, but the moment he allowed Justice to meld with him, the emotions he’d always held in check, controlled and dealt with like all humans, changed him irrevocably.  They were _both_ changed. I could not remain with the mage afterward. I could not change what he had become.”

“So you just _left_ him?” Amelle asked, growing suddenly angry herself — most surprisingly, on Anders’ behalf.  “You said he turned his back on you!  It sounds more like you—”

“Compassion _cannot_ exist where Vengeance lives, child,” the spirit broke in.  “There is no room for it.  Vengeance consumes, until nothing remains.  Do you not see?  Neither of them could ever again be what they were, and I _could not_ remain by his side. A demon’s pull is strong; you know this. I could not risk corruption.”

Amelle shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about, imagining the demon that might be born of a spirit of Compassion. She couldn’t _blame_ the spirit for not wanting to remain, but something about the words sat ill with her. “But — but when we arrived in Kirkwall, we found him here, healing refugees.  He healed their illness, treated their injuries, and accepted no payment.  What is that if not compassion?”

“Guilt.”

“Guilt?” she echoed, blinking at him.  “For… what?”

The spirit gave a deep sigh.  “For more than I can convey in any short time, child.”

Amelle sank down to the ground, landing hard upon her knees.  In her construct, apparently the floor was solid.  Lucky her.  

“If I am here, if I am drawn to a construct such as this,” he went on, “it is because I… remember the mage as he once was.”  The spirit turned, slowly walking the length of the clinic.  “After my host’s body eventually perished, I sought him out again.  Unencumbered by a mortal form, I went to him.  I tried to speak to him.”

It made sense; if demons could whisper to mages, so could more benign spirits.  “So you found him.”  Her voice sounded uncharacteristically bleak to her own ears.  “And, what, he… ignored you?”

“Worse: he couldn’t hear me at all.  Vengeance had settled so far into his heart, into his spirit, that he could no longer _hear_ the voice of Compassion.  There was little I could do.  I went to him, I spoke to him — I pleaded with him. I thought he might hear me _here,_ where he aided the sick without recompense, but…”

“And when he dreamed?  What then?  Surely you tried to approach him in the Fade?”

“I attempted it, yes.  But his dreams were frequently troubled — it is the hallmark of what he is.”

“A mage?”

“A Grey Warden,” corrected Compassion. “In time, I saw my efforts were in vain.  He would not be moved from his chosen path.”

“But you still tried.”

“He was my friend, once.  It is an odd thing, you must understand, for a spirit of the Fade to have such things as… friends.”  The spirit spoke the word with difficulty, and though it was the spirit speaking, he spoke with Anders’ voice, wearing Anders’ face.  Amelle felt a sharp, uncomfortable pang.

“So you’re here because you… part of you…”

“Remains his friend, though he is well beyond hearing my voice now, or possibly ever again.”

“And you want to help me.”

“The one you seek is not so far gone as you fear, Amelle,” Compassion said, offering her his hand.

“And what are you going to ask me in return?” she asked, eyeing the hand warily.

This made the spirit laugh — an unexpected sound — and he shook his head.  

“You do know which questions to ask, young one.  But worry not; Compassion asks for no payment.  I aid you freely.  You may accept or decline as you wish.”

Amelle considered it.  As strange as it was accepting help from any being wearing Anders’ face, Amelle had to admit that the offer of assistance was appealing.  She took the hand and felt herself lifted to her feet.

“All right.  I’m not one to cut my nose off to spite my face.”

“What an unusual idiom,” the spirit replied, tilting its head at her in a manner that reminded Amelle powerfully of the cat he’d first appeared as.  “I should hope you’d not do such a thing. It seems most unpleasant.”

#

Kirkwall looked very… pretty.

As Amelle walked on, the spirit of Compassion by her side (still wearing Anders’ face, and it was so _strange_ ), she couldn’t help but notice how clean things looked.  How _nice —_ even if everything was still vaguely out of focus and tilted at odd angles beneath a garish purple sky _._  

“If the clinic is my anchor, then what is the rest of this?” she asked as they walked through the Hightown marketplace — it was deserted and eerily quiet, but Amelle supposed quiet was infinitely better than crawling with demons, and so she didn’t complain.  Still, she had to wonder.

“Your friend has been here quite some time,” the spirit replied.  “He has created most of this.  In the beginning he ventured through these portions of the Fade, as if searching for something.  Once he found the spot he’d been seeking, he remained there.”

Amelle had a feeling she knew precisely where that spot was.  She hurried up the stairs leading away from the market, her steps taking her through Hightown and around corners, until finally, _finally,_ she strode through an archway and saw it.

For all that she tried to prepare herself for the sight — she knew what was coming, knew what she was going to see — when the Kirkwall Chantry filled her vision, tall and gleaming and _whole_ , Amelle lost her breath.  Everything inside her _hurt_ to see the structure looking even more pristine than it had before.  Every brick, every stone, was perfectly placed, and the brightly-colored banners swayed gently in a breeze she couldn’t feel.

“There still aren’t any people,” she breathed, looking around them.

“It is better if there aren’t,” replied Compassion.

“Right,” Amelle murmured, looking up at the chantry again. “Demons.”  But it seemed _wrong_ to imagine the demonic in a place like this.

“Indeed.  If we are lucky, he is holding them off himself.”

“And if we’re unlucky?”

He looked a long time at the chantry, and then at Amelle, his expression grim. “Then I am afraid you will have to confront whatever lies between you and your friend.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say something like that,” replied Amelle, taking a step forward and crossing the courtyard.  

She still took in every detail — and every change — Sebastian had made, intentionally or not, to the place.  For as long as she’d lived in Kirkwall, there’d been a chipped stone in the chantry courtyard she’d nearly always stumbled over, but here, the stones were perfectly uniform, identically smooth.  As they neared the stairs, Amelle saw there was no chanter’s board.  She nearly asked the spirit why such a detail had been omitted when Amelle remembered: 

They’d _met_ Sebastian through the chanter’s board.

She stopped suddenly, _staring_ at the spot.  No chanter’s board meant no trouble, no wrongs to be righted, no…

_No pain.  No loss.  No grief._

“Oh, Sebastian,” Amelle breathed, feeling her heart contract and ache.  And it was then that she began to understand why this version of Kirkwall looked the way it did: Sebastian was _fixing_ it.

They climbed the stairs, and Amelle wondered briefly if Sebastian had also made the stairway longer, or if that was another distortion of the Fade.  The white chantry steps felt as if they went on forever.  At the top, she turned and looked out over the rest of this city, Kirkwall’s twin.  Its horizon was jagged, set against the Fade’s purple sky, and in the distance, far beyond Sebastian’s Kirkwall, Amelle could see floating islands and winding paths floating in midair. Only when she pulled her gaze away from the sky and looked at the white stones did she find she could… forget this was not the way things were.

It was a terrifying realization, and she gave herself a shake before turning and pushing at the large, ornate door.

“Let’s go.”

Inside, everything was precisely as Amelle remembered it, only _better,_ somehow.  It felt warmer here, quieter, _safer_ , and Amelle realized none of the strange Fade distortions existed in this area he’d created.  This chantry was precisely as it existed in Sebastian’s memory, and he had recreated it in loving detail.  And with this realization, it was hard not to feel like she was intruding upon some very private recollection.

“Your friend is here,” Compassion said quietly.  “Can you sense his spirit?”

Amelle nodded.  She felt an odd little _pull_ inside, like a child tugging at a string — Sebastian was somewhere nearby.  “Wherever he is, he’s probably praying,” she whispered; it was a hard habit to break, _not_ whispering in a chantry, even in a Fade-reproduction of one.

“He is there,” murmured Compassion, nodding at the raised dais, high above them both.  

As she had suspected, Sebastian knelt, hands clasped and head bowed.  Amelle turned and rushed for the set of stairs on the left leading upward, but the moment her hand rested upon the cool stone, a voice made her freeze, nearly to the point of staggering.

“Welcome, child.  Maker’s blessings upon you.”

Amelle whirled and _stared._

“Grand Cleric Elthina?”

The old woman smiled and bowed her head, and only then did Amelle realize the spirit still wearing Anders’ face had moved closer to her side.

“This is no mortal spirit, Amelle.  This is not your Grand Cleric.”

“What?  Are you mad? Just look at—”

“Do not let yourself be fooled by a pleasant facade,” warned Compassion.  “This—”

The thing wearing the Grand Cleric’s kind, weathered face began to laugh softly.  It was a low, chilling sound, and Amelle stepped back, going a few steps farther upward.  Elthina’s eyes had been the most soothing shade of dove grey; this… thing’s eyes were the color of cold steel.

“Oh, come now,” the demon purred in a voice like a sword being drawn from its sheath.  “Surely a fellow Fade spirit can appreciate one of its own kind having a bit of _fun_.”

“You are no kind of mine, demon,” Compassion ground out.

At this, the demon only made a careless, dismissive gesture, so out of place on the old woman.  “Two sides of the same coin.  We are not _so_ different, are we?”

“We are different _enough_.”

“Typical of your kind,” it sighed in mock-wistfulness, “focusing on only our differences.  We are quite the same at the core.”

“Stop,” Amelle said, looking between the two beings.  “Just… stop it.”  She looked at the… _thing_ that still bore such a resemblance to the dead Grand Cleric.  “Are you holding him here, then?” She jerked her chin up.  “Toying with him?”

The demon laughed.  “I do not need to _keep_ him here, girl.  He stays of his own volition.”  Then it spread its arms and _smiled_ and Amelle suppressed a shiver as it said in a mockery of kindness, “I only offer guidance and advice to those who seek to follow the Maker’s path.”  The smile melted into a smirk, and then it _winked._

“Then why isn’t he leaving?  Why isn’t his body _healing_?”

“Perhaps he does not _wish_ to.  What does it matter to you?”

Darkness like the blackest ink began gathering, surrounding the thing that wasn’t Elthina.  It darkened and swirled around the old woman’s figure, like a viscous mist.  The darkness stretched out and grew upward with a wet, slapping sound.  Then, all at once, the thick cloud _fell_ , landing in a dark, glistening puddle around the demon.

And, oh, it most certainly _was_ a demon now.  

The thing that stood before them was nearly twice as tall as Amelle — a warrior shade, clad in armor, its helm hiding its face, save for two eyes burning like white-hot coals.  Longswords were crossed at its back, while a shorter sword and a mace hung at its waist.  It carried no shield.  The demon was sharp all over, a dagger made manifest, the deadly edges of its armor glinting maliciously in the chantry’s candlelight.

“What _are_ you?” breathed Amelle, staring upward.  Instinct cried out that she draw her staff.  Common sense told her this fiend could end her before she laid a finger on it.

“Vengeance,” supplied Compassion.  

Amelle felt suddenly _sick._

“He _deserves_ to die, don’t you think?” Vengeance asked, and in a voice of fire and pain, its breath a wave of loosed arrows.

“No,” Amelle breathed.  “No, he _doesn’t._ ”

Vengeance laughed, a wet, sucking sound, like daggers stabbed into unguarded backs.  “Don’t lie to _me,_ little mage.  I know your mind; I know your heart.”

Clenching her fists by her side, Amelle stood up a little straighter.  Inside she trembled.  Inside, she was _afraid._   “Do not _presume_ to know anything about me, demon.”

“No?  Then you would not have taken the life of the human who owns this face?” it asked, gesturing carelessly at Compassion.  “Your sister spared him, but you… _you_ would not have been so merciful, would you?”

“Living in the world he made is punishment enough,” she retorted sharply.  “Release Sebastian.”

“ _Sebastian,_ ” spat the demon _._   “Why do you pretend to care about his life?  He would have let you all die, you know.  He walked away.  You remember his last words, do you not, little mage?  _You,_ especially.  He would enjoy seeing you die.  He would relish it.  You are all he hates, and all he wishes to make suffer.  What trouble is it for you to leave him here?”

Amelle inclined her head and regarded the demon levelly.  “I am not leaving him.”

“Come now.  No one need ever know you were here. Your sister may mourn for a time, but he will never be able to hurt her again. Let him die the way he would have let you all die at Meredith's hands.”

“ _No!_ ” Compassion shouted, making Amelle jump.  “You will _not_ do this!  You cannot — you _will not_ — feed this… this vicious cycle!  You cannot _possibly_ be suggesting this mage let a man die to get vengeance upon him for actions he’s not even taken!”

“Actions he has not taken _yet,_ you mean.  He has threatened to take vengeance upon her, upon her sister. I am merely encouraging her to protect that which is dear to her. ”

“ _Protect_?” echoed Amelle.  “You _dare_ twist vengeance into… into… _compassion_?” Anger flooded through her at the mere insinuation that she deceive her sister — deceive _herself_ — so.  And with this rush of anger, fear ebbed away.  “Whatever transpires between my sister and this man is between _them._   I am not his executioner, _demon._   I am his _healer,_ and I am his _friend._ I did not travel all this way only to abandon him!”

“You think this _human_ is worth saving?  You believe he will not strike you down the very moment he _can?_ ”  It laughed, low and derisive.  “You think he is _your_ friend?”

“I _think_ , demon, I will let him prove those things to me himself.”

The demon peered down at her with those eyes, burning like white fire.  “You truly _believe_ this.”

“I think you know I do.”

“Very well.”  There was a pause, and then the demon smiled.  “Then allow me to propose… a wager.”

Amelle shook her head, folding her arms over her chest.  “I do not make deals with demons.”

“It is naught but a friendly wager, little mage.  You speak to your… _friend._   If you can convince him to leave, he is yours.  If you cannot, you leave him to me, and never return.”

Amelle’s heart pounded in her breast and she closed her eyes, thinking hard.  It was risky — incredibly risky — to make such a bet.  This was precisely the sort of thing she promised Fenris she _wouldn’t_ do.  She could nearly see the elf’s disapproving glare, and winced.

_No.  I must at least_ try. _I… can convince him to leave.  Of course I can._

In her mind’s eye, she saw Kiara’s face when she looked down on Sebastian upon the kitchen floor, bloody and still. She imagined what expression her sister might wear if Amelle were forced to tell her she’d not been able to save Sebastian after all.

Something inside of her steeled, and Amelle looked up at Vengeance.

“Very well.  I accept your wager.”

Vengeance disappeared in another wet cloud that seemed to slither into the stones beneath their feet.  Amelle stared at the black, sludge-like residue, biting down on her bottom lip.  After a moment, she looked back at Compassion.

“This might be more difficult with you looking like… that.”

Compassion considered a moment.  “Perhaps a smaller form would be less… problematic?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” replied Amelle, somewhat apologetically.  “Kittens tend to be less threatening as a general rule.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Compassion assumed the smaller, feline shape.  Amelle smiled down at the cat as it turned itself in a little circle, flicking its tail.

“Much bett—”

The cat then leapt up and perched itself on her shoulder.

“Um.”

“…Forgive me,” the cat replied.  “Force of habit.”

Together they climbed the stairs leading up to the dais where Sebastian still knelt, still prayed.  After a moment’s hesitation, she moved in front of him and knelt as well.


	9. Chapter 9

The floor was dirty.

No, worse than that. Far worse. Sebastian had never seen the chantry so neglected; he had no idea how things had come to such a sorry state. Something pulled at him, asked him to _remember_ , but when he chased the thought he couldn’t find its root. He didn’t know why the chantry was dirty. He didn’t know why he was here, or where he’d been to let it come to this. Fire, he thought. But no. He smelled no smoke. When he tried to puzzle out why things looked so derelict, he could not.

The sight gave him pain, though. That much he knew for certain.

Looking around, he found the nave empty. No sisters, no Revered Mothers; even the Grand Cleric was absent. He frowned, straining his ears as he listened for some echo of the Chant, only to be met by a silence so resounding and so complete it made his head ache at the sheer _absence_ of sound.

“Hello?” he said into the quiet, if only to prove his hearing still worked as it ought. His voice echoed in the empty chamber. No one answered. Scuffing his foot through the dirt left a line visible in the filth.

Even more shockingly, when he glanced down he saw he was as dirty as the room around him. Blinking, he reached up to rub his eyes, only to find his hands grimy, too. “This won’t do,” he said. Again his voice spun out into the silence. This time, however, someone answered.

“I’m lost.”

Sebastian spun, nearly falling in his haste to see who’d spoken. The sudden movement made his breath catch, and he reached up to rub absently at his chest. Of course his fingers met only the cool, hard enamel of his breastplate, and after a moment the persistent ache eased. A little boy stood behind him, as filthy as everything else, his blue gaze wide and fearful and tinged with sorrow. “I’m lost,” he repeated. “I can’t find my way.”

Sebastian took a step forward, but the boy jumped backward, like a startled rabbit about to dash for its warren. Sinking to the ground, Sebastian rested his empty hands on his knees and said softly, “I won’t hurt you, lad.”

“Everybody leaves me,” the boy replied. When he blinked, fresh tears scoured tracks in the dirt on his face. “That hurts. You’ll leave, too.”

Sebastian tilted his head, his brows lowering in confusion. Something of Starkhaven clung to the lad’s vowels, but otherwise he wasn’t familiar. “This is my home,” Sebastian said. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s your family, lad? Shall I walk with you?”

“No family,” the boy whispered. “No home. Only this.”

“Are you one of the Chantry orphans?”

The child did not acknowledge Sebastian’s question; he only stared with his huge, wounded eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. After a moment, Sebastian extended his hand, as tentatively as he might have approached a skittish horse or a rabid dog. “You can stay with me, if you like,” Sebastian offered.

“You’ll leave,” the boy said. “Everyone leaves.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sebastian repeated. “Look around. I have so much work to do. I don’t suppose you’d help me? I’m going to wash the floors.”

“It’ll take a long time.”

“It will,” Sebastian agreed. “A very long time.”

“And you’re not going anywhere.”

“Certainly not before the floors are done.”

The child looked up, thoughtful. Sebastian didn’t think the boy even realized he was still weeping. “The windows are dirty.”

“So they are.”

“You’ll need to clean them, too.”

“So I will.”

“There’s a lot to clean.”

Sebastian almost smiled, but something in the child’s face, and something about the lingering ache in his own chest stopped him. Instead he nodded gravely. The child said, “It will take a long time.”

“A very long time.”

“Good,” said the boy with no small amount of satisfaction, finally drawing his filthy sleeve over his cheeks to dry the tears. “Good. And you’ll stay with me. You’ll stay with me the whole time.”

The child took Sebastian by the hand, his little fingers so strangely cold it took all Sebastian’s resolve not to immediately draw away from him. Instead, he forced himself to close his warm fingers over the cold ones. He forced himself to ignore the shudder than ran the length of his spine as he did so. 

“How did you come to be here?” Sebastian asked the child.

The boy looked up at him and tilted his head. In an eerily calm voice somehow at odds with the tears still running down his face, the child replied, “I don’t know. How did _you_ come to be here?”

“This is my home,” Sebastian repeated, even as memories—nightmares—red light and the scent of ashes in the air and voices raised in anger—pulled at him. He pushed them away, burying them as deeply in the recesses of his mind as he could. He didn’t know where they came from, but he knew he didn’t want—couldn’t—look at them too closely. He almost thought he heard the echo of words— _do not interfere_ —but before he could wonder about them, before he could question who’d spoken them, or why, the child gripped Sebastian’s hand harder. 

“Then this is my home, too.”

It was too late to say no, Sebastian knew. Too late to argue. And yet, in that instant, he wanted nothing more. The boy’s eyes were too bright, and his tone far too fervent. But instead of pushing the child away, Sebastian said, “Then you’ll have to come with me, lad. We’ll draw some water from the well and start on these floors.”

The little boy’s answering smile chilled him in a way that had very little at all to do with cold fingers.

#

Even with the little boy’s help, it took a very long time to wash the floors. Still, the activity became a kind of meditation. Sebastian drew countless buckets of water, and spent countless hours on his hands and knees, scrub-brush in hand. He began to feel as though he’d always been here, had always done this. Water and floor and brush. He needed nothing else.

Every time he cleaned a new swathe of floor, his own mind felt emptier, cleaner.

“No,” said the child abruptly, skidding to a halt in front of Sebastian, his bare feet leaving footprints on the damp floor. Sebastian sat back on his heels, raising his eyebrows. “No,” repeated the boy. “This isn’t right. This is all wrong.”

One corner of Sebastian’s mouth turned up in a smile. “It’s almost clean.”

The boy’s eyes welled with tears. “No,” he said a third time, stamping his foot against the marble. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember how it’s supposed to be?”

“Clean,” Sebastian replied. “Look around, lad. It’s almost as good as new.”

And it was. Bright sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floors in dancing color. The great statue of Andraste at the end of the nave was polished to a gleaming hue. Every red candle was whole, unburnt wicks waiting for darkness and evensong.

The emptiness still troubled him. He found himself lifting his own voice in the Chant more and more as he worked, if only to chase away the unnerving silence. Every time he turned a corner, he somehow expected to see _someone_. He couldn’t have said _who_ , exactly. Names and faces swam through his thoughts, only to flee if he tried too hard to pursue them. He wasn’t certain he _wanted_ to remember those who’d left him here alone.

“Stop it!” cried the boy. “Stop pretending!”

Sebastian chuckled briefly, and the boy looked aghast. “I’m not pretending anything, lad. I’m only happy to see things returned to the way they ought to be. Aren’t you?”

Reaching out, the child laid cold fingers against Sebastian’s cheek. His stomach dropped at the touch, and the laugh died in his throat. The light behind his eyes when he blinked was red. He almost thought he heard screams. He almost thought he heard a familiar voice speaking horrible words, in as unfamiliar a tone as he’d ever heard from her.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Sebastian.”

It wasn’t the voice he was expecting, somehow, and yet it was nearly as familiar to him as his own. Troubling as it was, he’d grown almost accustomed to the silence. To have it broken now bordered on the profane. A strange spasm of anger and frustration and sorrow twisted the little boy’s face, and then the child rose to his feet and darted away before Sebastian could explain or reach out to stop him.

The child was all but forgotten (forgotten like the red light, the voice snapping _do not interfere_ , the _pain_ ) as the newcomer repeated, “Sebastian, child, whatever are you doing on the floor?”

By the time he pushed himself to his feet, the Grand Cleric stood before him. Unaccountably, his throat grew tight and tears filled his eyes. Elthina raised her eyebrows and smiled, somehow fond and dubious all at once. “What’s this about?” she asked, raising her chin slightly to acknowledge his sudden grief.

“I thought—” But even as he spoke, Sebastian wasn’t certain _what_ he’d thought. For some reason, as he’d dragged his scrub-brush across the floors, he’d felt certain he would never see the Grand Cleric again. _Certain_. When he wasn’t cleaning, he’d felt the weight of it, heavy as a stone around his neck, around his heart. He’d shed tears for her. He felt _certain_ he’d shed tears for her. He shook his head, but she remained where she was, hands neatly folded, lips pulled into their easy smile. He almost reached out to touch her arm, her shoulder, to make sure she was real, but he stopped himself at the last moment, not knowing how he might explain such a breach in decorum. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been… I’ve been cleaning.”

“So I see,” she remarked mildly. Then her brow furrowed at her dove-pale eyes glittered. “But who did it, Sebastian? Who left our home in such a state? Who scoffed at the Maker’s glory and condemned us all to wallow in this filth? _Who?_ ”

The words were strong ones, and Elthina’s tone sharper and harder than he was accustomed to. He had heard her disappointed, of course, and angry, but this was something else entirely. The skin of her cheeks was flushed, throwing the careworn lines of age into harsh relief. Sebastian winced, flayed by her words, as though _he_ were the one she blamed, as though _he_ were the one she sought to punish.

He couldn’t think _why_. He’d done nothing but clean.

“Tell me, child. Tell me who did this.”

“I… I don’t know—”

“You do,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “There’s no sense protecting her now. Look what she’s done. Look what she condoned.”

He couldn’t catch his breath. Every word prodded at him, sliding between his ribs with the unerring accuracy of a—

Of a blade.

_Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to His right hand._

Sebastian felt it. He _felt_ the steel between his ribs. Heavy and hard and foreign. Wrong. He remembered the eyes of the man who’d wielded the sword. He’d _seen_ the moment the templar realized he was killing another man—not a villain, not an enemy, not a demon: a man. Just a man. Gasping, Sebastian clawed at his chest, his nails scraping fruitlessly against the enameled plate. He sank to his knees. Every breath was a sob, torn from him, stealing from him. Ending him.

“No,” the Grand Cleric whispered. She didn’t touch him, but her voice was soft in his ear. Soft and soothing and almost sweet. Like a prayer. A benediction. Listening to it, it found he could almost breathe again. “No, child. He was only doing his duty. You must go further back. You must find the root. You must find the root and you must pull it out. It is the only way. We must have our revenge for the wrongs done to us.”

“Death is never justice,” he whispered. He blinked up at her and hot tears spilled over his cheeks.

“No, it is not,” she agreed, eyes narrowing. He ducked his head. “And yet here we are.”

“I thought you—”

She shook her head, silencing him. “You’re thinking the wrong thoughts, child. You’re walking the wrong path. Letting yourself be blown about, as always.”

“Like a weathervane,” he said weakly. “Blown about like a weathervane. But you—you wouldn’t let me—I _asked_. I _begged_. I _pleaded_ with you. All I wanted was to take my place as Brother again—”

The Grand Cleric’s smile did not touch her eyes. “That was _all_ you wanted, child? Nothing else? Surely you cannot believe I was blind as that.”

Sebastian shook his head, pressing his palm flat against his chest. The plate was so cool. Almost but not quite like the fingers of the orphaned child. Beneath it, the pain went on, though not quite so sharply as before. Though he could breathe again, he was aware of every inhale, and he still feared each exhale would be his last. “No. I swore to take no bride but Andraste. I… swore.”

“Yes,” Elthina said coolly. “And I witnessed the value you placed on those vows. Would you have stopped, Sebastian? Would you have said no to her, if I’d asked it of you? If I’d made it a stipulation of your reinstatement? Would you have turned away from her? Never seen her again? Would you?”

“I was helping. I—she—” Sebastian stopped, once again shaking his head. “I pleaded with you, Elthina. I did. And you… you made me your errand boy, but you wouldn’t—”

“Let you forswear yourself again? Invite you back to the fold, knowing you harbored impure feelings? You blame _me_ , Sebastian? You _dare_ blame me?” The Grand Cleric’s hands closed into fists at her sides. “You made your choice. And your choice—her choice— _your interference_ —spat on the glory of the Chantry.”

_Do not interfere, Sebastian._

The rush of memory caught him off-guard, and he doubled over with the force of it, bracing himself with one hand pressed to the cool, clean floor. 

_“There can be no half measures. There can be no turning back,” Anders said, turning away from Meredith and Orsino, bowing his head. And then the sky burned red. The sky burned red, and the air filled with smoke, and as flames and ash began to fall, Sebastian realized the import—the terrible import—of what the mage had done. “There can be no peace.”_

“And what did she say?” The Grand Cleric urged. “How did she respond, this paragon of yours? The woman you esteemed higher than Andraste? What did she say?”

He pushed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the words she spoke, the truth he knew. 

_The abomination, sitting on his overturned crate, murderous hands dangling between his knees._

_“Just go,” she said._

“After everything he’d done,” Elthina whispered.

“‘Just go,’” Sebastian repeated. “As if what he’d done meant _nothing_.”

“As if she _condoned_ it.” The Grand Cleric sighed. “As if she agreed with everything the abomination stood for. As if she, too, were complicit in the murders he’d committed.”

“As if _I_ meant nothing.” Sebastian lowered his hands slowly, but did not raise his eyes from the floor. The marble, so clean after all his work, shone, reflecting back the colors of the stained glass. “I thought I knew her. I thought I—”

“She betrayed you. After everything you sacrificed for her.”

“She betrayed me,” he echoed, even as a verse from the Chant swam muddily through his mind. _Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven._

Forgiveness.

Death is never justice.

But oh, the turn of her countenance, and the dismissiveness of her tone as she’d said _do not interfere_. It burned. Even now, it burned.

“And now?” the Grand Cleric prodded. “Now, Brother Sebastian? What will you do now?” 

_And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing_ left _of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!_

“I must speak with her,” he said, glancing up in time to see a frown cross the Grand Cleric’s face. “I owe her that much.”

“You owe her _nothing_ ,” Elthina snapped, and for one moment he thought she meant to reach out and hit him. She didn’t, but her eyes burned with fury and he could see the trembling of her limbs. “What do you owe _me_ , Sebastian Vael? What would you have _been_ without _me_?”

“Your Grace—”

“You are just like her. Tossing the old aside as soon as something newer, shinier, _easier_ comes along. Very well, child. Very well. I see how much I mean to you. I see how highly you value me.” The Grand Cleric swept her arm wide, the gesture encompassing the whole of the room he’d spent so many countless hours on his hands and knees cleaning. “I see how highly you value _this_. I ought never have let you back through the chantry doors, you ungrateful, stubborn, willful child.”

“Your _Grace_ , please, if you’ll only permit—”

Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she glared down at him. “Permit what? Another endless parade of excuses? A litany of praise for the woman who can evidently do no wrong even as she brings our world crashing down around our ears?”

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not it. Not it at all. I only meant—”

“ _She_ did this. She did. No one else. You would let her go free? You would _absolve_ her? You were not so kind to the Flint Company, as I recall. I understand. We rate lower even than the family that cast you off, sent you away, _banished_ you. I see. You have made yourself very clear.”

Death is never justice.

A fine mist of ash began to sift from above. He blinked to be certain he wasn’t seeing things. “Look what you’ve done,” the Grand Cleric admonished as he began to pull himself to his feet. His arms trembled and he feared his legs would not bear his weight. Elthina tugged the skirt of her robes away from him, as though even the air near him was tainted.

“I’ll get… I’ll get more water,” he whispered. “From the well. I’ll clean this. I’ll clean it all. I promise.”

“There isn’t water enough in the world to purify this sin. You know that. You _know_ that, Sebastian Vael. You _know_ what was done here. Whether you choose to admit it or not, you do _know._ ”

These words, too, were like blades, but Sebastian only rose unsteadily and began to stumble toward the door. He could feel the Grand Cleric’s eyes on him and he almost fell again under their scrutiny.

“You disappoint me, child,” she said. “I have no words to adequately explain how greatly you disappoint me.”

“I know,” he whispered under his breath, too quietly for her to hear.

Water. He could make everything new again—better even than it was—if only he had water enough. Water and floor and brush.

#

No matter how hard he tugged on the rope, the bucket would not rise.

“It’s broken,” said the little boy, so mournfully Sebastian once again felt the damnable prickle of tears burn his eyes.

He pulled again, so firmly the rope scraped at his palms, but to no avail.

“Everything’s broken.”

Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to release the rope. Every muscle in his arms burned, and the ache in his chest magnified. Still he pulled. Still he struggled.

“You have to come with me.”

“No,” Sebastian said. “I have to… it’s… I have to make it _right_. I have to make it _good_. I can’t leave things like this.”

The child repeated, “You have to come with me.”

Bowing his head, Sebastian tried once more to raise the bucket, and once again failed. Then, with a heavy sigh almost—almost but not quite—like a cry, he opened his hands. His palms were abraded and raw, and the rope fell to the ground with a heavy thump. The sound echoed in his skull.

It sounded like disappointment.

It sounded like failure.

A third time, the little boy insisted, “You have to come with me.”

Sebastian turned, harsh words—cruel words—on his lips, only to feel them wither and die under the weight of that sorrowful blue gaze. The child extended his little hand, and before he could stop himself, Sebastian took it. The clammy, cold fingers stung his lacerated palms, and his stomach turned.

When the boy tugged his hand, he followed. He hardly even felt the pain.

“What did she say to you?”

Sebastian frowned. “She told me not to interfere.”

“Not _her_. The other one. In there.” The child squeezed his hand, and Sebastian winced at the pain. “I don’t like her.”

“Her Grace is—”

“I don’t _like_ her.”

Before Sebastian could speak again, the little boy jerked on his hand, pulling him sharply down one of the garden paths. Sebastian tried to follow the route, but nothing made sense. He’d thought these ways familiar. He’d walked every path in the chantry gardens dozens of times. And yet this was new. The trees bent at strange angles, and the flowers were ones he’d never seen, never named. He could not bring himself to look upon the purple sky, with all its shadows.

And then _everything_ was wrong, because the boy stopped, and Sebastian was forced to stop with him.

In front of them, a body lay on a pyre.

Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey. He knew the curve of shoulder and arm and waist. He recognized the shape of those folded hands, though he was more accustomed to seeing them wrapped around the grip of a bow.

_No,_ Sebastian thought, too stunned to speak the words aloud. Pleaded. _No, I must speak with her. I must make my peace. No._

The boy released his hand, walking over to the funeral pyre. He did not glance back at Sebastian as he bent, retrieving a branch. He didn’t turn until he’d set the torch alight. The fire cast long shadows, sending strange, flickering light dancing across the—

“No,” Sebastian whispered, backing slowly away. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bier, from the body laid upon it, from the stacks of kindling waiting to be lit. The little boy stood his ground, lips curved in a cruel little smile as he waved his torch in a broad arc. “This isn’t—this can’t be—I… I must pray. I have to pray. The Maker—the Maker will—”

“He’ll ignore you, just as He’s always done,” said the little boy, his tone belying his years. “Just as she did, in the end. No one listens, Sebastian. Haven’t you learned that yet? No one listens when you speak. No one ever has.”

Sebastian turned, already whispering the words of the Chant beneath his breath, already pleading for the Maker to intercede.

_Blessed be the souls._

But not her.

Not yet.

_Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to His right hand._

Leaving the boy behind, the Grand Cleric’s disappointment already forgotten, tormented by the scene he’d left behind him (he thought—had he _dreamed_ it?—he thought he remembered hearing someone say she’d come through the battle— _battle?_ —safely), Sebastian retraced his steps through the twisted garden, already lost in prayer, already imagining himself kneeling before that great golden statue in the nave. He heard the child cry out, but he did not stop.

He could not. Not until, through prayer, through pleading, his world began once again to make sense.

He only hoped such a thing wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.


	10. Chapter 10

Amelle folded her hands, mimicking Sebastian’s attitude of prayer, but the man did not so much as twitch. His eyes were closed, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. Here, in the Fade, he looked as she remembered from _before_. He had the appearance of health, of strength. His cheeks were smooth and his hair combed. She hoped she could take that as a good sign. _Prayed_ she could take it as a good sign, even.

“Sebastian?”

His lips still moved silently, and he did not acknowledge her.

“ _Sebastian_.” 

After several seconds ticked by with no response, the cat let out a loud, demanding _yowl._   Sebastian straightened with a jerk, as if he’d been doused with cold water.  He stared at her, then at the cat, then back at her.

“Amelle?” he asked, still looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. She peered at him more closely. Something strange and strained lingered in his face, and his gaze was not entirely… _focused_.

If she’d been pressed to describe it, she’d have said it looked as though Sebastian were trapped between two worlds.

Which, was, perhaps, all too accurate a description.

She smiled carefully, almost tentatively. “Hello, Sebastian.”

He blinked. “You’re… here.” Then he glanced down, tilting his head in confusion. “And you have a cat.”

The spirit leapt gracefully from her shoulder back to the floor, where he rubbed affectionately against Sebastian’s knees.

“It would appear I do, yes.”

He reached down and ran his hand along the animal’s back.  “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Well,” she replied, tilting a wider grin at him, “He’s not mine, exactly.  I have quite a knack for picking up strays.  Ask my sis—”

Before she could finish, however, Sebastian’s gaze snapped up to hers, and this time there was nothing unfocused about it. It was, however, bordering on the terrified. She could see the whites of his eyes all the way around his pupils, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to check his temperature. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he insisted, picking up the cat—who gave an indignant meow at the treatment—and pushing him into Amelle’s hands. She scrabbled to grab hold of the little creature. Compassion sent her as baleful a glance as a cat could manage. “It’s not safe.”

Amelle resisted the urge to turn and glance toward the demon still wearing Elthina’s face. _It’s not safe_ , she thought, _but not for the reasons you fear._ “Sebastian,” she said, “we’re fine. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, but something of the earlier confusion returned to his expression, and he glanced around. Finally he settled on the looming statue of Andraste, and she saw him visibly shift back toward calm. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I’ve not seen many templars—” Here again he paused, his brow furrowing. “No. I’ve seen _no_ templars. Nor any of the sisters. Only Her Grace, and the child…”

“That’s strange,” Amelle said. “Isn’t it?”

At first, he said nothing. He stared at the statue, gaze fixed and unblinking. Then, finally, in a voice thick with the kind of emotion it pained her to try to name, he said, “I am sorry about your sister, Amelle.”

Startled, she parted her lips to reply, only to have Compassion extend a pawful of claws into the unprotected flesh of her left hand. Instead of speaking the words she’d meant to speak— _Kiara is fine, Sebastian_ —she yelped and dropped the cat into her lap. Unlike another feline would have, Compassion did not turn tail and bolt. Ears twitched, fur remained rumpled, and very slowly the cat turned his head to stare in the direction of the Grand Cleric.

 _His world_ , Amelle thought. _Not mine._

And the sound of her cry had been enough to break through Sebastian’s momentary fog. He was looking at _her_ again, statue forgotten.

Ignoring the pain in her hand, Amelle held Sebastian’s gaze and said, “Can I tell you a story about her?”

A muscle clenched in his jaw and a shadow passed over his features, but finally he nodded.

“I have always had a knack for picking up strays, as I said.  I was forever bringing home lame animals and nursing them back to health.  We learned, rather unpleasantly, about Ki—my sister’s allergy to rabbits that way. Well, the fur,” she clarified, watching Sebastian carefully to make certain the blankness didn’t return.  “I’m fairly sure she’s not allergic to the meat.”

If he noticed her use of the present tense, he said nothing. But he didn’t look away, and the tension in his jaw eased.

“The rabbit… it had been caught in a trap,” she admitted, rather shamefacedly. Something about either her reply or her expression made him let out a soft breath of something almost, _almost_ like laughter. It was so much a _Sebastian_ gesture, her heart squeezed and it took a great deal of blinking to keep tears from falling.

“I _see_ ,” he said, a ghost of amusement—so different than the pain of mere moments before—in his tone. _“_ You brought home somebody else’s _dinner_ , then.”

Amelle offered him a sheepish shrug.  “I was young.  I saw a rabbit caught in a trap, and it was… screaming.”  She paused and tilted her head at Sebastian.  “Have you ever heard that sound?”

He fell into a thoughtful pause—thoughtful, but thank the Maker not _blank_ —before slowly nodding.  “Aye.  It is… I would rather offer clean shot and a swift death any day than to hear such a cry from any living creature.”

“You understand, then.  I brought it home, and we hid the rabbit in our room—we shared, as children.  I kept it in a basket under my bed.”  She smiled a little, remembering.  “That first night, she was up sneezing until dawn. Her eyes were all but swollen shut, and her skin was mottled, and I thought she was dying. So I had to get Mother. Even though Kiri begged me not to.”

The nickname made him pause and look at her, and for a moment she feared she’d pushed too hard too quickly. A flicker of misery—of loss—twisted his features, and she continued hurriedly, afraid of losing him once more to the darkness of whatever emotions held him.

“In any event, we both knew I’d get in trouble if Mother found another wounded animal in my care. So I kept trying to drag Kiri out of the bedroom, but she was too concerned to leave the rabbit. Even as she sneezed and sneezed. Mother heard us—or Carver ratted on us—but when she saw the rabbit, she only sighed and said, ‘Amelle, _again_?’ And Kiara, nose dripping, eyes running, throat raw, said, ‘We have to make it better, Mama,’ and it was… well, pathetic, really. Hard to argue with someone that pathetic.”

“She… helped you, then?”

“She did. We moved the rabbit out of our bedroom, though. Papa was away on one of his trips. It would have taken him a minute to put the rabbit right as rain. Its injuries were… very serious, and it took some time longer than any of us anticipated.”  She paused.  “For a while, we were worried we’d wake up some morning to find it had perished overnight.”

“But it didn’t?” 

She didn’t think she was imagining things—he looked almost _hopeful._ And since hopeful was a far cry from numb or miserable or broken, she smiled warmly, and said, “You know us Hawkes, Sebastian. Always taking up lost causes. Fighting the good fight.” 

“You were successful then? You healed it?”

“It _wanted_ to be healed,” replied Amelle, keeping her voice soft, but allowing her tone to become gently pointed, as she pinned Sebastian with a gaze.  After a second or two he looked away, and she didn’t think she was deluding herself to think it was because he caught the second meaning.  With a tiny sigh, she sat back on her heels and shrugged, deciding it might be better if she carefully changed the subject.  Frankness was a fine thing, but it would do Sebastian no good if Amelle caused him too much distress, and she didn’t want to push him back toward the place she’d found him in.  “Sometimes I think Mother wished the daughter she’d named after the noble Amell line was a little more, well, Amell-like, instead of crawling through the forest, bringing Maker-knew-what to heal and make whole again.”

“And how old were you?”

“Oh, no more than ten.  _Maybe_ eleven.  I came into my powers when I was eight.”

“A healer at a young age, then.”

“Hardly.  I was… learning.  I seemed to have a natural inclination toward simple, basic healing spells, and Father encouraged it.  It took time and practice — years, in fact — to become any sort of proper healer.”

“It is a noble pursuit, to be one who heals the sick and injured.”

“I am… so glad you think so.”  

He glanced down at his hands. “Would that I had such a calling.”

Amelle worried at her bottom lip, hesitating. He seemed poised on a precipice, and though he’d heard her words—and _understood_ , she felt certain—he still seemed as like to fall into darkness as light.

“I spoke with Grand Cleric Elthina,” she said, somewhat lamely, “and she, uh, asked me to talk to you.”  It wasn’t the truth, but neither was it exactly a lie — the demon pretending to be her all but _dared_ her to speak with Sebastian.

All the same, she saw Compassion give her an odd look, strangely out of place on the cat’s face.  He seemed to be arching an eyebrow at her as if to say, _Really?_

“She… did?”

Amelle shrugged.  “One doesn’t pray when things are well, Sebastian.  And you are praying… quite a bit.”

He grimaced, but didn’t disagree. He didn’t look up from his hands.  After a second or two, he closed his fingers into loose fists.  “I fear there is unrest in my spirit, Amelle. The things I’ve seen. The things I’ve _done_.”

She looked down at the cat, who butted his head against her leg as if to say, _Go on, tell him._

Feeling even more certain they were poised at some crossroads from which there could be no return, knowing it likely she’d only have the one chance, she tried to choose the right words. The demon was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t _watching._   “Sebastian… what’s the last thing you remember?  Before arriving here, I mean.”

He opened his mouth as if to answer, but stopped.  “I… don’t recall.”  A frown furrowed between his brows.  “That’s… odd.”

“Not really. Try harder. What do you remember?”

“I saw your sister in the garden. On the—I’m _sorry_ , Amelle.”

Amelle shook her head. “No,” she said gently. “That happened here. I want to know what happened _before._ ”

“That happened here,” he echoed, a trace of the glazed confusion once again slipping into his gaze. Before she could curse herself for saying the wrong thing, he shook his head, and his gaze returned to her. “Everything was dirty. I was cleaning. I thought it the least I could do. After everything.”

“After everything,” she repeated. “ _What_ , though? What is _everything_?” 

After a moment, Sebastian’s eyes—always such an _intense_ shade of blue—went out of focus slightly, but before she could think to do anything—to reach out, to shake him, to scream—he brought his hand to his breastbone, rubbing the area absently.

“Something…” he paused, closing his eyes, and his face became a mask of concentration.  “Pain.  A… sword — two templars.  Fire.  Screaming.”

Amelle gave a slow nod.  “Things… went badly in Kirkwall, Sebastian.  You were injured. I… I’ve been trying to heal you, but you’re… you’re being terribly stubborn about it.”  She paused.  “Not too unlike that rabbit.”

“You worried whether the rabbit would even survive.”

Amelle thought fleetingly of Kiara, determinedly feeding Sebastian drop after drop of broth, massaging his throat to make sure every bit was swallowed, even as tears fell from her eyes.  Her heart ached and she reminded herself yet again that she _could not fail._   “I—” Stopping, she cleared her throat.  “I know.  You need to remember, Sebastian.  You need to _try._   It… it won’t be pleasant, and I’m _sorry,_ but you _must_ try.  _Please_.”

She waited and watched as Sebastian lowered his gaze, as if looking inward.  He seemed almost to be wrestling with something — his own memory, perhaps — and the frown he wore deepened.

A frown was better than nothing. A frown was better than vacuousness. She thought—she hoped—she could work with a frown.

“The chantry…  _Anders._ ”

Compassion flinched, pressing himself against her thigh. Amelle looked down and saw his eyes were closed, as if in pain.  She reached out and stroked the spirit’s furry head with her thumb, then looked back at Sebastian, swallowing hard at the knot forming in her throat.  She couldn’t speak; all she could manage was a shaky nod.  

Sebastian looked up and all around him, blinking hard, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.  “No, it can’t be,” he breathed, shaking his head.  “We’re… we’re _here._   I spoke to the Grand Cleric not five minutes ago, Amelle.  You’re mistaken; it can’t be—”

“It happened, Sebastian,” she said gently, reaching out hesitantly and taking his hand.  “I’m sorry, but it—”

He yanked his hand away and glared at her, color rising in his cheeks.  “Then what manner of illusion _is_ this?”

She took a deep breath. “We are… in the Fade.  You created all this.  This chantry is… yours.  All of Kirkwall is yours.”

“I’m… dreaming?”

“Not…” Amelle paused, and was certain her discomfiture was evident on her face. “Not exactly.”

And as she watched his face, she saw the memories fall into place like so many puzzle pieces.  “I’m… dead?”

“No!” she cried, starting forward and shaking her head violently.  “No, no.  _No_.  Not dead, Sebastian.  You are _not dead._   You’re merely… taking longer to heal than I would like.”

After a second or two, he nodded.  “When I do wake, will I remember this at all?”

Well, at least he was _planning_ on waking.  That was a step in the right direction.  “Maker, I hope not,” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “So…” she began, more hesitantly, “what _do_ you remember?”

He looked away.  “Everything.  What Anders… did. And Hawke… she _spared_ him.”  There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.  “And the things I said… by Andraste, I was so _angry._ ”

“You felt betrayed,” she answered softly.  “But he betrayed us, too, Sebastian.  She did what she _had to do,_ given an utterly impossible situation.”

“I know,” came Sebastian’s words.  He sounded so… bleak, so hopeless.  _Tired._ “I was so angry at her.  I’m… still angry, Amelle.  Maker help me, but I am.  I thought… I thought if I prayed…”

“The Maker might provide some answers?”

He shook his head, looking utterly wretched.  “The Maker might _forgive me._ ”

Amelle blinked.  “Forgive you.”

“I vowed to amass an army and bring it down upon Kirkwall—upon the city that has been my home for _fifteen years_ —to level that city to the ground because of _one mage._ The vows I’ve taken in my life have been to _better_ myself.  To make myself a better man.  A worthy man.  A vow of vengeance has… no place — _should_ have no place in my heart.”

“You were _angry_.”

“Does that make it all right?”

Amelle sighed hard.  “Sebastian, tell me: is it the Maker’s forgiveness you want, or… ours?”

“I dare not presume—”

But Amelle said, “Look around you,” cutting him off as she gestured up at the chantry’s high ceiling, and around at every flickering candle, every gleaming statue.  “This place is beautiful.  _Kirkwall_ is beautiful.  Everything is clean and bright and whole and _perfect._ ”  Amelle leaned forward, bracing her hands against her thighs.  “ _You_ made it this way.  You’re trying to fix all of Kirkwall.  But… in the end, all this is… false.  You aren’t really _fixing_ anything.  If you want to… mend things, you—you have to come back to us and… _work_ for it.  We _all_ have work to do in that respect.  We all have things to mend in our lives right now.  Even Kiara.”  

Sebastian followed her gaze, and for a moment seemed almost to acquiesce.  But then he shook his head and looked away, pained.  “It’s too late. I saw what happened to her. I know she’s—”

“No,” Amelle insisted. “What you saw—whatever you saw—it was a trick. She’s _fine_. Battered and bruised and a little bit broken, but she’s fine.”

For one moment—one heartbreaking moment—his face was with suffused with such _gratitude_ , Amelle knew he wasn’t lost to her. No one who could feel emotions such as those could be a truly lost cause. Then, almost as suddenly as it had come, the brightness was gone again. “Then I am glad,” he said tonelessly, “but it is even more important I stay.”

Amelle felt her temper beginning to fray and her patience starting to run out. “ _Sebastian_ ,” she snapped _._   “You are in the Fade.  _Nothing_ is real here.  Any efforts you’re putting forth are for _nothing._   You are changing _nothing._   You haven’t even changed _yourself._ It’s all an illusion, nothing more — you haven’t rebuilt the chantry, you haven’t made Kirkwall’s streets safe, you haven’t _done_ _anything_.  You haven’t even _eaten anything_ since we found you, save a bit of broth.  Do you want to _do_ something, or do you want to _waste away and die?_ ”

His head whipped around to face her, blue eyes blazing. “It would be no less than I deserved!”

“ _What?”_ she shouted back.  “Have you lost your mind?”  She pushed to her feet, towering over the kneeling Sebastian, glowering down at him.  “I am _not letting you die!_   Do you have the first idea how hard I’ve been working to _keep_ you from dying?  There is _too much_ — you have _too much to do_!”

The fire in Sebastian’s eyes, though clearly angry, gave Amelle hope — there was life in him yet _._   “And you presume to decide this for me?”

“Yes, well, I thought it was a better option than _giving up._ Choosing to hide in the Fade when there is a life to be lived is… it’s for the _weak_.  I keep telling you: this is an _illusion_.  Do you want to be food for demons and Maker knows what else?  Do you want to vanish into obscurity because you didn’t have the spine to stand up and _live_?  I’ll ask you again: do you want to die?”

He stood, then, and Amelle realized suddenly how much taller Sebastian was than she.  She stood her ground and glared up at him, even as he retorted with brutal sharpness, “Would it not be better for all if I did?”

Amelle threw up her hands and, in her utter frustration, landed a hard kick on one of Sebastian’s armored shins. She feared it hurt her more than it hurt him, but it was enough to make him blink, and some tiny fraction of the anger faded from his expression.  “Maker, you _are_ an idiot! _No,_ it would _not_ be better for _anyone_ if you did.  We aren’t all hovering around your bed rooting for your death.  Do you think I’d come into the Fade to attempt to talk sense into you for the perverse enjoyment of watching you suffer later?  _Think_ , Sebastian.  There are things in the world you need to fix.  And there are people in the world who want to fix things _with you._   Please.  Let them have that chance.  Give _yourself_ that chance.”

Sebastian turned to the side, looking over the side of the dais, gazing out at the rest of the chantry, spread out before him, empty and clean and devoid of life.  All at once his anger seemed to ebb away, as if he didn’t have the strength to sustain it.  He looked nearly sad as he took in every detail, every candle, every book, every inch of polished brass, all products of his own memory.

“And how long have I… been here?”

“Nearly two weeks. Twelve days. We’re… worried.”

Closing his eyes, Sebastian bowed his head.  “And what must I do to leave?”

Amelle peered over the edge of the dais.  “In theory, all we have to do is walk out that door.  But there is a chance we may encounter… difficulties.”  She paused.  “This means you’re _willing_ to leave?”

He looked away and it sounded as if the words were being pulled from him.  “I… cannot spend the rest of my life, however short, in an illusion.”

“ _Good_ ,” she murmured.  Vengeance had once again taken on Elthina’s appearance, and glided into the nave, looking up at them both, the very picture of kindness and patience.  Amelle sighed.  “Do me a favor and remember that you said that.”

“What do you mean?”

Amelle scowled downward.  “I have a feeling it’s going to soon become very important that you _want to leave._ ”

Sebastian followed Amelle’s gaze downward, his eye falling on the Grand Cleric.  “There is something you aren’t telling me,” he murmured softly, arching an eyebrow.

Amelle barely had time to nod before the thing below them spoke in Elthina’s voice.

“You have decided to leave us, then, child?”

Sebastian glanced at Amelle, then back again.  “The time has come for me to make a decision, Your Grace,” he said, making his way down the stairs, approaching the demon. “I daresay it’s too long past time, in fact.”

“You are quite certain?”

Sebastian nodded.  “It has been… made clear to me that I can do more good beyond these walls than within.”

The demon canted Elthina’s head at Sebastian.  “You plan to rejoin those you left?”

Amelle remained silent, watching Sebastian out of the corner of her eye.  He looked… confused.  Given the time and place, sending a quick prayer up to the Maker didn’t seem like an entirely bad idea.  She only hoped He was listening.

“Aye.”  His answer came cautiously.  Warily.  “It is… the right thing to do.”

“I confess myself surprised that you would return so freely to those who betrayed you.”

“There is forgiveness to be sought,” he replied evenly.  “And given.”

“Forgiveness.”

Something about the tone in which the word was delivered appeared to give Sebastian pause.  “Indeed.”

The demon narrowed its eyes as its tone grew colder.  “You would seek to _forgive_ the ones responsible for so much destruction?  For so much death?  For _my_ death?”

Amelle wasn’t sure whether it was the words or the tone they were delivered in, but _something_ made Sebastian start and _stare_.

“You are not Her Grace.”

The _thing_ began to chuckle again.  “And so the charade draws to a close.  I confess myself disappointed.  I had rather hoped you’d stay on a more permanent basis.”

Here, Amelle stepped forward.  “He wishes to leave with me, demon.  Honor our wager and stand aside.”

The black mist began gathering again as the demon laughed _,_ and Amelle drew her staff, swearing viciously under her breath.  Sebastian followed suit — marginally surprised to find his bow and a quiver of arrows slung on his back at all — and looking even more alarmed at the change in the Grand Cleric.

“She was a demon?” he asked, stepping backward as the demon took shape. “All this time?”

Amelle gave a grim nod.  “Another excellent reason for you not to stay.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me, for starters.  You have to admit, ‘Good afternoon, Sebastian, you’re in the Fade and, oh, by the by, the Grand Cleric is a Vengeance Demon,’ doesn’t exactly have the ring of sanity to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

The thick, shadowy fog enveloped the demon’s borrowed form, stretching upward and growing taller, broader and — Amelle knew — _sharper._

Sebastian turned sharply and stared at her, eyes going wide.  “Did you say _Vengeance_ demon?”

“Indeed.  Lucky you, you nearly had one of your very own.” Amelle looked back at Sebastian, sounding far more confident than she felt.  “Now, listen to me.  We _will_ get out of this.  But you must _trust me._ No matter what you see, no matter what happens, _that,_ ” she pointed at the demon, “is your enemy.  If we don’t defeat it, _neither_ of us are going back.”  Amelle thought suddenly of Fenris, watching over her.  She thought of what would happen — what she’d made him promise to do if she didn’t wake up, or, Maker forbid, she woke up _altered,_ and her determination hardened.

The demon stood menacingly tall over both of them, its armor looking sharper and even more deadly than before.  It spoke, and its voice was laced with whispers of clashing steel:

“You may have won our wager—”

Sebastian _looked_ at her, whispering sharply, “You made a _deal_ with a _demon?”_

“A _bet,_ ” Amelle hissed back.  “A _bet_ is not a _deal._ It is a _bet._ ”

“You thought making a _bet_ with a _demon_ was a _good idea_?”

She rolled her eyes at him.  “Better than leaving you here to die, I should think.  And, you know, a tiny bit of gratitude would _not_ go amiss right about now.”

“—and so you may take this human away from this place.”

“Oh,” said Amelle, feeling suddenly relieved, and not a little surprised, that the demon was in fact going to hold up its end of the wager.  “Oh. Well, that’s—”

“ _After_ you have defeated me in battle.”

Amelle grimaced.  _I should have known better.  I really should have known better._ “Oh, _bugger,_ ” she breathed _._   “Very well.  A battle it is, then.”  

Vengeance chuckled, and the sound of it sent a chill scraping down Amelle’s spine.  “A little mage, a priest-prince, and a _cat_.  Oh, this _will_ be entertaining.”

The cat looked up at her then and she saw a flash of worry in his bright green eyes.  “Amelle…”

Sebastian started and blinked down at the cat.  “It… talks?”

“It’s… he’s a spirit, Sebastian.  A Fade spirit.  He guided me to you.”

He arched a skeptical eyebrow.  “Did you make a wager with this one as well?”

“I assisted Amelle of my own volition,” Compassion replied mildly.  “And I wish to continue to do so.  But I cannot, wearing such an appearance…” the cat looked again at Amelle and back at Sebastian.  “I must warn you.  You will be distressed at the other face I wear.  I promise you, I only wish to help, and can do so much more effectively if I am not hindered by size and shape both.”

“Distressed,” he echoed softly.  There was the slightest shift in his posture, and Amelle would have sworn Sebastian had just braced himself.  “Very well… spirit.  If you are truly offering it freely, I will be grateful for any assistance.”  He shot Amelle a concerned look, but she only nodded encouragingly as the cat’s form vanished in a flash of pristine white light.  When the light faded, Compassion once again resembled Anders.

As the spirit had predicted, Sebastian was… distressed.

Blue eyes widened in equal parts shock and betrayal, and he took a step back, rounding on Amelle.  “Blessed Andraste, what is the meaning of _this?_ ”

“ _He_ is no more Anders than _that,_ ”she said, jabbing a thumb at the Vengeance demon,“was Elthina.  It’s _the Fade,_ Sebastian. If you want, we can argue metaphysics later. Right now, we have _actual_ monsters to fight.”

The demon threw back its head and laughed, a horrible noise that made Amelle want nothing more than to clap her hands over her ears.  With that laugh, the ground shook, and from between the stones in the floor, rage demons bubbled brightly forth, roaring and lumbering toward them.

A shield shimmered into place around Sebastian as Amelle rushed forward, Kiara’s voice loud in her head: _You won’t make any progress if you don’t get in there.  Let Sebastian cover you; it’s what he_ does.And, sure enough, arrows whizzed by her, landing one after another in the rage demons as Amelle swung her staff, sending jolts of lightning and cold at the demons.  They lurched back, away from the ice and frost, only to find themselves peppered with arrows.  Amelle kept her spells coming, firing them off as fast as she could, flinging waves of intense cold from her hands as the staff shuddered with lightning and fire at turns.  Compassion kept shields in place as the floor glowed with paralyzing glyphs.

Yes, it was _much_ easier to fight a rage demon with _help_.

The last fiery creature screamed a death cry as its molten heat finally guttered out and Amelle whirled around, looking again for Vengeance.  It had moved to the far east corner of the chantry, and Amelle bolted forward, gathering her mana as she ran, calling up enough energy to send fire raining down from above.  She stopped suddenly, flinging her hands up as energy flowed through her.  The spell made her fingertips _burn_ , but when flames fell from above, hitting the demon — as well as arrows, finding their mark with the accuracy she’d come to expect from Sebastian — Amelle allowed herself a brief, fierce smile. Then she raised her staff and fired upon the demon, trying not to think too hard about the fact that it hadn’t even _attacked_ yet, and was looking not terribly worried about what she was doing.

Doubt had already begun to creep in _before_ the demon even drew its weapons — a longsword from its back, and the mace at its side — and then, in a blur of sharp edges and steel, Vengeance rushed forward, swinging its blades with force and speed Amelle had yet to experience from any other adversary.  She barely held on to her staff as the blade crashed against it a fraction of a second before another shield shimmered into place, protecting her.  Her staff was, amazingly, still whole, but Amelle could still feel the force of the blow in her arms.

Icy fear sluiced through her as she tried to think, tried to _plan,_ but the demon moved too fast, its moves too calculated, giving her no time at all to formulate any strategy or call forth anything but purely defensive spells.

 _Stop,_ she thought, and again, that voice sounded all too much like Kiara’s.  _Okay, think.  I have Sebastian’s bow at my back and Compassion’s defensive spells protecting me.  Don’t worry about anything but an attack.  Maker help us, I’m the closest thing we’ve got to a vanguard. Maker’s_ blood, _why_ didn’t _I bring Fenris?_

Drawing in a quick breath, Amelle flung her hand forward, white light hovering at her fingertips before streaming out and forming a tall cylinder around the demon, holding it still, pressing in upon it until it twitched.  While it was trapped, however temporarily, she called upon the lightning again, and, like a whip, sent out a long, twisting chain of flashing, crackling energy.  One particularly well-aimed bolt sizzled as it hit the demon’s armor, turning it black.  

The fiend roared and flung its arms out, the air rippling as it did, and in only a second the protective barrier sputtered and faded out.  Amelle cursed under her breath and darted back, slamming her staff into the ground and calling up a bright red glyph, which sent Vengeance stumbling backward, but did not put nearly as much distance between them as she’d wanted.

From behind her she heard Sebastian cry out, “Amelle, out of the way!” She threw herself to the side, narrowly missing the mace as it came swinging down.  But only a sliver of an instant after she moved, Sebastian’s bowstring let out a twang _,_ and the arrow hit hard _,_ lodging itself in the armor and, to Amelle’s unending shock, seeming to have caused the faintest stress fracture.

“More of those, Sebastian!” she yelled over her shoulder as another of Compassion’s shields formed a protective dome around her.  She summoned another wave of lightning, throwing her arms up and her head back and calling it until energy danced wildly all around them, jagged white bolts snapping down from the sky.

For some reason, the lightning she cast seemed drawn to the demon.She gritted her teeth, hard, and summoned another long, twisting chain of energy, aiming it at the blemish Sebastian had caused.  The bolt struck true, and for the barest moment the demon glowed with crackling, flashing light.

“Amelle!  _Move!_ ”  

She did.  Another of Sebastian’s arrows whistled past, landing almost exactly in the spot he’d weakened before.  She tried to summon another storm, but the spell wouldn’t come.  Instead, she slammed the staff down, calling forth a wavering green light that settled directly in front of the demon, freezing it in place the moment it crossed the barrier.

“Hit it with everything you can!” she hollered back, conjuring the hottest, brightest fireball she could; it glowed almost white with heat before she threw it forward.  As the immobile demon roared, Amelle whipped her staff around with a flourish and surrounded the demon with a thick wall of ice and frost, even as the armor glowed and smoked with the heat.

There was another crack.

Then the demon burst out of its prison and came at her in a blur of armor and sharp edges.  She raised her staff to block the longsword, but the mace caught her in the stomach and she cried out, stumbling back — Fade battle or not, it still _hurt._

She heard Sebastian yell again and three arrows arced out above her head, landing solidly in the fractured armor with force enough that the demon took an unsteady step back, then another, giving Amelle time and space enough to get to her feet and ready another spell.

Compassion called upon another paralysis glyph, freezing the demon in place, giving Amelle the opportunity she’d been waiting for.  She called on her mana, letting the energy and power rush and pound through her before raising her hands and focusing that energy above until lightning shot down from the sky.  Again, the bolts seemed strangely attracted to the demon’s armor.  As the storm raged, as Sebastian’s arrows made the air sing, Amelle sent waves of the hottest flame and the coldest ice she could muster.

Casting spells repeatedly the very moment her body had recovered from the initial spellcasting it in the first place drained her mana, and strained her concentration. Weariness pulled at her.  She set her jaw and flung a final bolt of lightning, hitting the largest crack in the demon’s armor the very moment one of Sebastian’s arrows hit home.

She leaned on her staff, breathing hard, willing her body to recover, to do _something,_ butshe didn’t even have the energy to muster a tiny rejuvenation spell.

As it happened, she didn’t have to.  

The glyph faded away, and the demon began to scream; the sound seemed to travel into the very foundation below their feet.  Everything shook with the noise, until dirt and pebbles began raining down from above.

“Quick!” Amelle cried.  “The door!”

Not only did the stones shake with the noise, but Vengeance shook as well, trembling more and more violently as deeper, more jagged cracks ate away at its armor.  One piece broke off, then another, and another.  This revelation only made the demon scream louder, longer, and the sound was agony, but Amelle couldn’t turn away, couldn’t _not_ watch.

As the cracks and fractures juddered through the demon’s armor — and the demon itself — pieces began to fall.  Small ones at first, and then larger ones, until the enraged roar grew louder and louder and _louder_ , shaking the creature from the inside out.

Shards of armor burst outward in a sudden, glittering, starburst of metal, tiny, sharp pieces flying outward.  Pieces that could still cut, still maim.

Sebastian’s voice bellowed out from behind her.  “Amelle!  _Run!_ ”

But before they could move _,_ Compassion stepped forward and lifted one hand, closing its eyes.  Shining shards of metal froze in midair, and with a gentle pulse, almost like a heartbeat, the pieces disintegrated into fine, sparkling sand, falling harmlessly to the stone floor.

“It is done,” the spirit said, turning to them both.  “Vengeance is defeated. You may now return safely to your own realm.”

“No,” said a child’s voice behind them, sweet and sad. “Wait. You promised. Don’t you remember? You’re not going anywhere. You _promised_.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Wait!”

At the sound of the plaintive voice, Sebastian froze. No, he didn’t just freeze. He was _frozen_. His chest began to ache with the strange, persistent throbbing he now recognized as the vestiges of the wound he bore in the waking world. _This is the Fade. This is the Fade. Compassion said we were free to return to our realm. I cannot be held here against my will. I need only wake._ He wanted to raise his hand to rub at the spot, to make certain he was not bleeding here as he’d bled there, but he could not. He could not swallow. He could not blink. He could not move at all.

“ _Wait_ ,” the little voice repeated, softer, more insistent, just to the left of Sebastian, but behind him. The single word, the single syllable, curled around him, coiling tighter and tighter, squeezing the resistance out of him. He couldn’t turn his head, but he didn’t need to. He knew whose voice it was. He knew what the owner of the voice wanted.

_And you’ll stay with me. You’ll stay with me the whole time._

_I’m not going anywhere._

Amelle was already at the door, and had pulled it open just enough for a beam of bright light to spill across the floor, making the interior of the chantry seem even dimmer by comparison. When the voice rang out, however, she released the handle.

 _No_ , Sebastian thought, as grief tugged at him, as hopelessness dragged him down with grasping, cold fingers. He could feel himself crumbling under the weight, giving up. Dying. _No. Amelle, no._

But he couldn’t find a way to give voice to the cry, and the door slammed shut again, leaving them to candlelight and stones still trembling with the aftereffects of the battle with Vengeance. The abrupt shift back to darkness made Sebastian’s throat tight, and when he tried to inhale, his breath caught on an unvoiced sob.

Amelle turned, taking a few steps away from the door and back toward him— _them_ —and all the while Sebastian wanted to plead with her, wanted to tell her to go, to leave him behind, to forget him, but he couldn’t. The word _wait_ ran circles in his head, echoing and redoubling on itself, trapping him in a cacophony of unkept promises. 

Her dark brows furrowed as she looked past him, and the expression on her face was unmistakably pity, tinged with sorrow.

 _Not sorrow_ , Sebastian wanted to warn her. _Anything but sorrow._

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian could see Compassion, and the spirit looked near as frozen as he. The spirit yet wore Anders’ face—Anders’ face and _not_ —but wearier, more drawn, more haggard.

Not unlike the Anders Sebastian had known in Kirkwall. Anders beaten. Anders desperate. Anders despairing.

By the turn of the spirit’s countenance, Sebastian knew it, too, was looking upon the little boy, but unlike Amelle’s pity, Compassion’s expression was one of confusion and pain.

And still Sebastian felt himself held immobile, snared by the word _wait_. A moment later, he felt a tug upon his mail coat. This, at last, freed him enough to look down. The orphan boy looked even more pitiful than he’d done the last time Sebastian had seen him, in the garden— _Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey_ —ragged and filthy, face a mess of tears and snot.

“You promised,” the child whispered, releasing Sebastian’s clothing and slipping his cold fingers into Sebastian’s numb ones. His breath caught at the touch, and though every fiber of his being longed to recoil, he could not. The child gripped tighter. “You _promised_ me.”

 _I know_ , Sebastian thought.

“Sebastian?” Amelle whispered without looking at him, her eyes locked on the child’s slight, disheveled figure. He _wished_ she might look at him, might see in his face the warning he could not speak aloud. “What—what’s going on?”

The little boy turned his devastating gaze on Amelle, and tears spilled over his cheeks. Even now that Sebastian knew the boy had lied—had deceived him with images of Kiara Hawke’s death—he couldn’t help the pang the tears pulled from him. Amelle sank to her knees before the child, her own eyes wide.

“I’m lost,” the child said.

Amelle pressed a hand to her heart and Sebastian heard the sharp inhale of her breath.

 _She knows,_ he told himself. _Of course she knows. She_ has _to know. Don’t listen, Amelle._

But when Sebastian glanced at Compassion, he nearly gasped himself. The spirit was thinner, wanner, very nearly translucent in the dim chantry light. Streaks of silver threaded the fair hair, and hazel eyes were rheumy and clouded. Compassion’s edges seemed almost frayed, as if losing grip on the form altogether.

Around them the walls still shook, and every now and again a piece of masonry crumbled from the ceiling or the wall, thudding to the ground, the sound a horrifying reminder of what Anders had done. Perhaps it wasn’t a single blast of red light, but it was a destruction all the same, and Sebastian’s eyes prickled with tears he couldn’t shed.

“I’m lost. I can’t find my way.”

Amelle nodded. “We can help you,” she said softly, settling her staff on the floor beside her.

_No, we cannot. Don’t listen to him._

Hands open and palms up, Amelle continued, “I know it’s frightening, but you’re only dreaming. All you have to do is wake up, and you’ll be safe and sound, snug in your bed.”

Even Sebastian could hear the waver in Amelle’s tone, however, and it occurred to him to wonder just how safe a place Kirkwall _was_ these days. The thought brought him pain. The pain brought further tightening of the coils of despair. His heart was beating too fast, and every pulse increased the ache in his breast.

“Everybody leaves me,” the boy replied, and though he did not once slacken his grip on Sebastian’s fingers, he raised his other little hand and held it toward Amelle. “You’ll leave, too.”

Tilting her head, Amelle extended her hand. At the last moment, caught by something— _please, Amelle, please look at me, please look at Compassion,_ please—she curled her fingers in toward her palm and dropped the loose fist back to her lap. A brief spasm of frustration twisted the child’s features, but his small fingers remained outstretched.

“Your… there’s something about your voice. Where are you from?” Amelle asked, a hint of something more than just the usual query in her tone. “Where’s your family?”

“No family,” the boy whispered. “No home. Only this.”

_No._

“No,” Sebastian managed to croak. It was a terrible, broken sound, hardly recognizable as a word at all, but it was enough to make Amelle look up at him.

“No!” cried the orphan child. “ _I’m lost!_ You _promised!_ ”

This time Amelle’s hands didn’t reach for the child or flutter to press at her breast, they covered her mouth, capturing her gasp. “Oh, Sebastian,” she whispered, the words muffled by her fingers. Her green eyes swam with tears, and when she blinked up at him, fresh tracks dampened her cheeks. “Oh, Maker, he’s y—”

“Go,” Sebastian said. It was hardly more articulate than the _no_ had been, but Amelle only shook her head.

“Everything’s broken,” the little boy said, the delight in his tone terribly at odds with the features still painted with grief. “You have to come with me.”

He tugged on Sebastian’s hand, hard, and Sebastian felt himself _wanting_ to follow.

Wanting to give up.

_Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey._

Amelle bowed her head. An instant later her hand shot out, wrapping tightly around her staff. “Begone, demon,” she said, all quaver gone from her voice. “You are not welcome here. And you saw what happened to the last of your kind.”

“ _Vengeance_ ,” the child scoffed. His voice still held the faint trace of Starkhaven, but mingled now with a strange, inhuman echo like several voices speaking at the same time. Several unpleasant voices. “Bluster and arrogance in a fragile shell. No. He is mine. You will be, too.”

Here, Compassion made a sound that—had he still been in his cat form—would certainly have been a hiss. It sounded as unwillingly torn from him as Sebastian’s own _no_ had done. Sebastian lifted his eyes, and Amelle turned her head. Even the demon child wearing his tearstained face granted the other spirit a moment of attention.

“Weakness,” the child said, in the terrible voice that was no longer very much like a child’s at all. “Giving. I can always take more, you know. I can always take and take and make you feel you’re still not giving enough.” The boy tilted his head and smiled sweetly, even through his tears. “What will you do, mage? Burn me? Freeze me? Take me and you’ll take him, too. He’s _mine._ ”

The cold little hand pulled again, and Sebastian moved half a step backward. Torn between horror at the demon-child’s words and relief that he could once again move, he almost missed the resolve hardening Amelle’s eyes and setting her chin. _No_ , he thought again, more desperately. He _knew_ that look. It was the one Kiara Hawke had worn the moment before she accepted the Arishok’s challenge. It was the one she’d worn when she turned so sharply and snapped, “Do not interfere, Sebastian.”

He didn’t feel rage, now, when he remembered it. He felt only fear—fear and sorrow and the certainty he’d fail Hawke here as he’d failed her in life, only this time he’d not be the only one to pay the price. Amelle, with her determination and her kindness and her blighted _compassion_ , would fall with him, and in the waking world, Hawke would _mourn_ her.

“No,” he said aloud, as clear and strident as his earlier attempts at speech had been the opposite.

“You promised,” the child reminded him. “You _promised_ me.”

Sebastian inhaled deeply, slowly. He felt Amelle’s eyes on him, and wondered what she was thinking. “I’ve broken promises before.”

The demon’s lips twitched into a smirk. “And I know the grief those broken promises have caused you. I see the open wounds, still oozing despair, still poisoning you, binding us ever closer.”

For a moment, Sebastian believed the demon. He believed with his whole heart. And then he remembered. He remembered the body on the bier— _Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey_ —and he knew the vision for what it was. A trap. A ploy. “You lied to me,” Sebastian said, trying to pull away from the child. The demon still clasped his hand tightly, but Sebastian didn’t miss the way the child’s blue eyes widened, or the flash of annoyance in their depths. “You lied to me,” he repeated, “and you’re lying now.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed, and the blue drained away almost entirely, leaving them a strange, milky hue. “Perhaps it was an… exaggeration, but she’s just as dead to you.” 

“No,” Amelle insisted. “That _is_ a lie. Hurt or frustrated or… or _angry_ isn’t the same as dead.”

“You lied to me,” Sebastian repeated a third time, not once taking his gaze from the demon-child’s. “And I do not owe you _anything._ You cannot hold me here against my will.”

The demon howled, and Sebastian waited for the change. He waited for the child to twist and shudder and become a dark creature like Vengeance. He thought about how many arrows were left in his quiver, and then wondered if quivers in the Fade merely filled themselves again once they were empty. But the child did not change, and the only sound was another vast chunk of masonry falling loose from the ceiling. This one crashed into the huge statue of Andraste with the wretched, shrieking cry of stone tearing through metal.

Sebastian pulled his hand away. It still felt cold—cold to the bone; cold as death; like it would never be warm again—but at least it was _his_ once more.

The child began, once again, to weep. They weren’t just _tears._ It was grief unlike anything Sebastian had ever heard. Broken images from his own childhood flooded through his mind, bathing him in remembered sorrow. The night his mother miscarried his baby sister. His father, turning away from him in disgust and disappointment again and again and _again._ The subtle torment of his elder brothers. Things taken and broken and stolen and lost. _Do not interfere, Sebastian._

“No,” he said. “No.”

And he turned toward the door, remembering that single beam of light, that narrow path to freedom.

It wasn’t like the fight with Vengeance. It wasn’t like the battle they’d waged with Allure under the Harimann estate. It was even _more_ personal. Even more painful.

He paused, wanting to take another step, wanting to move forward. Wanting. Not quite able.

And then a small cat darted into his path, though it wasn’t quite as solid as it had been, and though it looked more grey than orange now, the jewel-bright eyes were the same, and when it opened its mouth and uttered a plaintive little mew, Sebastian found he could take another step. He heard Amelle beside him, the swish of her robes almost lost under the incessant cries of grief behind him. The cat dashed ahead, waited, meowed, and Sebastian followed.

 _No,_ he thought, pushing the old pain away, banishing the old sorrows. One step at a time. _No. No. No._

He was startled when Amelle reached out and gripped his hand tightly. The warmth of her skin chased away the residual chill the child-demon’s fingers had left behind, and he felt yet another coil of the demon’s hold loosen and fall away. Perhaps not all of it could be banished—the grief was _his_ , after all, and it was _real_.

But it didn’t have to hold him.

It didn’t have to kill him.

“Don’t look back,” he whispered.

“You don’t look back, either,” she said. “We’re getting out of this together.”

“Aye. Together.”

He did look back, though, just for an instant, when they’d almost reached the base of the steps—the spot where once a chanter’s board had stood. The Kirkwall Chantry rose towering into the purple sky, gleaming in the sunlight the way it never again would in the waking world. He spared a moment’s thought—a moment’s prayer—for those who’d died with the building, and another for those who’d been wronged by it.

And then he let it go.

The little cat sat at the top of the stairs, swishing its tail in the bright sunlight.

Amelle still held tight to his hand.

Then she turned, facing him, and gave it a hearty squeeze. Faint lines of worry still creased her brow. “Okay,” she said. “Are you ready to wake up?”

“Aye,” he said, and meant it.

Reaching up, she laid her other hand over his heart, and as the hot-cold thrum of magic filled him, he woke.

### 

Amelle’s eyes flew open as she sucked in a sudden breath.  She lay still a moment, taking in her surroundings — a darkened room, shadows dancing chaotically across a cracked ceiling as flames licked hungrily at logs in the roaring fireplace, and beneath it all, an earthy, spicy scent.  Everything was warm, cast in a golden glow, and for a fleeting moment she wasn’t sure if she had woken, but she was _warm,_ and Amelle could feel the chill of the Fade, the bone-deep _cold_ she’d felt sinking through her in the despair demon’s presence.  It was gone, and she was awake.  And warm.  Part of that warmth, she realized dimly, came from the woolen blanket covering her, scratching gently against her cheek as she turned her head.  She didn’t recognize the blanket, didn’t remember covering herself with it, but was grateful for it all the same.

She  blinked again, slowly; Amelle was at home, in her— no, not _her_ home, but Fenris’.  She remembered that now, but it was of little consequence.  What truly mattered was that she’d made it out of the Fade, that she’d _succeeded._.  Kirkwall was dark beyond the cracked window — it was still nighttime, then, or near morning.  The sky hadn’t been quite so black before, but rather a dusky purple-grey.  Now, though, she had no idea what time it could possibly be and she had to give her head a shake to rid it of the lingering cobwebs and disorientation.

 With a slightly shaky breath of relief, Amelle sat up, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders.  She held her head in her strangely unaffected hands — after such a battle, she _ought_ to have felt the residual tingle of fire, ice, and lightning along her fingertips, but there was nothing — slowly massaging her temples.

Fenris’ voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of the hearth, somewhere to her right.  “Amelle.”

For a moment it was nice to simply _hear_ his voice, the gentle crackling of the fire beneath it, all without the vast echo that imbued all sounds in the Fade. The colors, the noises, the battle — oh, Maker, the _battle_ — had left her head pounding.  She wanted to sleep for a _week_ ,which was pretty ironic, all things considered.

“Present and accounted for,” she mumbled.  “Dare I ask how long I was out?”  

“Several hours.  It is late, but not yet midnight.  Did you accomplish what you wished to?”

“I think I did.  I _hope_ I did _._ ”  She looked up to see Fenris standing not three feet from the bedside.  “Several hours?”  She gave him an apologetic grimace.  “Don’t tell me you were standing there the whole while.”

His lips twitched in something like a smile, but it passed too quickly for Amelle to be sure.  “I did sit, on occasion.  I believe I even have walked from one end of the room to the other.”

“As long as you weren’t bored.”

“I am accustomed to being alone with my thoughts.”

She smiled a little at that.  “Yes, I suppose you are.”  Then, stretching her limbs, she pushed herself up and off the bed.  “I suppose we ought to go see if my endeavor worked, hmm?”

There was a heavy pause before Fenris spoke again. “There is one matter we must attend to, first.”

Amelle laced her fingers together and stretched her arms high above her head, arching her back.  “And what’s that?”

“There is a task you charged me with.  Do you not recall it?”

The lingering fog that clung stubbornly to the corners of Amelle’s mind dissipated in a rush.  “Oh, right,” she said, letting her arms fall and swing by her sides.  “Fair enough.”  She cleared her throat.  “Fenris, I, Amelle Arista Hawke, am not possessed, nor am I an abomination, and I give you my solemn word that I most certainly did _not_ enter into any pacts with any demons while I was in the Fade.”  She grinned.  “Now, let’s go check on Sebastian, shall we?”

But Fenris didn’t say anything.  He only pulled his sword free from its sheath, twisting the pommel resolutely in his hands.  Amelle blinked at the long blade; for a moment it seemed even bigger than she was, and far sharper than she remembered.

“Um, Fenris?’ Amelle said, pausing to clear her throat.  “You did hear me say I’m _not_ an abomination, right?  Which is…” she stopped, never taking her eyes off the blade, and let out a groan, “which is probably _exactly_ what I’d say if I _were_ one.  _Blast_ it.”  She tipped her head back and addressed the ceiling.  “Maker’s _breath_ , I should have seen this coming.”

“Words are well and good, Amelle, but you must provide me proof you have not been… compromised.”  Fenris’ tone was heavy, and each word felt like a lead weight hung around her neck.  Proof?  _Proof?_   What proof could she possibly ever hope to offer him?  Amelle put her hands up in a placating gesture and took a cautious step back, just to place a bit more distance between herself and that blighted sword.

“Okay, now, Fenris,” said Amelle, casting about the room for inspiration and finding none, “let’s not be hasty.  Kiara will be _incredibly_ put out if you behead me without her say so.  Why don’t we just discuss this a moment like civilized people?  You want proof?  I can… I can probably give you proof.  Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”

“I… cannot tell you what will satisfy me, Amelle,” replied Fenris, with a slow shake of his head.

“Oh, well that’s just asinine,” riposted Amelle with a flash of impatience.  “You want proof, but won’t tell me what proof will satisfy you?  Andraste’s tits, don’t you think that’s a bit unreasonable?”

Fenris took a step closer.  It really was a large sword.  Amelle had never had cause to examine it so closely.  “I am doing what you asked,” he said, his tone resolute.

“No,” she replied, sidestepping the blade and picking up the staff she’d abandoned.  “No, no, this is absolutely _not_ the same thing as what I asked you to do.  I am reasonably certain I’d remember having asked you to do anything like this.  I _said_ , if I come back talking crazy—”

“Demons are canny creatures, Amelle.” Each word sounded as if it were being torn from him  “Surely you know that.”  

Amelle sighed — that was all too true.  Painfully true.  _But still._   “Okay, well,” she began brightly.  “How about I just keep trying, and maybe if I’m very lucky I’ll trip over something that passes for acceptable proof?”  She wondered if Fenris heard the sarcasm in her voice.  She wondered also if said sarcasm could be heard over the tremble of fear she was beginning to feel, deep in her gut.  

Fenris only nodded, inviting her to continue.

“Okay,” began Amelle, gripping her staff tightly in one hand, taking slow, measured steps backward, away from Fenris — it did no good, he only came closer — as she wracked her brain for what in the Maker’s name could pass for proof that she _wasn’t possessed by a demon._

Amelle decided, fairly swiftly, that such a task had no business being this hard.

“Okay,” she said again, speaking quickly and trying to think even faster than that.  “I remember the night we first met — you called me a viper.  And, I mean, _really,_ Fenris?  A viper?  Really?  And— and the chest you sent us after — well, _you_ , through your proxy — was empty.  And you weren’t very happy about that, I remember.  Not surprised, but not happy.  I remember that.  And do you remember the time—”

But Fenris cut her off with a jerk of his head.  “A demon would have access to your memories.”

Amelle flung up the hand not holding her staff.  “Oh, _Maker’s asscrack,_ Fenris!  I’m running out of options!  Throw me a bone, here!”

“You must think of something, Amelle.”  He raised the sword.  “I beg you, do so quickly.”

Breathing a particularly foul curse under her breath, Amelle turned on the ball of her foot and sprinted from the room, yelling back over her shoulder, “Kind of hard to think when you’ve got that blighted bloody thing out, you know!”  She drew in a breath, feeling her mana shift inside, and on her exhale, a shield shimmered into place around her; Amelle wasn’t sure how long it would hold Fenris back, but something was _always_ better than nothing.  If it bought her time to think, that would be enough.

Sweet Andraste, she hoped it would be enough.

“Okay, all right — I’ll tell you what happened in the Fade,” she called over her shoulder.  “How about that?  It was like I thought — Sebastian _was_ trapped there.  And there _were_ demons, and we _beat them,_ Fenris.  We fought, and we beat them.  _No_ demon-pacts were entered.”

The whistling _swish_ of the greatsword behind her — close, too; she could feel the breeze through her shield — was enough to tell Amelle her words hadn’t been enough.  Again, she swore, hurrying down the stairs, taking the bottom three at a jump.  She hit the floor hard; her thin leather slippers provided no cushion against the hard floor, and Amelle’s ankles ached with the shock.  Fenris’ sword came down, hitting the outer edge of her barrier with a muffled, twanging noise — more than enough to send Amelle running again.  Gripping the banister, she spun around the corner, nearly tripping over a desiccated corpse in the process, Amelle shrieked and though she missed the corpse, stumbled and fell hard to her knees, the staff clattering to the floor and rolling out of reach.

Amelle flung herself onto her back and put up her hands, calling forth another shield in time to see Fenris standing — looming — over her, his sword raised.  

 _Breathe, rabbit,_ she told herself as she struggled to obey.  _Breathe and think._ Think, _damn it!_  

“Okay, all right, let’s be civilized about this,” she began, keeping one hand up to control the shield while she pushed herself up on her other elbow.  “Did I say that already?  I think I said that already.  Doesn’t matter.  Okay, so. Proof.  Proof I’m not possessed.  Right.  I can do that.  I’m _sure_ I can do that.”

“So you’ve said.  At length,” replied Fenris, dryly.  But for how wry his tone was, the elf’s features — his eyes in particular — reflected… something that looked a great deal to Amelle like _worry._

Gradually, Amelle pushed herself to her feet.  A wild thought occurred to her, sure to be filed under So Crazy It Just Might Work, provided it _did_ work and didn’t end horribly.  She _really_ wasn’t in the mood for this to end horribly.

“Right,” she said, unable to hold back a nervous, frantic little giggle.  “So I did.”

“Very well.”  The sword moved — _not_ back into Fenris’ scabbard, but rather higher and closer: precisely at the same height as Amelle’s throat.

 _It’s now or never._   And, with another breath, Amelle let her shield shimmer away.  She lowered her hands and lifted her chin, meeting Fenris’ gaze steadily.  Maker, she _hoped_ she was meeting his gaze steadily.  “This is my proof,” she said evenly.  “This.”  

Fenris said nothing; he only lifted his dark brows at her, a tacit invitation to elaborate.  

Very, very carefully, Amelle took a step forward, until the very tip of Fenris’ blade rested lightly — so _very_ lightly — against her skin.  She held her palms out in surrender, never taking her eyes from his.  Amelle was satisfied, to say nothing of _grateful,_ to notice that while her own breathing remained slow and steady, Fenris’ hitched slightly.  His eyes widened a fraction.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice so low she fancied it could have been lost in the mansion’s shadows.

“My proof,” she answered, privately shocked at the quiet resolve in her voice.  “I’m not going to defend myself against you, Fenris.  Not now, not ever.”  Amelle lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug.  “My proof is my trust.  It’s all I can give you that a demon wouldn’t.”

### 

Now that she knew what she was doing, feeding Sebastian his broth was an oddly soothing task. She almost found herself looking forward to the hypnotic rhythm of it. Still, it was only broth, and he wasn’t a small man, and each time she sat on his bed with his head in her lap, she noticed the subtle—and not so subtle—differences brought about by his long illness. She found herself staring, unblinking, at the curve of his cheek, wondering if the cheekbone was even more prominent than it had been just that morning. It seemed impossible, and yet. And yet. She couldn’t ignore the way his body took up less space beneath the blanket, or the way, even closed, his eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. She couldn’t ignore the pallor of his skin beneath the remnant of his tan.

She couldn’t ignore that he was dying. Every drop of liquid she forced down his throat felt like standing before a horde of enemies with only her bare fists as defense. It wasn’t enough, and she knew it.

But _knowing_ and _accepting_ were two vastly different things. Even now, with the bowl of broth empty, and Sebastian’s head inert on her lap, she wasn’t willing to concede defeat. “I know you’re tired,” she said softly, setting the bowl aside but not yet rising. “Amelle is trying. She’s trying really hard. Give her a little more time, okay? Just… give her a little more time.”

Leaning back, Kiara rested against the headboard and turned her neck, to look out the window. Amelle had left the curtains open, but the sky was dark now, and outside the little circle of light cast by the candle on the nightstand, the room was shadowy. “I should light some more candles,” she said. “Not that it’s a trial sitting here alone in the dark with you, Sebastian Vael, but—”

And then he… made a sound. It was soft, hardly more than a breath, and so faint she almost thought she’d imagined it. Indeed, if the sound hadn’t been accompanied by _movement_ , she might have believed she had. But his eyelids definitely twitched. His lips _definitely_ parted. His head moved ever so slightly; she felt the shift against her legs.

Kiara froze. Putting out both hands reflexively, she braced herself against the bed and held perfectly, completely, _utterly_ still. Or at least as still as her pounding heart would allow. _You imagined it_ , she told herself firmly. _You’re so desperate for some sign,_ any _sign—_

And then his eyelashes fluttered, and she found herself looking down into Sebastian’s ever-so-blue eyes. His body might be thinner, his hair unkempt, and his cheeks hidden beneath a very unfamiliar beard, but the eyes were the same. Unfocused and bleary and bloodshot as they were, they were _Sebastian’s eyes_ , and they were _open_ , and he wasn’t dead.

And Maker’s _balls_ , she had to get Amelle. Her lips were parted to shout when she realized perhaps screaming into the ear of a man who’d been asleep for nearly two weeks probably wasn’t the intelligent choice.

He blinked—blinked, but his eyes _did_ open again; she wasn’t imagining things—and this time she saw the hint of recognition flicker across his face. The recognition became a grimace, however, as he inhaled deeply and something pained him. His lips parted again, and his brow furrowed when—she suspected—he tried to find words and could not.

“I’ll get Amelle,” Kiara whispered. She feared the words sounded a great deal more strained than reassuring. As gently as she could, she extricated herself from her position on the bed. He gasped when she settled his head on the pillow, and again she hesitated. Hands hovering, torn between running for Amelle and making sure he wasn’t going to bleed out before her sister could return, Kiara gently drew back the blanket. The bandage was crisp and white, just as Amelle had left it. Satisfied, at least for the moment, Kiara pulled the blanket up again, covering Sebastian’s chest. His eyes followed her. Heart still racing, she met his gaze. “I’ll get Amelle,” she repeated, trying to sound reassuring. The quaver in her voice undermined the intent, somewhat. “Please… just try to be still until she comes.”

He blinked, and tipped his chin into the tiniest nod she’d ever seen. It was a nod, though. She felt certain of that.

She was also certain of the panic and the pain. He’d have hidden them if he could, she knew him well enough to know _that_ , and because they _weren’t_ hidden, she knew he was suffering. Touching her fingertips swiftly, lightly to the back of his hand, she whirled and fled toward the door. The candle flickered with the breeze of her passing, but remained lit, and when she allowed herself a brief look over her shoulder, she could see Sebastian in the tiny pool of light, eyes still open, staring back at her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she ran for Amelle’s room. She didn’t bother knocking; Amelle would be sound asleep, and it was always kinder—and more effective—to wake her sister with a gentle shake in place of a panicked scream or a sudden smash of fist to wood.

However, instead of a dark, tousled head on the pillow, Kiara saw only an empty bed. Untouched. Obviously unslept in. Damp towels lay abandoned near the wardrobe. She didn’t think she was imagining a missing staff from the collection Amelle kept lined up along one wall.

“Shit,” Kiara breathed. “The bloody Blooming Rose. Again. _Shit._ ”

And though she knew Aveline—and Cullen, for that matter—would have her head for it, Kiara had to go get her. She didn’t trust Sebastian’s condition. She didn’t want what could be a narrow window to close forever, not if she—and Amelle—could do something about it.

She didn’t bother going for her bow; there wasn’t time, and she didn’t want to invite trouble by going armed into a city already predisposed to see her as a threat. Instead, she grabbed one of Amelle’s cloaks, sweeping it around her shoulders as she strode from the room and headed for the front door. It was too short, but that hardly mattered.

“Mistress Kiara?” Orana’s sleepy voice came. The girl stood near the door to the kitchen, wrapped in a shawl, blinking blearily. “Is something the matter?”

“Did my sister say where she was going?”

Orana shook her head. “I… I didn’t know she left. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

Curious. Kiara paused, itching to go, but suddenly not quite certain _where_. “Someone didn’t come for her?”

Again Orana shook her head, her face falling as though Amelle’s disappearance was somehow her fault. “Not unless it was after I retired, Mistress. But I… I didn’t _hear_ anyone at the door.”

_Maker’s bloody balls, Amelle._

“Okay,” Kiara said. “No, I’m sure it’s fine. She… she probably went on her own. It’s probably fine. Orana, Sebastian is awake. I wonder if you could… could you go sit with him? Until I return with—”

Orana’s eyes widened. “But, Mistress, you’re not supposed to—”

Kiara shook her head roughly. “I can’t wait for Amelle to show up on her own. I’ll take Cupcake.” She whistled sharply, and a moment later the mabari came bounding in, looking pathetically happy about being included. He butted his huge head against Kiara’s thigh, and in her exhausted state the force was nearly enough to send her staggering. Instead, she reached out and settled her hand on his steady head. “C’mon, Killer. You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

The dog whuffed and licked her hand.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Kiara said. “Please—he’s probably—make sure he stays still. I don’t know what’s going on with that wound, and I don’t want him to move until Amelle looks at it. Give him more broth, maybe. If he’ll take it.”

Orana nodded, and Kiara pushed the door open. The night air was cool and sweet, and she felt almost—almost but not entirely—hopeful as she turned toward the Blooming Rose.

Only to be stopped by her mabari’s sharp bark. She whistled again, but he sat heavily, resolute. “Come on, Cupcake,” she muttered. “We don’t have time for this. We’ve got to go find Amelle.”

He barked again, and rose, but did not follow her. Instead, he took three or four steps in the opposite direction. Kiara grimaced, trying to rein in her instant frustration. “She’s probably at the Blooming Rose,” she explained. The mabari tilted his head and took a few more steps away. “She goes to heal people there.”

If a dog’s expression could be scathing, Killer’s would have been. He gave another little bark before trotting off without a backward glance.

“Do you have her scent or something?” Kiara called after him. The dog turned, tongue lolling in a canine grin. “If you’re leading me on a wild goose chase, I’ll turn you into stew.”

The huffing sound the mabari made as she caught up with him almost sounded like laughter. After a few minutes of walking as fast as they could, Kiara paused, tilting her head. “Fenris? You think she went to get Fenris? I mean, it’s what I’d’ve _asked_ her to do, but taking the initative…?”

They hurried the rest of the way, half-jogging, while Kiara held close the memory of Sebastian’s open eyes. Open eyes had to mean something. It had to mean Amelle’s power was working, or Sebastian’s body was finally healing, or… or _something._ It had to mean something. She only hoped it was something _good_ , and not like the way the very ill could sometimes appear to take a turn for the better just before…

 _No,_ she told herself firmly. _No, it isn’t that. He’s not dying. He’s not. He’s going to be fine. Amelle will make sure he’s fine._

She flung open the door to Fenris’ estate without knocking—there was no point to knocking; he was always holed away up in the rooms he’d taken for himself at the very back of the place and never heard knocks even when she attempted them.

And she stopped, frozen.

Because Amelle and Fenris were in the foyer. The point of Fenris’ blade was resting against her baby sister’s breastbone. Amelle’s hands were raised in surrender. They didn’t so much as turn to look at her. Kiara’s mouth worked, but for all the cursing running circles in her head—and for all she wished she’d brought her blighted bow after all—actual words eluded her.

Killer whined, tilting his head. Then, instead of jumping Fenris, instead of pinning the elf beneath his weight as Kiara _wished_ he would do, the mabari sat.

And, as if she were not there at all, Fenris nodded once, slowly, letting out a deep breath as he lowered his sword, returning it to its sheath.

“I am satisfied.”

 _Satisfied?_ Kiara thought. _Satisfied about what?!_

“What?” Amelle blinked, dropping her hands.  “But… I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“That is the point, Amelle.”  He tilted his head—not unlike the mabari still sitting placidly at Kiara’s side—and the faintest smile played at his mouth.  “You did nothing.  You didn’t even use magic to defend yourself — which, I confess… surprises me.”

Amelle sank to the floor and began to _giggle_.

“Maker’s _blood,_ Fenris,” she managed.

“ _What,_ ” Kiara finally found the words—the voice—to bellow, “ _in the name of all that’s holy is going on here? Satisfied?! Defend yourself? What?_ ”

“Ahh,” Amelle said, finally actually meeting her gaze, and having the good grace to blush ever so slightly. “Um. Not what it looks like.”

“What it looks like is Fenris about to kill my little sister,” Kiara said, glowering at the elf. The look Fenris gave her in return was obnoxiously inscrutable.

“Ahh,” Amelle repeated, pulling herself upright once again and running brisk hands over the wrinkles in her dress. “No. Not quite.” She giggled again, sounding just a shade this side of unhinged. “Maker, nothing like a little Exalted March to get the blood flowing.”

 _This_ at last made Fenris’ stony expression shift, though Amelle didn’t seem to notice the concerned—even hurt, Kiara thought—turn of his countenance.

Exalted March. _Exalted bloody March._

Kiara started to giggle, too. And then Amelle raised her eyes to meet hers, and they both started. Fenris crossed his arms over his chest and settled into a truly magnificent glower. “I fail to see the humor,” he muttered.

Which only made them laugh the harder. Until Amelle stopped just as abruptly as she’d started and said, “Kiri! What—what _are_ you—is it Sebastian? Did something—”

“He woke up,” Kiara said. “Well. He opened his eyes. And then you weren’t _there_. I was going to go to the Rose, but Cupcake wouldn’t let me.”

“Good dog,” Amelle cooed.

“Good sister should have left a _note_ , at the very least,” Kiara said sternly. “Maker’s breath, Mely, what were you _thinking_?”

Amelle winced, and offered her a brief, placating smile. “Scold me later? I should make sure he’s recovering.”

“Oh, there’ll be a later,” Kiara threatened. “And there’ll be scolding. Don’t you worry about that. Especially since I get the feeling you’re telling me exactly as little as you think you can get away with.”

But it didn’t matter, not really. Amelle was safe. Somewhere, Sebastian’s eyes were open.

For the first time in a long time, Kiara almost felt hope.


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn’t a long walk home, but given Kiara’s news, even the shortest distance seemed leagues upon leagues away.  Amelle hurried to keep up with Kiara’s longer-legged strides.  Fenris, who appeared not to be hurrying at all, maintained her sister’s pace with an ease verging on the irritating.  He’d said virtually nothing since the moment he’d dropped his blade, but when they’d moved for the door, he’d fallen in silently. She found herself wanting to… thank him? Something? Acknowledge what he’d done? But she couldn’t find the words, and couldn’t help noticing the way his wary gaze looked everywhere but at her.

Later, she supposed. There’d be time for gratitude later.

Somewhere in between the knowledge that the trip was short and the annoyance that the distance was still too far, Amelle found her thoughts sifting into some sort of order, now that she wasn’t running for her life.

Sebastian was _awake._

 _Maker’s blood, I wasn’t sure it was going to_ work.A risk and a gamble it had been, but one so very worth the effort.  Amelle only hoped Kiara would agree.

“Did he speak at all?” she asked her sister’s back.

“No,” answered Kiara shortly, without so much as turning to acknowledge Amelle’s query. All trace of their earlier shared mirth was gone as if it had never been. Amelle found herself wondering if she’d imagined it. “He seemed in pain. I checked to make sure the bandages were still clean, but he—” She gave her head a brisk shake.  “No, he didn’t say anything.”

Amelle opened her mouth to reply, snapping it shut again as she quickly sidestepped a large chunk of fallen debris — too large to have been moved easily.  Suddenly and fiercely, Kirkwall’s chantry, tall and white and whole again, filled Amelle’s memory, followed hard by images of Sebastian and the demons feeding upon him, upon his vengeance… and upon his despair.  Amelle gave the barest shiver as she thought again of the small boy with the tearstained face, with such an unmistakable — and _familiar_ — lilt to his speech, with bluer-than-blue eyes.

And Sebastian had not seen it, had not recognized the shape his own despair had taken.  Perhaps that was how it had dug its claws so deep in the first place. _I’m lost. Everybody leaves me. You’ll leave, too._

Oh, Sebastian. All the more amazing he’d managed to pull away from the hold upon him and wake, really.  Still, there was no knowing how much damage had already been done. Or how well he would recover from it.

“In pain?” prompted Amelle.  Not surprising.  The wound was still there, after all, and still stubbornly not healing. 

“Yes,” Kiara answered. Each word emerged short and clipped and hardly like Kiara at all.  “He didn’t say anything.  I saw it in his ey—in his expression.”

Narrowing her eyes, Amelle looked harder at her sister.  Kiara had been there when Sebastian woke — of that much she was certain.  And yet… and yet Kiara seemed… well, not _relieved_.  Or, rather, not relieved enough. It was nothing like the woman who’d begged to be useful, or who’d spent the last week carefully dripping broth into an unresponsive body. It certainly wasn’t anything like the sister who’d laughed just ten minutes ago in Fenris’ foyer. Strange.

Kiara flung open the front door and stalked inside. There, by the flickering lamplight, Amelle saw her sister fully.  She took in Kiara’s too-straight spine, her clenched jaw, her hands slowly tightening into fists and releasing, only to clench again.  Her sister looked almost… angry _._

 _Very strange,_ Amelle thought, tipping her head as they all three — four, if you counted Cupcake — walked into the great room, the fire still roaring cheerfully.  Amelle slipped off her cloak and started for the stairs.  She noticed that Kiara hung back, her hand closed tightly on the back of a chair, her other hand hovering uncertainly by the clasp on the cloak she wore.  Fenris, likewise, remained at the foot of the stair.  That, at least, was less surprising. He still wouldn’t look at her, though. 

“I’ll just go on up and see how he’s doing, then,” Amelle said, shouldering her staff and trotting lightly up the stairs.

Before she reached the top step, Kiara’s voice — wretched and strangled and still so strangely angry — called out to her.  “Amelle.”

Amelle paused and looked down the stairwell, brows lifting inquisitively.

“What exactly did you _do_?”

 _Well, we knew_ that _question was coming sooner or later._   Amelle let out a little breath.  “We’ll talk about it later, Kiri.  I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. Are you coming?”

Kiara reached up and ripped at the clasp of her cloak, fumbling with it as gracelessly as Amelle had ever seen her do anything; she heard the fabric tear. “No.”

“Are you—”

“I’m _sure_ ,” she snapped. 

“Kiara—”

For the first time, Kiara raised her face and Amelle was forced to meet her sister’s gaze. And she couldn’t make sense of what she saw. Almost as quickly as it began, it was over. Kiara looked away, pushing her hand roughly through her hair, and said, “I have… I have other things to do. I have other things to take care of.”

Amelle thought the words _like what?_ but held them in her mouth unspoken. Flinging the cloak to the ground, Kiara strode toward the kitchen. Fenris’ eyes followed her, and then, with the briefest of nods in Amelle’s direction, he turned on his heel and walked into the library.

Left abruptly alone, Amelle blinked at Cupcake. The mabari rose and padded to her side. “Maker’s breath,” she whispered. “What was all _that_?”

Tilting his head, Cupcake let out a plaintive whine. Then he bounded up the stairs toward Sebastian’s room, and Amelle followed. Later. She’d make sense of it all later.

#

 

Kiara didn’t know why she was so _angry._

Only that she was. And that she didn’t want to lash out, and she didn’t trust herself not to.

So once she’d abandoned her torn cloak, she stalked through the house, letting herself into the dark garden. Her favorite old tree had been crushed by fallen masonry, and the great broken bulk of it only made her sadder—and angrier. She almost wished for a bow, even though it was far too dark to shoot with any accuracy, and her little practice yard was as destroyed as the tree that had once shaded it.

Instead, she put herself through her paces, fighting invisible foes and twisting through defensive acrobatics until she was sweating and tired and some of the anger had ebbed. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to realize how out of place the anger _was._

Lifting her face to the sky, she wondered if the air actually still smelled of smoke, or if it was only her imagination. Two weeks. Two weeks was long enough. The air should be clear. The ash should be settled. Two weeks.

Two weeks, and she didn’t have the first idea what to do with herself. It was all well and good, fighting imaginary enemies in her back garden, but it wasn’t _purpose._

A pang of something else needled at her, and when she was honest—when she was honest in a way that she could only be when she was tired and sweaty and breathing heavily from exertion—she knew she was jealous. Just a little. Of _Amelle._ She was jealous that Amelle could still walk the streets unmolested, unhated. She was jealous that Amelle could _help._

She was jealous of Amelle’s _purpose._

“Enough,” she growled. “Are you honestly going to begrudge her this? _Enough._ ”

And she couldn’t. Because all tangled up with fear and anger and jealousy was _relief_. And that relief couldn’t have come without Amelle, either. Because she felt entirely certain her sister had done _something_ to make Sebastian wake.

Still, she wanted to know what in the Void had gone on. And how in the Maker’s name Amelle had ended up facing down the pointy end of Fenris’ blade in _Fenris’_ house.

If she knew Fenris—and she did—he’d tell her.

If she knew Fenris—and she did—he’d be waiting for her to ask.

Fenris was in the library, sitting in one of the chairs before the fireplace. Two wine glasses stood on the table, already full. Kiara ignored hers for now, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head, leaning against the far wall. Fenris met her gaze for gaze. She noticed he wasn’t wearing the blade that had just a short time before rested so very lightly against Amelle’s breastbone; it lay abandoned near the door, across the room from where he sat, a subtle peace offering.

“What exactly did she do? You know, don’t you?”

Fenris nodded, as though it was precisely the question he’d been expecting. Perhaps, for all that, it was. She figured it meant _something_ that he’d come along back to the house with them, and that he was still here waiting.

“She had a theory that Sebastian might respond if she could speak with him.”

“ _Speak_ with him? What do you mean, speak with him? He was unconsci—” Realization struck, and Kiara reeled. She felt certain that without the wall holding her up, she might have fallen to the ground in a boneless heap. She placed her hands against the cool stone to brace herself. “She went into the _Fade_? _Alone?_ ”

Again Fenris nodded, though his expression remained guarded and gave her little.  “She is a mage, Hawke.  Does she not make such a trip nightly?”

“It’s not the _same thing_.”  There was a difference — a significant difference, as she understood it — between a mage just going to the Fade for the sheer sake of it and going to the Fade with the intent to interfere or… manipulate it.

Fenris’ expression didn’t budge; if anything, he looked even more inscrutable.  “She asked me to watch over her, and to ensure when she came back she was not compromised.”

“You mean she asked you to make sure she wasn’t a demon in disguise?” Kiara pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until the pain cleared her head. “I suppose that explains the _sword_.”

Fenris inclined his head. “It was… a test, of sorts. We have often seen how a possessed mage turns when pressed. Amelle was… frightened, but she was herself. I am certain of it.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody reassuring?” Kiara snapped, dropping her hands back to her sides and clenching them into fists because what she most wanted to do was _hit something._ Perhaps even Fenris. “I can’t believe—Fenris, you _knew_ what she intended to do and you _let her do it?_ ”

“I did,” he replied evenly.

“You didn’t think it was something I ought to be told?”

“I did,” he repeated, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, still regarding her with solemnity. “Amelle had… concerns.”

“Of course she had concerns! It’s the _Fade_ , Fenris. Don’t tell me you forgot the last visit we took there?”

“I did not. I would have been more troubled if she’d wished me to attend her there, but she only wanted my… protection.”

“The protection you offered by trying to kill her?”

He nodded slightly. “The methods may appear extreme, but it is what she asked of me. And her undertaking was successful. Surely you thank her for that much.”

She exhaled hard through her nose.  “I do.”

He regarded her calmly, intently, for several long moments. “You choose an odd way of showing it, Hawke.”

Kiara inclined her head, stung. He wasn’t wrong, after all. When she thought of the roiling emotions she’d only so barely kept in check the entire walk back from Fenris’, she was… embarrassed. “I was scared,” she admitted, though it pained her to do so. “People do—I—I was scared. Sebastian scared me. She scared me. Maker, you had a blade on her. _You_ scared me.”

Fenris nodded, toying with his wine glass, twisting the delicate stem between his fingers. “Perhaps you can… enlighten me, Hawke. I find I am concerned. I did as Amelle asked, to the best of my ability. In return, she accused me of waging an Exalted March against her.” He frowned, eyes downcast. “As you witnessed.”  She didn’t know if it was his unwillingness to meet her gaze, or the subtle tenor of his voice that betrayed him, but Kiara clearly saw how hurt he was by the implication.

And, just like that, her anger dissipated. Her frustration vanished. Even the uncomfortable jealousy disappeared.

Exalted March. Maker. Only Amelle.

_Nothing like a little Exalted March to get the blood flowing._

Poor Fenris. No _wonder_ he looked so bloody traumatized.

“Oh, Fenris,” Kiara said, beginning to chuckle, which became a laugh, which became something on the border of hysterical. Too many emotions. Fenris half-rose from his seat, but she waved him back down, wrestling the strange mirth into submission. “It’s not what you think.”

“I do not see how it could be otherwise. It was a troubling accusation.”

“No, Fenris. It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. It was a joke.”

Fenris stared, wine glass dangling precariously from his hand. “ _Joke?_ ”

Kiara wiped tears from her eyes and explained, “Only bloody Amelle would make a joke like that after being chased around a creepy, corpse-filled mansion by an elf intent on exorcism by blade. Of _course_ you wouldn’t realize—you weren’t to know, Fenris. It was a game we played as children. Exalted March. We thought it sounded terribly romantic and epic and exciting. I'm afraid we were... rather ignorant of the greater implications. Our parents were _horrified_  when they discovered it.”

When Fenris spoke his voice emerged strangled and half-an-octave higher-pitched than usual. “You played a game... called _Exalted March_?”

“We were bored, creative little monsters, yes. Oh, don't give me that look. Carver and I didn't slaughter her _every_  time. Sometimes she even managed to convince us of the error of our ways. And now she’s managed to convince me I can’t even be _mad_ anymore. Not properly.”

With a sigh, Kiara uncrossed her arms and closed the distance between them, sinking into the chair and raising the glass he’d poured her. The first sip tasted like heaven; the second reminded her not to drink too much too quickly.

“It sings a siren song, does it not?” Fenris said, as though reading her thoughts. “Oblivion. Surcease. Forgetfulness.”

“Too bad about the hangover, though.”

Fenris’ lips pulled into a half-smile. “Yes, too bad about that.”

“Thank you for protecting her.”

Fenris was silent for a moment, contemplating his own glass of wine. “It was a risky plan, but not a foolish one. You must grant her that.”

“I do. I will. Tomorrow, probably. It’s just… I can’t _lose_ her… not after—”

“I understand,” Fenris said.

And Kiara believed him.

#

 

By the time she’d looked in Kiara’s room, the library, even the _wine cellar_ , without finding her sister, Amelle was starting to grow just the faintest bit worried. She peeked into Sebastian’s room, more out of hope than expectation, but he was alone within. Alone and asleep. She resisted the urge to check up on him—sleep was more help than magic sometimes—and backed out of the room as silently as she’d entered it.

As she strode into the kitchen, faint worry had blossomed into full-fledged distress. Kiara wasn’t in the house, and, more worrisome, neither was Cupcake. She didn’t want to consider the trouble they might be up to, especially without telling her they planned to leave. Oh, Aveline’s reports were tentatively more favorable, but Kirkwall was by no means safe. For any of them. But for Kiara—always so blighted _recognizable_ with her hair and her tendency to assume she was able to take care of herself, no matter what—the city was still a battleground.

Orana looked up from her baking, and whatever she saw on Amelle’s face was enough to make her cheeks pale and her eyes widen. “Mistress Amelle—”

“Have you seen my sister?”

Orana’s nod was more a twitch than anything else. “She’s in the back garden, Mistress. I-I tried to bring her some food, but I don’t think she ate it.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Amelle said, grimacing. “And of course she’s there.”

Amelle had… avoided the garden. Assiduously. She’d had excuses enough, certainly: patients at the Rose, Sebastian, _Kiara_ even. But mostly she’d just been avoiding it. Before… before everything, she’d spent countless hours reading under the oak, and even more time puttering in the garden. She’d watched Kiara practice for hours upon hours under the hot sun, and had occasionally deigned to join her.  A scant few times, Kiara had even attempted to teach Amelle to use a bow and arrow — _You can’t always depend on your magic, Mely_ — and the results were often as disastrous as they were amusing.  But now those memories mocked her, and just touching upon them momentarily made something prick and bleed in Amelle’s heart.

It had been a sanctuary, this place. And now it wasn’t.

She heard her sister before she saw her. By the sound of things, Kiara was in some kind of losing battle against a silent opponent. When Amelle moved around the fallen tree (and oh, how that fallen tree pained her; so strange to be so affected by such a thing, when so much worse had befallen them), she found Kiara in her shirtsleeves, wrestling with a piece of fallen masonry. One of the old practice dummies lay pinned beneath it, shattered.

Amelle’s gorge rose a little as she glanced at it. Here a practice dummy, yes, but elsewhere in the city? It was all too real. All too… metaphoric. She shuddered and looked away from it, focusing instead on Cupcake, asleep in a patch of sun, his paws twitching as he ran in his untroubled mabari dreams.

Shaking her head, she blinked to clear her mind of dark thoughts. It took no small amount of effort, but after a moment she was able to unclench her fists, and she was able to swallow without fearing an onslaught of grief. She was even able to raise her eyes to her sister once again.

If Kiara noticed her arrival, she didn’t acknowledge it. She merely grunted and attacked the rock with renewed fervor. Amelle could see the muscles straining in her sister’s slim—too slim; she’d obviously not been eating enough—arms. The stone remained where it was, immovable and mocking.

After watching for a minute—a long, horrifying minute—Amelle gathered her power and attempted to use it to shift the stone, or, at the very least, break it into more manageable pieces.

And Kiara snapped.

Rounding on her with wild fury in her eyes, Kiara howled, “Leave it _alone_!”

Startled, Amelle released the magic, and the rock shifted, crushing the hapless practice dummy once again. Kiara was hardly recognizable in her rage, scraped hands clenched into tight fists and every line of her posture rigid. For a moment—just a moment—Amelle actually thought Kiara might spring for her, might attack her with the same dedication she’d been expending on the stone. But her sister did not come closer, and the anger, bright-burning as it was, was not released on an unwitting target.

“Let me do this,” Kiara continued, jabbing her finger toward Amelle even though she was too far away to make contact. “Maker’s balls, Amelle, _let me have this._ ”

Amelle raised her palms in silent surrender, and something went out of her sister. The fight. The fire. As suddenly as the anger had come, it was gone again, leaving the broken, sweating, too-thin figure of her sister swaying on her feet, gazing at her with bruised, hollow eyes.

“Sorry,” Amelle offered. “I thought you could use the help.”

“I don’t need help. I need occupation.” Glancing over her shoulder, Kiara shot a glower at the masonry. “And say what you will, that blighted thing is _occupying_ me.”

“I… Kiri, can I occupy you with some _lunch,_ maybe? You look…” _Dead on your feet_ didn’t quite have the ring Amelle was looking for, no matter how true, so she settled on, “Hungry. You look hungry. And Orana said you didn’t eat the food she brought.”

“I don’t need coddling. From you or Orana.”

Amelle swallowed her retort. The tray Orana had brought still sat where, doubtless, the elf had left it: under the tree, covered by a pretty, patterned cloth. Crossing to it, Amelle found bread and honey and Kiara’s favorite cheese. Preparing a slice, Amelle held it out for her sister with the same manner she’d have used if she’d been trying to soothe a wounded animal. If she’d been trying to entice a wounded animal to come nearer, for healing. Kiara glared, but after a moment the glare subsided into a sigh, and she took the offering. 

“I’m sorry,” Kiara said softly, once the bread had been dutifully inhaled. “I—just—”

Amelle sent her sister a slantwise glance, but Kiara wasn’t looking to notice it. Instead, she was staring into her empty hands, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed. “I know.”

Amelle saw the protest forming, but it was never spoken. Kiara only closed her mouth again, her lips compressing into a firm line, before she shook her head. “I don’t suppose you’d pass me another slice of that bread?”

Silently, Amelle complied. And then silently, she waited for Kiara to devour three more slices. When her sister had finished the entire platter of bread and cheese, Amelle said softly, “You haven’t spoken with him.”

Amelle felt her sister tense briefly at her side, but whatever emotion Kiara felt was wrestled down just as the protest had been. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“Kiara.”

“I don’t have anything to say _right now_. I’m not… it has to wait. That’s all.” Again Kiara shook her head, though this time the gesture was subtle, almost an afterthought. “I’m just so… angry. Part of me is relieved. Part of me is confused. Mostly I’m angry. And disappointed. And frustrated.”

“So I witnessed.”

The faint twitch of Kiara’s lips upward felt like a victory beyond compare. “That rock had it coming.”

“Doubtless.”

“I didn’t actually think he’d wake up.” Kiara’s words emerged tremulous, a bit surprised, as if she hadn’t expected to speak them when she’d opened her mouth.

“He…” Amelle paused, wondering how much to reveal. How much was her _right_ to reveal. “Kiri, you have every right to be angry with him. I—I of all people—don’t begrudge you that. But he’s not up there plotting against you. I’d stake my life on it.”

Kiara’s eyes met hers, piercing and cool and all too shrewd. “Aren’t you?”

“Kiara…”

But her sister turned away then, and whatever ghost of a smile her lips had held was once more banished. “You said you’d explain.”

“I… yes, I did.”

Kiara kept staring at the patch of earth between her feet, and Amelle watched as her sister’s shoulders rose and fell on a heavy breath. “I don’t even know if I want to know. I keep… turning it over. I’ve almost asked you a dozen times in the past two days. At first I was just… it was a huge risk, Amelle. It was a huge bloody risk. If nothing else, that whole… Feynriel thing taught us that much.”

Closing her eyes, Amelle lifted her face to the sun. The warmth was soothing against her skin. Comforting, almost. “I was careful.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

Because it was sadness in Kiara’s voice and not anger, Amelle turned her head and looked at her. Her sister still sat half-hunched. “I… I wasn’t trying to _hide_ it. I wasn’t trying to go behind your back. It was… it was a ghost of an idea. I honestly had no idea if it would even _work_. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Kiara shuddered and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Mely. If something had happened—”

Amelle inched closer, nudging her sister with her shoulder. “Nothing happened. I’m right here. And I _wanted_ to do it. It was important. And it worked. It… it really _worked._ ”

She felt her sister take a few more deep, steadying breaths. “And you… you think Sebastian’s… you think he’s not going to follow through? With those—”

“He’s not,” Amelle insisted. “Look, Kiara, it’s hard to explain. You know how things are in the Fade. But he’s… the things I saw? I think he’s more angry with himself than he ever was with you.”

“Sometimes I think letting Anders live, letting him leave, was the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made. Maker, sometimes I think Sebastian was _right_ to be so angry—not right about the vows of vengeance, or about my reasoning, but…”

“Anders has to live with what he did. I… I’m not sure that’s a kinder fate than death.”

Kiara gave a low, mirthless chuckle and finally raised her head. “I don’t know if it’s hunger or sun or exertion, but that makes entirely too much sense.”

“I’m getting wise in my old age.”

This, at last, brought a smile back to Kiara’s lips. It wasn’t big, or bright, or anything like Kiara’s usual grins, but it was definitely a smile. “Maker. If _you’re_ getting old…”

“You’re ancient. Clearly.”

Kiara arched an eyebrow. “I’m not too old to beat you in a fight, Amelle Hawke.”

“You could _try_. My fireballs are getting _really_ good, though.”

On a scowl far more amused than genuine, Kiara said, “I _am_ fond of my eyebrows.” A shadow crossed her face, almost too quickly for Amelle to follow. Then she added, “What… what do you think about having everyone here? For… for cards. Fenris suggested it. I… I don’t know, Mely. I need to remember what it was all for. I need to remember something that isn’t _this._ ” She gestured broadly, the sweep of her arm taking in the broken oak, the crushed garden, the foreign pieces of no-longer-white stone.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Amelle replied, even though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed herself.

Nothing was normal. It seemed wrong somehow to pretend things were.

But maybe, just maybe, it was a step in the right direction.


	13. Chapter 13

In the three days since he’d woken, bedridden and remorseful, he’d seen Hawke only that first, brief time, when he’d been too tired—too pained and trapped between worlds—to do anything more than blink at her. Mostly, he slept, and did not remember his dreams. Sometimes strange recollections came back to him in the place between dreaming and waking—fear, and sorrow, and an unbroken Kirkwall; Amelle Hawke, Anders, a demon of Vengeance wearing the Grand Cleric’s face; a child with his own eyes, but sad, impossibly sad—but though they left him unsettled, they were only dreams. When he wasn’t sleeping, he lay staring up at the canopy of his bed, half-formed thoughts and wishes and regrets running circles through his mind. He thought, perhaps, even haunted by abominations and demons as they were, his dreams were the more restful.

When the door opened, Sebastian had no reason to expect anyone save Amelle, or perhaps Orana, though it wasn’t a mealtime. No one else visited. Not that he blamed them.

It wasn’t Amelle. Or Orana. It was Fenris. And Sebastian knew the elf’s expressions well enough to understand this one. Of all Hawke’s companions, Fenris was the only one Sebastian truly considered a friend. The others tolerated him for Hawke’s sake—and Isabela certainly enjoyed _teasing_ him—but it was not friendship. Not truly. Fenris, prickly as he was, at least seemed to occasionally _enjoy_ Sebastian’s company. Or he had. Before. Even the brief tension in his gut made pain sing through his breast, but he forced himself to meet Fenris’ gaze unflinchingly. Pain was replaced by a strange hollowness, and the realization he’d been expecting such a visit.

“I would have left you in that alley to die,” Fenris said without preamble.

Sebastian nodded. “Part of me believes you’d have been right to do so.”

“The part that still intends to do them harm?”

This time the pain had nothing to do with the wound still plaguing him. “Fenris, I would never have—”

“Had anyone asked, I’d have said I thought you the least likely to turn on Hawke,” Fenris interrupted, his tone almost conversational, except for the unmistakable undercurrent of danger running just beneath the surface. The elf stepped over the threshold and closed the door tightly behind himself. He had no key, but he wedged a chair underneath the knob before turning back to Sebastian. The hilt of Fenris’ greatsword peeked over his shoulder, but Sebastian thought the elf could just as easily have come unarmed.

The sword was too distant for what Sebastian had done. The sword was for slavers and spiders and spirits: impersonal death meted out to impersonal enemies.

Sebastian knew how Fenris dealt with those who’d betrayed him. He knew what had happened to Hadriana and Danarius and Gascard duPuis.

What Fenris intended required no sword.

“Does Hawke—do they know you’re here?”

Fenris shot him a scathing glance. “Of course they do not.” He shook his head, his white hair catching the firelight. “Neither of them would wish me to kill you, I think, but in this I will not risk their lives. They are too forgiving. It has served them ill in the past. As you are perfectly aware.”

“I don’t think either has _forgiven_ me.”

“Amelle risked her life to go into the Fade for you. She risks her life to pour so much energy into healing you. You are a traitor. You _left_. When Hawke needed you most, you left.”

“Fenris, please…”

Rage, sharp and furious, flashed in the elf’s green eyes. “Do not. Friendship counts for very little in the face of what you have done. Hawke trusted you. _I_ trusted you.”

“I know.”

Fenris muttered a curse under his breath, stalking from one end of the room to the other. Sebastian didn’t think he was imagining the faint glow emanating from Fenris’ markings. “If you think I shall stand idly by, if you think for a moment I will allow you to attempt to bargain or plead with me—”

“I won’t,” Sebastian said softly. “I understand why you’re here. I cannot and will not claim I would behave any differently, were our positions reversed.”

“ _Venhedis_ , Sebastian! Be silent!”

Sebastian watched as Fenris opened and closed his fists, slowly, finger by finger. For a long time, Fenris made no other motion save this slow opening and closing, all the while staring at the ceiling. Then, so swiftly he hardly had time to react, Fenris was at his bedside, his left hand grasping Sebastian’s uninjured shoulder too tightly, his right glowing as it hovered over his breast. The wound already there ached, as if in sympathy for what was about to happen. 

Still Fenris hesitated. Sebastian forced himself to look up, to meet the elf’s eyes. He willed Fenris to read the truth of his intentions there, willed him to see his regret, to see… to see the truth, no matter what that truth revealed.

If the elf should find his contrition lacking, Sebastian willed Fenris to kill him.

He said nothing, for he knew there were no words equal to the task of proving himself.

“I am satisfied,” said Fenris, releasing him even as the white glow faded. Sebastian fell back against his pillows with a thump and a unintended moan of pain.

When Amelle arrived half an hour later, toting a tea-tray, the chair at the door had been returned to its proper place, Fenris’ sword leaned against the wall, and they were so deep in conversation they almost didn’t see her enter.

“Oh,” she said, clearly startled to see anyone other than her patient in the room. “I’ll, uh, go get another cup, shall I?”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Fenris said, rising to take the tray from her. “I will go myself.”

Amelle blinked at the elf twice before rolling her shoulders in a shrug. With Fenris gone, she settled down to work, clucking over his wound as she did every time she pulled back a poultice to find it not behaving the way she would have wished it to behave. “It’s, um… nice to have visitors, isn’t it? For a change?”

Sebastian winced as her gentle fingers found a particularly tender spot. A moment later, he felt the thrum of her healing magic infuse the spot, bringing a surcease of pain along with its hotcold tingle. “Indeed.”

“He didn’t try to… well. It’s Fenris, you know.”

“He didn’t,” replied Sebastian, his voice not quite wavering on the not quite falsehood. “He was—is—justifiably angry. Disappointed. We… talked. I believe we… have come to an understanding.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes, too astute by half. “This isn’t the kind of understanding that involved death threats and glowing tattoos, is it? Because I think Fenris should know I will be _very put out_ if he undoes all my hard work.”

Sebastian pretended to wince again, more to distract her than because he felt any genuine pain in the area she was tending. Bowing her head, she fussed over him for a few moments, muttering half to herself, “If _Fenris_ can be civilized, I wish my sister would pull her head out of her—”

“Well,” Sebastian interrupted, attempting lightness, attempting to echo her earlier tone, “it’s Hawke, you know.”

The healer worked quietly for a few more moments before answering, “She… you’re not seeing the best side…”

“She doesn’t owe me anything. None of you do.”

She gave him a look. It so precisely mirrored the look Hawke would have given him he couldn’t help the slight pull at the corners of his mouth, even as he marveled at how many varieties of pain it was possible for a man to feel.

_You brought this on yourself, Vael._

“Right,” Amelle retorted. “Because your arrows have never once saved any of our hides in the past Maker-knows-how-many years.”

The ghost of a smile faded. “My arrows weren’t there when it counted, Amelle.”

The look turned into a grimace he was beginning to think was entirely Amelle. Amelle-when-irritated-by-disagreeable-patient, perhaps. “At least your arrows weren’t turned _against_ us. They were just _missing_.”

“In thought, however—”

“Oh, Maker hang your _thoughts_. You think I’ve never considered, oh, I don’t know, blasting Kiara off the face of Thedas when she pushed one button too many or vexed me half to death? Thoughts are thoughts. They aren’t deeds. And unless you _are_ intending to gather an army and come marching down on us the second I manage to bully this wound into behaving—”

“He is not,” Fenris said firmly, once again standing in the doorway, this time with empty teacup in hand.

“I didn’t think so,” Amelle said, flicking him lightly on the shoulder. “So enough talk of _thoughts_.”

“Amelle, I’m only trying to—”

The grimace became an Amelle- _definitely_ -irritated-by-disagreeable-patient full-fledged glare, and Sebastian subsided, sinking back against he pillows and accepting the cup of tea Fenris offered. “I just don’t expect Hawke to… come around quite as easily as… as you seem to have done.”

“Easily, he says.” Amelle huffed a long-suffering sigh. “Maker, Sebastian, if you only _knew_.”

“Hawke will come to understand,” Fenris added. Sebastian felt his eyebrows twitch. For a man who’d been near enough as made no difference to putting a fist through his chest not an hour earlier…

“She will,” Amelle agreed.

Sebastian noted that the sister, however, did not sound quite so secure in this belief as the friend.

###

 

 

Kiara Hawke loved cards.

It wasn’t so much the winning and losing (or, playing so often with Isabela, the cheating) she loved, but what the cards brought out in the people around her (even the cheating, she had to admit. It was… _so_ Isabela). She loved the way usually-inscrutable Fenris’ eyes widened when he was dealt a particularly good hand; the way Varric told stories as a diversionary tactic no matter how good or bad his cards were; the way Isabela—apart from the cheating, even—had real tells and fake tells, but she mixed them up so often she hardly had any tells at all. Kiara loved that her sister had been known to _occasionally_ singe her cards in excitement… or despair.

Kiara loved cards. She loved them because they were the catalyst that brought all her friends around a table, and no matter how horrible the day or the battle—blood mages, darkspawn, _high dragons_ —all was at least temporarily forgotten when the cards came out and the bets were laid.

This night she loved cards even more than usual. Instead of the stench of piss and vomit and bad ale, it was fine wine, good food, and the faint lemony scent of the cleaning soap Orana favored. No drunk, well-meaning or otherwise, barreled up to—or _on_ to—their table, looking to speak with or insult or admire the Champion.

And if she couldn’t quite erase the reasons they were here and not The Hanged Man, a least the liquor and the laughter and Wicked Grace _helped_. Isabela was even letting others win for a change. _Anders would have—_

Kiara shut this thought down hard, but hadn’t caught it quickly enough. Of course his face was missing. At her feet, Killer lifted his head and gave a concerned whine, but no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. She reached beneath the table to give her mabari a quick scratch behind the ears. “It’s okay, Cupcake,” she whispered. “I’m okay. It’ll pass in a minute.”

But it didn’t, of course. The poison spread rapidly, until instead of the pleasing scene around her, all she could see were the omissions and the missing faces. Anders should be sitting next to Varric, leaning on one hand and bemoaning the state of his cards. He would accuse Isabela of dealing him a bad hand on purpose, and Isabela would wink, the way she always did, neither admitting nor denying. Aveline and Donnic had come earlier, but even Kiara could see how ragged Aveline looked, how run down. They stayed only a couple of hands, and left before the joyful drinking began in earnest. Merrill had never been a regular at the card table, but she certainly wasn’t present tonight. The way Varric had sighed and said, “Daisy couldn’t make it,” had been heavy with “Daisy knew she wouldn’t be welcome” subtext.

And upstairs Sebastian was recovering slowly from a wound that had very nearly been the death of him.

As if reading her thoughts, Isabela threw down a coin to raise the bets and said lazily, “Where is the Princess, anyway? Couldn’t be arsed to drag himself from his boudoir to join us?”

It was Amelle who looked up from her cards and Kiara could _see_ her sister trying not to sigh too heavily at the pirate, replied, “He’s not well enough for much company, Isabela.”

“Takes a lot of nerve,” Isabela observed mildly, “staying _here_ after he buggered off the way he did. You know, if I ever did something like that—”

Varric arched an eyebrow, doubling Isabela’s bet. “You did, Rivaini.”

“And it’s not as if he came here under his own power,” Amelle added mildly, but Kiara detected a certain _tone_ in her voice.  It held the breath of censure without being a full-blown warning.  “Or of his own volition.  He was bleeding a bit too much for that.”

Isabela grumbled and dealt herself another hand.  “I still say you’re being too soft on him, kitten.”

Fenris regarded the pirate from across the table.  “Some would say, Isabela, Hawke was too soft on you.”

“But at least _I’m_ charming. Maker knows why she puts up with _you_.”

Amelle ducked her head as she tossed in her bet, but not before a tiny snort of a giggle escaped, her shoulders convulsing with it.  She overshot the pile of coins slightly and sent one rogue piece of silver rolling leisurely toward Varric, who rolled it right back toward the pile.

Isabela glared at them both.  “I _am_ _so_ charming.  Tell them, Fuzzy.”

One of the side-effects of Isabela having shared a roof at The Hanged Man with Varric for so many years was her eventual inclination toward nicknames.  Thankfully, she hadn’t veered away from calling Kiara _Hawke._ And with nicknames like _Fuzzy_ in the world, Kiara was just as happy being relegated to a surname.

“It’s hardly going to sound genuine if I extol your virtues on command, Rivaini.  It might even sound rehearsed.  We can’t have that.”

She arched a dark eyebrow at him.  “It’s not my _virtues_ I want extolled.  We’re talking about my _charm_ , here.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes in mock puzzlement and looked at Kiara.  “I’m confused.  Are we talking about Isabela’s charm, or her bosom?”

From Amelle’s other side, Fenris’ smirked.

Kiara shot a grin at her sister over her cards.  “One and the same, maybe?  Or perhaps one is lost in the other?”

“Now _that_ I would believe.”

“Oh, by the Maker’s swinging _balls_ , can we _please_ play _cards_?”

Varric waved one hand with a flourish at Isabela.  “And may I present to the nonbelievers one hearty dose of Rivaini charm, free of charge.”

“I can see where we might have missed it,” murmured Fenris in an undertone.  Amelle snickered and leaned back in her chair, reordering her cards one way and then another.  Then she pursed her lips and looked over at the deck of shuffled cards on the table.

“Need a new hand?” Kiara asked, nudging Amelle with her knee.

“Like I’m going to tell _you_ ,” she riposted.  Then she tossed away one card and plucked a new one from the deck.  If the look she shot at it was any indication, it was far, far from the answer to her prayers.  And if the look hadn’t been enough, Amelle’s irritated sigh certainly was.

“I can’t even _pretend_ to let you win when you have tells like that, kitten,” Isabela remarked mildly, exchanging one of her own cards for a new. She didn’t bother looking up from her cards, and so the pirate missed Amelle sticking her tongue out at her.  Isabela’s own expression never shifted—which was sometimes a _good card_ tell and sometimes not. On this particular occasion, Kiara suspected _not_. It didn’t stop the pirate from upping the ante yet again.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this game?” Amelle groused. “And I hate all of you for making me play it. _All the bloody time._ ”

“Must be a really bad hand,” Varric remarked, ostensibly to Fenris. Amelle glared. Fenris smirked. “Little Hawke only hates us when there’s no chance of winning.”

“No,” she said pertly.  “As it happens I also hate when you call me Little Hawke.”

Varric clapped a hand to his breast. “You wound me.”

“Actually,” Amelle said, “ _you_ wound _me._ ”

She groaned when the betting came around to her again, and tossed her cards on the table. “It will be surprising to no one that I’m going to sit the rest of this one out.”

“You’re right, kitten,” Isabela said. “It is surprising to no one. Make yourself useful, why don’t you and see if you can’t dust off a few more of the nice bottles. These are getting _dreadfully_ low and I’m not drunk enough to start letting Broody win.”

Fenris squinted at her ( _ahh,_ thought Kiara, _a good hand_ ) and raised the pirate’s bet. Isabela grinned, leaning over the table in a way that made her cleavage all-too-noticeable ( _could be a good hand, could be shit_ ).

“Do you mind, Mely? I left the cellar door open.”

Amelle gave them a baleful glare. “Really? I’m relegated to playing barmaid?”

“It’s a tough job, kitten, but someone’s got to do it.”

Varric grinned. “We have the utmost belief in your abilities, Little Hawke. _Sorry_. Amelle.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want to play the hand,” Kiara remarked, gesturing toward Amelle’s abandoned cards. “You know the rules. First one to fold has to get the wine.”

“That is _so_ not a rule.”

“Is now,” Varric agreed. “Good one, Hawke.”

Fenris said nothing, but the look he gave his nearly-empty wine glass was a mournful one. Amelle flung her hands up in the air and her scowl took them all in. “Oh, _fine_. But I’m going to check on the patient—” Isabela snorted. “—first. Your headlong rush toward drunkenness will have to wait until I’m finished.”

Once Amelle’s footsteps faded away up the stairs, Varric shook his head and laughed a little, tossing away two cards and sliding two more from the top of the deck.  “She’s going to take her time about it, isn’t she?”

Kiara snorted and took a card as well.  “Why Varric, it almost sounds like you know my sister.”

The dwarf waited for Fenris to toss his coins into the pile before answering.  “You know, I thought I did.  She doesn’t like being called Little Hawke?  Since when?”

“She’s always hated it,” Fenris replied, never looking up from his cards.

“Despised it,” chirped Isabela with a grin, though it was hard to tell whether her grin was at her cards or the conversation.

Varric looked to Kiara.  “Hawke,” he said, setting his cards down heavily.  “Say it ain’t so.”  

Kiara only shrugged.  “Would that I could, but my mother taught me never to lie.”

This appeared to be a revelation to Varric, who took up his cards again, looking wholly distressed.  This time Kiara was almost certain it was the conversation and not the cards making Varric react this way.  She looked across the table and saw Isabela eyeing him as well and Kiara wondered if the pirate had come to the same conclusion she had.

“So come up with a new nickname for her, Fuzzy,” she said, giving her cards a cursory glance and raising the bet one more time.  “Just not _kitten_.  That one’s mine.”

“You call everyone _kitten,_ Isabela,” remarked Fenris.

“That’s not true.  I don’t call _you_ kitten.”  She fluttered her lashes at the elf.  “But I _could_ if you _wanted_ me to.”

Fenris didn’t look up.  “I do not.”

“You’re no fun,” muttered Isabela as she sank back against her chair in a sulk.  Still, Fenris didn’t look up.  Kiara decided he must be in possession of an _excellent_ hand.

“So I have been told.  It’s your bet, Varric.”

“This is really disturbing me here, guys,” Varric said as he added to the pile, upping the ante, which made Kiara wonder how disturbed the dwarf _truly_ was.  “I’ve never had anyone _hate_ their nickname before.”

 _That_ was enough to make Fenris look up.“I have told you on a number of occasions that I do not _brood._   Your nickname for me is inaccurate.”

“But do you _hate_ it?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Varric, but said nothing.

“Okay, okay, so you don’t _like_ it.  I get that.  But you heard Little— _dammit._   You heard Amelle.  Hate.  She used the word _hate._ ”

Kiara chose a card from the deck and added it to her hand.  “Then name her something else.”

“But she’s _Little Hawke_!”

Isabela gave a disdainful sniff. “You must admit it’s hardly your most creative attempt, Fuzzy.”

“Says you. To whom everyone is _kitten_.”

“Except Broody.”

Varric’s eyes widened, “Which you _stole_. From _me._ ”

“I do _not_ brood.”

Kiara snickered. Fenris glanced over at her and amended, “As much as Varric _thinks_ I do.” She knew she ought to stop betting, because the sparkle in his eyes was most certainly not wine-induced. With a benevolent smile, she raised. Isabela smirked, and Kiara hoped Fenris appreciated her sacrifice as the pirate fished more coins from her purse.

“Is there really no more liquor up here, Hawke?” Varric asked. “I need a drink. Badly.”

“Because of the nickname?”

He sighed, and the expression on his face was one she might have thought to see on the face of a child whose puppy had been kicked. Repeatedly. “I’ve been calling her that for _seven years_ and she never thought to complain about it? It’s like I don’t even understand this world anymore.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows. “It’s the _nickname_ that’s done it? Not the epic clash of mages and templars that may or may not result in holy war that will dissolve everything we’ve ever known?”

“It’s definitely the nickname.”

With a smirk, Kiara drew another card from the deck. “So what you’re saying is now would be a really bad time for me to tell you that I’m not fond of Haw—”

Varric looked so mortified that Kiara relented. “Hawke’s fine, Varric. I’m just kidding.”

“Just angling to give me a heart attack.”

Kiara rescued one mostly-full bottle of wine from the sideboard and topped up Varric’s glass. “Better?”

“Infinitely.”

Fenris won the hand. Isabela griped so loudly and so vociferously that Kiara was _certain_ the pirate hadn’t been throwing _that_ hand. They played another, and drank until even the backup liquor bottles were empty.

“She’s been gone an awfully long time, hasn’t she?” Isabela asked plaintively. “Do you suppose she had to go clear across town to find booze? Maybe she thought she actually had to _go_ to Tevinter to find that bloody swill Broody likes so much?”

Fenris frowned, and Kiara felt a pang of concern—surely they’d have _heard_ if anything had happened upstairs?—but just as she rose to go check, the door burst open and in rushed Amelle, up to her elbows in blood.  One red smear marred her cheek, the other, her forehead.

_Oh, Maker. Sebastian._

Instantly, she regretted not talking to him. Her stomach twisted painfully, and the sickness she felt had nothing whatsoever to do with wine. _Now it’s too late._

And then Amelle _grinned_.

###


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn’t that Amelle didn’t like Wicked Grace — she did.  And it wasn’t even that her hand had been that terrible — it hadn’t been _good_ , but she’d had worse, and had sometimes even managed to play well despite a bad hand.  It wasn’t even that she didn’t like the company; Maker knew that wasn’t true, either.  She simply didn’t _feel_ like it tonight, she realized as she ran up the stairs, unable to suppress the twinge of guilt she felt when she thought of Varric’s face the moment she revealed just how much she disliked being called Little Hawke.  She’d always tolerated it, for Varric’s sake, because it was _Varric,_ after all.  But she never _liked_ it.

Somehow knowing he wouldn’t be calling her that anymore was but a cold consolation.

She pushed open the door to Moth— to the room Sebastian was in, and found him reading quietly by candlelight.  He looked up when the door’s hinges creaked and blinked at her as if he couldn’t quite understand why she was there.

“Amelle,” he said, setting the book down in his lap, “to what do I owe this visit?  I thought you’d be otherwise occupied this evening.”

She tilted her head and sent him a crooked smile.  “Not too busy to check on my patient, Sebastian.”

He regarded her shrewdly, letting several beats of silence pass before cocking an eyebrow at her.  “You had a terrible hand, didn’t you?”

She sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh.  “It wasn’t _that_ bad.  It wasn’t very good, I’ll grant, but…” Amelle trailed off with a shrug.  “I just didn’t feel much like it tonight.” 

“And so you’ve come to glare at my recalcitrant wound instead.”

“And will do so until it starts behaving, I’m afraid,” she replied as she started undressing the wound.  “How _are_ you feeling?”

“It is… sometimes difficult to tell, but I believe there might be some improvement.”

Amelle’s smile was instant and, she was sure, relieved.  “Good.”  

Once she pulled away the dressing and applied a fresh poultice and a deep pulse of healing energy, she began binding it once again. “You know,” she said, conversationally, “you’re probably healed enough to move around a little.  I wouldn’t suggest a sojourn to the Wounded Coast, but you’re probably fit enough to, oh, venture downstairs?”

She’d tried to leave just enough of an invitation to her words so she could _suggest_ without sounding pushy, but Sebastian grimaced and shook his head, his cheeks flaming with color.  

“I… don’t think that is entirely… wise, Amelle.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes at him.  “You don’t think it’s wise to take a short trip out of bed, or you don’t think it would be wise to do so while there’s a card game going on?”

“Which do you think?”

“Well, considering I was going to suggest you take up my seat and join in—”

The flush disappeared from Sebabstian’s face so quickly, leaving him almost _grey,_ that Amelle’s fingertips flashed and glowed with a surge of healing magic almost before she realized she’d summoned it at all.

“No,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head.  Looking at his face, Amelle felt her heart constrict a little — he looked _horrified_ at the prospect.  “No,” he said again, more firmly.

“And why not?”

Kiara’s loud laughter rang from downstairs— _no concept of inside voice, indeed_ —and Sebastian went unnaturally still. “I am quite certain my presence would not be welcome.”

Amelle sighed.  “Sebastian, you can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

She lowered her voice and met his gaze unwaveringly.  “You can’t avoid them forever.”

Her patient bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.  A lock of hair slid free and hung across his forehead, and it made him look incredibly _young_ for a moment.  “Nor can I expect them to forgive me after such a betrayal.”

Amelle’s derisive snort made him look up with a jerk.  “Please.  Isabela not only betrayed my sister, Kiara ended up in single combat against the sodding Arishok for it.  You were there, Sebastian — I had to put her insides _back inside of her_ once that mess was over.  And she still forgave Isabela.”  Amelle had, too, but she had found it to be a much longer process than Kiara had.  Much, much longer.

“Amelle, do you not remember the things I _said?_ ”

“I remember we’ve had this talk before,” she said gently.  Sebastian frowned, looking away, and Amelle took a deep breath.  Another wave of laughter came from downstairs, and Amelle was nearly certain the sound of it made Sebastian flinch.  Her breath became a sigh.  “Sebastian.”

After a moment, he looked up.

“For as angry as you were, I think if you had been _determined_ to keep your word and follow through on such an oath of violence made under…”  Amelle could almost _see_ the red flare of magic, could almost _hear_ the hum of it, could almost _feel_ the shockwaves of the explosion, could almost _smell_ the acrid stench in the air.  “…Under those circumstances…”

“Under those circumstances?”

She shoved the memory away.  “Then you are not the man I thought you were.”

“Perhaps I’m _not,_ Amelle.”

“I don’t believe that.”  She smiled, remembering the perfection of the Kirkwall Sebastian had wrought in the Fade, the rebuilt Chantry without its Chanter’s Board.  “I happen to be an excellent judge of character.”  Her smile faded into something more somber as she shook her head.  “Life is too short to… to dwell on the things people _say._ Our actions define us.”  

She was sitting near enough to feel the way emotion made him tremble. He stared at her hands and swallowed hard. She felt that, too. “I realized my mistake almost immediately,” he said without raising his eyes to meet hers. “But… I couldn’t get to her. I wanted to. I _tried_. I swear to you, Amelle, I was attempting to return to her side when the templars found me. I knew I could not unsay the things I said, but I… I would have accepted any punishment she saw fit to mete out.”

Amelle squeezed his hand in a gesture meant to be reassuring, but Sebastian only shook his head. “I have made so _many_ mistakes, but none so grave as that one.”

“Why don’t you say this to _her_?”

“I haven’t the words.”

“You could start with the ones you just spoke to me.”

Sebastian leaned back, dragging his hand from hers. “Perhaps. But… it is clear she…”

Again they heard Kiara’s laugh. Sebastian put a hand to the wound at his chest. Amelle didn’t think he was aware he was doing so. She rather wished she’d thought to close the door when she’d come in. Sebastian did not need to finish his thought… Amelle knew very well what he meant. Kiara had done everything in her power to avoid seeing Sebastian in the days since he’d woken. Moving stones in the garden and emptying quiver after quiver of arrows into practice targets had become Kiara’s primary methods of passing time. Amelle opened her mouth to tell him about the broth, and then stopped herself. “She’s angry,” Amelle said at last. “Right now she’s _really_ angry. But she’s… it’s not _in_ her to carry grudges, Sebastian. She might not be ready to listen now, but she will be.”

He very much looked as though he wanted to argue with her, but he held his tongue. Rising to her feet, Amelle laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling him tense beneath it. “Please don’t speak to her of this, Amelle.”

“I won’t. Unless I think your health is compromised.” With a last dose of healing energy, she said, “Are you sure you won’t join them?”

“I’m sure. They… sound like they’re enjoying themselves. There’s been little enough of that of late, I imagine.” On Amelle’s frown, he said, “Soon enough. But not tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The sound he made was not nearly lighthearted enough to be considered laughter, but it was some distant kin, and that was hopeful enough for Amelle. “I don’t doubt you will. You Hawkes are nothing if not determined.”

She shot him a wry smile. “Just figuring that out now, are you?”

A funny look crossed his face, gone before Amelle could name it.  “I always had my suspicions.”

A cry of despair—Isabela’s—from downstairs heralded the end of the hand. That there was no loud exclamation of happiness meant Fenris had likely won the pot. Both Kiara and Varric were always thunderous in their excitement. “They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone,” she said. Then she snorted. “Or they’ll be wondering where the _wine_ is, at any rate.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Best run and fetch it, then. Maker help the poor sod who keeps them from inebriation.”

“Sebastian…” she began, and then stopped. He raised his eyebrows. “I… get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Sebastian nodded and went back to his book — Amelle wasn’t _surprised_ he refused to join the get-together downstairs, but she was relieved he wasn’t against the prospect of _eventually_ attempting to rejoin the ranks.  And she’d planted the seed, at the very least. 

Amelle took care to close the bedroom door behind her and kept her step light as she descended the stairs, slipping past the library’s open door without calling attention to herself.  Varric was dealing out another hand and Isabela was complaining bitterly that he never let _her_ deal.

“Because whenever you deal, Rivaini, you win.  Funny how it always works out that way.” Varric’s voice followed Amelle down the hall.

 _She lets us win and we let her cheat,_ Amelle thought, something not quite mirthful enough to be a smile curling her lips.  She was too distracted — too annoyed, really — to find the pirate’s character quirks charming.  Isabela’s hypocrisy, her outright _dismissal_ of Sebastian grated, and the mage felt a sudden twist of anger she’d thought long buried.

 _She walked in with that bloody book like she was doing us a favor,_ she remembered, scowling as she picked her way down the cellar steps.  Amelle _liked_ Isabela, and she understood that the pirate turning around at all indicated huge strides in her character.  _But really, pirates who live on glass ships shouldn’t shoot cannonballs.  Or something._   If Amelle knew her sister at all, Kiara was likely going to have a word with Isabela if she didn’t lay off.  It was true what she’d told Sebastian — Kiara Hawke did not hold grudges.

 _No, evidently that’s my department,_ thought Amelle with a rueful little sigh.

The true shame of it was that none of them knew what she’d seen in the Fade — none of them, not _even_ Kiara had any idea what Amelle had seen of Sebastian’s construct.  Of the demons weighing him down, the demons he’d _faced._   Perhaps Merrill would see — and wasn’t that ironic?  The only two people who could begin to understand Sebastian Vael well enough to forgive him his betrayal—other than Fenris, and she still wasn’t entirely certain what had gone on between _them_ when she’d interrupted them—were the very types of people he’d wanted to make pay for his heartache.

“Anders,” breathed Amelle in the dark hush of the wine cellar, “you utter _bastard._ ”

She let a small ball of blue flame flicker to life in her hand and crossed the vast cellar, peering at dusty, faded labels.  The Aggregio would stay — Amelle _liked_ that one, and didn’t want to waste it on Isabela, who’d never had an appreciation for it.  Perhaps she, Kiara, and Fenris would open it later.

As she wound her way around the shelves, Amelle saw a sliver of light coming up from the floor, far in the corner.  She sighed; the trapdoor that led down to Darktown had not been closed properly, and the faint, almost dingy light from below filtered up through the crack in the floor.

“Kiara Hawke, _honestly._ Close the bloody doors _behind you,_ ” she muttered, going to the trapdoor and trying to nudge it closed with her foot.  The door was stuck, however, and would not snap shut.  Huffing a curse, Amelle crouched down and pulled. It resisted a moment before giving suddenly with a loud creaking groan.  

Amelle hadn’t been down here since her encounter in the Fade, and as she looked down at the closed clinic door, the air of neglect, she frowned a little.  Even though this was as it had been left, and this was as it should have looked, part of Amelle was surprised not to find the lantern blazing away cheerfully, the clinic doors wide open, and—

_Pleasant.  Bright.  Clean.  The broken-down, dilapidated furniture— the blood-magic exsanguination tables — were gone.  Window-boxes running wild with elfroot and spindleweed, the greenery peppered with bright embrium blooms, hung in the clinic’s narrow windows.  Heavily-constructed tables lined the walls, covered with clean linens._

Amelle remembered the cat suddenly, and it was with only the briefest backward glance that she edged toward the clinic doors.  Intellectually she knew the room was going to look as hopeless and as deserted as it ever had, but… something inside her urged her to check.  Quickly.  Just in case.

She’d half-expected she’d need to break in, but the door wasn’t locked. It was as if Anders had _known_ he wasn’t coming back, and no longer cared what became of the place. She found this bothered her immensely, and she swallowed hard to choke down her sudden anger. _A means to an end,_ she thought, bitterly. _A means to an end, and he didn’t give a shit what would come after._

As she pushed the heavy door inward, it creaked in its frame and she heard the scurry of feet— _animal, not human… hopefully not monster_ —within. She shuddered, praying it wouldn’t be an enterprising nest of something _wretched_ , like giant spiders. Conjuring a ball of light revealed the same dim interior she remembered, and filled her with a sudden, overwhelming disappointment. She hadn’t realized how very much she _wanted_ the windowboxes and the orderly beds and the cleaned floors and ceilings until she saw the filthy, disorganized mess Anders had left behind.

She was even more disappointed—ridiculous, really—that whatever the scritching noise had been, it certainly hadn’t been a slim, green-eyed, orange tabby. She even looked under the tables and behind the various broken pieces of detritus meant to serve as furniture, but she found nothing but dust, dirt, and a distressing number of rat-droppings.

_It would be a good place for a cat. It’d never go hungry._

Amelle smiled, momentarily closing her eyes and allowing herself to remember the way the clinic had appeared in her Fade construct. It would be _work_ , certainly. The old furniture—the exsanguination tables first—would have to go, the wretched, dusty pieces of fabric hanging from the ceiling needed to be pulled down, _everything_ needed to be scrubbed twelve times over, but…

It would be work. But not an _insurmountable_ amount of work.

With the beginning of a plan forming, Amelle took one last look around for the cat she knew wouldn’t be there. Her searching only startled a few (regular-sized, blessedly) spiders and a nest of mice. She found herself scowling at the state of the place. As a healer, Anders ought to have been _aware_ what role filth played in the transmission and spread of disease. What was the point of healing someone if the rats in the clinic only made them sick again?

Inhaling deeply, Amelle forced herself to calm down.  Again.

And then she heard the scream. 

Amelle knew screams. She’d taken part in enough battles to have heard all sorts of them. She’d heard cries of pain, of torture. She’d heard the howls of the ill and wails of the dying. She’d heard and would forever remember the hideous sound Carver had made when the ogre crushed the life from him. She’d heard the noise Kiara made the day they came too late to save their mother. She’d heard the screams of monsters and men, darkspawn and dragons, and this was as unlike any of those previous sounds as anything she’d ever imagined.

Just as she was wishing she’d not been foolish enough to descend to Darktown alone, without even the focus of a staff, a woman staggered through the door Amelle had left open, collapsing to the filthy floor in a heap. When she screamed again, Amelle saw she was enormous with child, clutching at her distended belly with both hands as she writhed.

Even as Amelle dashed across the clinic, the woman’s pain subsided long enough for her to look up and moan. Tears streamed down her face, and she began to sob anew when Amelle bent over her. “You’re not him,” the woman gasped. “When I saw the light… but you’re not… you’re not the healer. _Oh, Maker,_ this… this will be the death of me.”

Again she screamed, long and harrowing.

 _Contractions_ , Amelle realized. _But something is terribly wrong._

“No, I’m not— I’m not _the_ healer, but I am _a_ healer.” Amelle was certain the woman couldn’t manage a trip up the ladder.  And she wasn’t sure the child within would wait — or _survive_ — long enough for her to fetch anyone who could help.  And who in the Maker’s name did she know that could help, anyway?  Kirkwall was short on healers; if it had been otherwise, Amelle wouldn’t have spent all that time at the Rose.

“You’re… _you’re_ a healer?” she asked, hiccuping a sob and looking as if she couldn’t believe her good luck.  “Did he… did he send you?”

“No,” she said, trying to sound more impartial than she felt.  “He’s gone.”

Amelle eased the expectant mother’s arm about her shoulders and stood slowly and carefully.  The woman clutched at Amelle’s sleeve as another contraction took her and her knees buckled suddenly as she let out another scream.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, guiding the woman to one of the hated tables and helped her upon it and guided her back.  “It’s going to be all right.”  

“It _hurts_ ,” the woman wailed.  “ _Maker,_ it _hurts._ ”

“I know it hurts,” Amelle soothed, her mind racing.  She’d never — _never_ — delivered a baby before, and she’d most certainly never seen anything like _this._   The woman was drenched in sweat, her pale eyes haunted and her cheeks bright with either exertion or fever.  Amelle could see, even with her small ball of light, that the woman’s simple dress was soaked from the waist down, her legs smeared with liquid that looked, even in the dimness, to be blood-tinged.  She rested a hand on the woman’s forehead and with a breath of mana, released a wave of healing — and, she dearly hoped, _calming_ — energy into the as-yet unborn child’s mother.  The woman’s breathing seemed to even out, and her color wasn’t quite so hectic, and Amelle felt a small rush of relief that she’d bought herself a few minutes to at least _attempt_ adequate preparation.

With an impatient flick of her wrist, a wash of flame lit the lamps in each corner of the room, and the horrible spiked monstrosity of a lamp that hung above.  

“Will you be all right for a little while?” she asked the woman, running gentle fingertips over her sweaty forehead.  “I need to collect a few things, but I _swear to you_ , I will come _right back.”_

“Don’t leave me,” the woman whimpered as a fresh wave of tears poured forth.  “Please.”

Amelle shook her head and placed a hand on either side of the woman’s head.  “Listen to me.”  After a few more wet sniffles, she nodded and Amelle realized, rather abruptly, that this woman couldn’t have been any older than she was.  “My name is Amelle.  Tell me your name.”

“My…”

“Name.  Yours.  What is your name?”

“Ianna,” she said hesitantly.  “My name is Ianna.”

“And… and where is the baby’s father, Ianna?”

Her face crumpled and Amelle hated herself for asking.  “H-he’s gone.  He was— it’s been bad, with the baby.  It’s been hurting me so much.  And Adan — he went to… to talk to some of the sisters and see i-if they could… if they could take me in until—” Anything else she might have said was lost in another broken wail of pain, but Amelle had heard quite enough.  She knew perfectly well what had happened to the babe’s father, and she was suddenly resolved that if she had to consort with a bloody demon to do it, _the child was going to live._

“All right then.  Ianna, I need to collect a few things before I can help you.  I give you my _solemn word_ I will return, and help you and your baby.  Do you understand?”

Ianna nodded, for all she still looked terrified, and Amelle turned on her heel and _ran_ for the ladder, vaulting herself up the last three rungs and hurrying with light, quick steps up the stairs.  There was going to be blood, and probably lots of it.  Linens.  She’d need linens. Towels, blankets — whatever was near to hand.  What else?  Water?  Too much time — she’d get water later, _after_.  Soon the sounds of revelry reached her ears and Amelle thought for the barest moment that it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she didn’t have to go through this by herself.  

But there was no time.  They’d been drinking and she would have to _explain_ and she simply didn’t have _time._   Ianna was alone and afraid and waiting for her.

Amelle dashed into the kitchen where Orana sat at the large table, mending one of Kiara’s tunics. 

“Mistress Amelle?”

She went to the basin and began washing her hands, scrubbing them free of Darktown grime as swiftly as she could. “Orana,” she said, using her skirt to dry her hands, “very quickly — I need old linens. Towels, sheets — anything we can spare.”

Orana blinked, but to her credit, did not hesitate — or, worse, ask any time-consuming questions.  “There are old linens in the closet under the stairs with a few other things Bodahn left behind.  Is… is anything wrong, Mistress Amelle?”

A burst of hysterical laughter almost bubbled up past her lips, but Amelle simply shook her head.  “Nope, nope.  Nope, everything’s just _fine._ ”

And without another word of explanation, Amelle hurried to the closet beneath the stairs and grabbed at what appeared to be a bundle of bed linens, gathering it into her arms and making her way carefully back down the cellar stairs.  On the way back through the wine cellar, Amelle stopped long enough to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a niche.  She wasn’t sure whether her healing magics would ease Ianna’s pain, if Amelle was focusing the energy on the _child._   Amelle also had a sneaking suspicion _she_ was going to need a drink when this was done and over with.

Amelle heard Ianna screaming as she navigated the ladder, and hoped no opportunistic Coterie thug came running, thinking her easy prey. Then again, the sound was so wretched, perhaps it would frighten potential attackers off. 

As soon as she reentered the clinic, Amelle knew things were progressing much too quickly. Ianna was panting madly between her screams, and clutching even more tightly at her belly. Wasting no time, Amelle spread the clean linens on a patch of floor—she trusted none of the makeshift furniture, and there was _no way_ the child would be born on an exsanguination table—and went to Ianna’s side.

“You’re back,” the woman gasped, tears and sweat streaking her face and matting her hair to her scalp. “I… thought…”

“You’re fine,” Amelle soothed. “I’m here. Ianna? Ianna, here, hold tight to my arm.” It took some cajoling, but soon Ianna had moved her bruising grip from her abdomen to Amelle’s arm. They maneuvered the few feet to the blanket and Ianna lay back just in time for another contraction to hit, and hit hard.

Focusing as well as she was able with Ianna still clutching at one arm, Amelle sent gentle tendrils of magic throughout the weeping woman. There was too much blood, but she was too frightened that staunching it now with magic might somehow injure the baby, or conflict with the birth itself.

When her magic sensed the baby, Amelle couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her. Ianna’s eyes widened. “No,” she whispered, “no, no, no.”

“He’s fine,” Amelle murmured. “Ianna, he’s fine.”

“He’s not,” the woman wailed. “I know it! I can _feel it!_ ”

Amelle closed her eyes, gathered a breath of mana, and very swiftly, without warning, dropped the heaviest sleep spell she could manage on the frightened woman. Ianna fought it for half a heartbeat— _don’t,_ Amelle wanted to plead, _every heartbeat counts right now_ —but then subsided. Within her, Amelle felt the child still, too. She hoped—prayed— _begged the Maker_ —that the baby was only sleeping, like his mother.

Some things magic could heal. A breech baby in distress… wasn’t something she could simply wave her hands over and make right.

With an inhale that felt like a prayer, Amelle reached for the knife she kept at her belt. It had been a gift from Carver, a thousand years ago during happier times. She knew he’d saved his coins for six months to buy it. At the time she’d thanked him even while she puzzled at its usefulness. She had _magic_ after all. She used that magic now, a controlled flash of fire to sterilize the blade, and ice to return it to a bearable temperature.

The pretty knife, with its bone handle carved in the shape of a leaping rabbit, tiny green stones for eyes, always honed razor-sharp exactly the way Carver had so painstakingly taught her, had saved her life dozens of times in the intervening years.

Tonight she hoped it would save two more.


	15. Chapter 15

It had been a better night for cards than was typical for Fenris.

The pot he’d won earlier had been particularly large, though they’d had one player more at that point.  And then Amelle had folded and left the game and the room, ostensibly to tend Sebastian and fetch more wine.  Given the look she shot Isabela when she first suggested Amelle bring more drink, Fenris wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Amelle brought back the foulest, rankest bottle of liquor in the entire cellar.

Nor would he have expected Isabela to notice or care if she _had._

But as time passed, filled with wagers and bluffs and jokes, Fenris could not help but notice Amelle’s continued absence.  He wondered if she might be sulking, but the notion fell flat.  Hawke’s sister was not the type to… well, _brood._   But her truancy _was_ enough to trouble Hawke, and Fenris told himself _that_ was adequate reason for it to trouble him.

“Maker’s _breath_ , is she squeezing the grapes herself?” Hawke joked lightly, but the crease between her brows told a different tale.  

Clearly making the decision to hunt down her wayward sibling, Hawke planted both palms on the table and began to push to her feet when the library door suddenly flung open, rebounding against the wall with a crash.  

In the doorway stood Amelle Hawke, covered in blood.

Fenris stared, taking in the blood slicking her hands and staining her sleeves, streaks of red trailing across the bodice and skirt of her loose dress.  A bloody smear marked her cheek.  Icy fear kicked up in his chest, the emotion surprising him as much as the clatter that came when he stood suddenly and knocked over the chair he’d been sitting in surprised everyone else.

The library erupted into noise as everyone scrambled to their feet, asking questions, demanding answers, but Hawke’s voice carried over all as she checked over her sister for injury.

“What happened?  Are you hurt?  Whose blood is this, Amelle?  Mely?  _Whose blood_?”

It was then Fenris realized Amelle’s smile — most incongruous, given the blood.  Nausea and dread clutched at him — had he overlooked something when she’d returned from the Fade?  Had he missed some crucial clue that it had _not_ been Amelle at all, but a demon wearing her face, her smile?  Had he truly failed her so grossly?

But Amelle’s own voice, tremulous and giddy and unaltered by any demon, cut off his mental diatribe:

“I delivered a baby.”

As quickly as the noise had started, it stopped.

“You delivered a _baby_?” Hawke echoed, making no effort whatsoever to hide her bewilderment.

“In the _wine cellar?_ ” Isabela blurted.  Fenris shot the pirate a withering glare she was too distracted to notice.

“Yes,” answered Amelle breathlessly, looking at her sister.  “And no,” she added, turning to Isabela and shaking her head.  “Not there.”

It was at that point that Fenris saw, beyond the blood upon her and the sweat at her brow, Amelle Hawke’s eyes were alight with something that looked a great deal like _happiness._   She seemed almost to glow with it.  He jerked his gaze away to keep from staring.  

“I went downstairs into the wine cellar, but someone hadn’t closed the trapdoor all the way—” she shot a look at her sister, “so I fixed it, and then… well, I wondered about the clinic, and I just… I went down inside.  To… to see.  I just… wanted to look.  And it was such a filthy _mess_ — so many _rats,_ _Maker_ — but as I was about to leave, a woman came looking for him, and she was pregnant, but she was in so much _pain_ , Kiri, so I…” she trailed off and shrugged.

“So you _delivered the baby_?” Kiara asked, her brows disappearing behind her fringe. “Have you… you _haven’t_ delivered a baby before, have you?”

Amelle shrugged again, the gesture taking on an air of sheepishness.  “They would have died if I hadn’t,” she replied reasonably.  “And the father… the babe’s father was in the Chantry when—” her voice caught and she swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I had to help.”  The flicker of pain subsided once again into happiness and warmth.  “And they’re both _fine._   The baby is healthy and happy—well, maybe _happy_ is overstating things, the way he was screaming, but…”  Amelle blinked as she caught her breath.  “Maker.  I _delivered_ a _baby._ I think I need a drink.”

“I’d say you needed several,” drawled Isabela.  “Big ones.”

“What in all the Void possessed you to go down to the _clinic_ , Amelle?” breathed Hawke, looking torn between protective worry that she’d ventured into Darktown alone, and fierce pride for what her sister had done while she was there.  

Amelle opened her mouth, then closed it again.  “I don’t… _know_ , exactly.  I just…” she shrugged.  “I can’t explain it.  I had to look.”

“You weren’t… you weren’t looking for—”

“No,” answered Amelle firmly.  “Absolutely not.”

Heedless of the blood and mess, Hawke pulled Amelle into her arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

It was Varric who frowned, looking past Amelle, and asked, “But… where’d you _stash_ them, Little Hawke?” The dwarf scowled, giving his head a brief shake. “Sorry. Amelle.”

If she heard the nickname, her dislike for it did nothing to dim the radiance of her smile. “Well, that’s why I’m here.” She glanced up at Hawke and the smile turned wry. “Delivering babies in the clinic is one thing, but I knew you’d _murder_ me if I went walking around Darktown on my own at night.”

Hawke huffed a laugh, her eyebrow quirking upward. Fenris’ fingers twitched, and he closed one hand into a fist. No, Darktown was safe for _no one_ walking alone, especially since…

But Amelle continued, “I asked Ianna if she and the babe wanted to stay here tonight, but she… I think she wants to be back in her own home, surrounded by her own things.” The faintest shadow passed over Amelle’s face, and afterward her smile held just an echo of sadness. “So I thought I’d see if I could muster up an escort.”

Before Fenris could offer, Varric clapped the pirate so hard on the back that she stumbled and glared at him. “Rivaini and I’ll do it.”

“We will?” Isabela groused.

Fenris shot her a look, which she ignored in favor of reaching across the table to drain the last of his wine. “What?” she said. “You get to stay and have _more_.”

“We can all go,” Hawke decided, but Varric was already shaking his head.

“Come on, Hawke. You know Aveline’ll have a fit.”

The shadow that passed over Hawke’s face was in no way faint.

“Besides,” Varric continued, his cheer just a little forced, “it’s practically on the way home.”

“It is?” Isabela asked. This time she caught Fenris’ glare and returned it, but she was the first to look away.

“If you’re sure…” Hawke said softly.

Varric puffed out his chest and crossed his arms over it. “Sure thing, Hawke. Looks like Lit—Amelle did all the hard, messy work. It’s no problem.”

Half under her breath, Isabela added, “Isn’t it?”

Varric turned and snapped over his shoulder, “Isabela, that’s _enough_. Pull your head out of your sodding ass.”

Isabela blinked. Even Fenris was startled by the shift in tone, but a moment later the dwarf was all congeniality again. “Why don’t you take us down and make the introductions, L—Amelle. Then you can head back up here for that drink—”

“And a bath?” Hawke asked lightly.

“Definitely a bath,” Amelle agreed. “And definitely that drink.”

Amelle took a moment to wash her hands and wipe away the red streak of blood upon her face before walking Varric and Isabela downstairs to the secret — though Fenris doubted _how_ secret anymore — passage to the clinic.  Once they were gone, Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out in a deeper sigh, returning to her chair and all but collapsing into it.

“If I never see my baby sister covered in blood again,” she said, “it will be too soon.”

Fenris perched on the end of the chair opposite her, resting his hands on his knees.  “At least it… was not what any of us feared?”

The look Hawke sent him was a wry one.  “And what sort of trouble were _you_ afraid she’d got herself into?”

“I… would prefer not to say.”

At that, Hawke lifted an eyebrow.  “Blood magic?”  When he didn’t reply, she shook her head and looked almost fondly at him.  “Forgive me.  I forgot that when you say you’d prefer not to say, it actually _means_ you’d prefer not to say.  _However,_ I am now wondering what could possibly be _worse_ than Amelle deciding randomly to be a blood mage.”

“And smiling about it.” 

“Indeed.  We should be sure to tell her the next time she comes into a room covered in blood, she should perhaps _not_ grin like a maniac.”  Hawke chuckled before sliding into a somewhat pensive silence.  “Maker,” she breathed.  “My baby sister _delivered a baby._   I know people have been doing it since the beginning of time, but still.  My baby sister.”  

“She is a competent healer, Hawke.  This cannot have escaped your notice.”

She looked vaguely surprised then, as she always did when he said anything that could be construed as a compliment toward Amelle.  “Such a far cry from a viper in the nest, hmm?”

Fenris looked away, scowling into the fire, hoping Hawke did not notice the sudden warmth that heated his cheeks.  “I have long since realized my… initial impression of your sister was…”

“Inaccurate?  Off?  Bloody arse-backward wrong?” she supplied, laughing now.  “Maker, she was so _indignant_ that night when we got home.  I just thought it was _funny._   Rabbit?  A viper?  _Rabbit?_ Honestly.”

“You have mentioned that nickname before,” he said.  “But I do not believe I understand it.”

She shrugged and went to the sideboard, peering into the bottles, but every last one had been drained dry.  “You never asked,” she answered, scowling at the last empty bottle.  When Fenris offered no other reply than a shrug, Hawke sat down again.

“Our father used to call me kit.”  She fingered a lock of her vibrant hair and made a face.  “Fox-red, he used to say.  His theory was that I learned how to be cunning just so I’d fit his name for me a little better.  When the twins came along… well, Carver was such a bruiser of a child.  He lumbered about, knocking into things when he learned to walk — Father said Carver reminded him of a bear cub.  And ‘cub’ stuck, much to my brother’s dismay.  

“Amelle was… quieter.  Where Carver was loud and brash and where I was strident and bossy, Amelle… _thought._   She would lapse into these long silences and just _watch_ until all you could imagine were the horrible things she just had to be thinking about you.”  She sank into her chair again, her smile wide with pleasant memories.  “That was what Carver complained most often about — _Papa,_ ” she said, imitating a child’s whine, “ _Amelle’s_ looking _at me again!  Make her stop!”_ She shrugged.  “Quiet as a rabbit.  And it stuck.”

Before he could think better of it, he replied, “I am not certain it suits her any better than viper.”

He regretted the comment almost instantly, and doubly so when Hawke propped her chin on her hand and _stared_ at him. Fenris felt himself bristle at the attention, and at the shrewd look in her eye. “No? Why’s that?”

It occurred to him to deflect the question, but instead he replied succinctly, “Rabbits are prey.”

“Said the wolf,” said Hawke a little sharply, soothing the sting of her words with a smile. With less rancor she continued, “Though maybe that was accurate enough for a while, too. And not even _that_ long ago.” Interlacing her fingers behind her head, Hawke leaned back until her chair balanced precariously on its back legs. “I don’t disagree, actually,” she said, directing her words to the ceiling. “But once a nickname sticks…”

“Yes,” Fenris agreed gravely. “Broody.”

This startled a laugh from her. It pained him that a sound once taken for granted was now so rare. “You must admit you are more broody than Amelle is timid.”

“I must admit nothing.”

Hawke let the chair thump to the ground as she wrinkled her nose at him, but her eyes still sparkled with mirth. “Poor Varric. At least Amelle does’t _hate_ Rabbit.”

“From you,” Fenris conceded. “I doubt she would be well-pleased if its usage became widespread.”

Hawke grinned. “Don’t give me ideas!” Reaching for a wine bottle, she realized it was empty and scowled. “Maker’s balls. What’s the point of having a whole bloody wine cellar if there’s nothing on hand?” Rising, she brushed her hands down the front of her dress. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Unless there are more babies to be delivered.”

She laughed again. “Maybe you’re not all that broody, Broody.”

“As I keep saying.”

“Okay. Unless another expectant mother shows up actually _in_ my wine cellar, I’ll be right back. Stay here and try to think up a good nickname for my sister.”

Fenris scowled at her. “I will do nothing of the sort.”

“Spoilsport,” Hawke singsonged as she left him to the silence of the now-empty library.

At loose ends, Fenris moved about the room, gathering the empty wine bottles, and clearing the used glasses to the sideboard. He was in the middle of stacking the cards—the game had been forgotten, but somehow the _entire_ pot of coins had disappeared… likely into Isabela’s purse—when the door creaked open and Amelle entered, the collar of her dress damp from her still-wet hair.  

“Maker, I’d almost forgotten the house could _be_ this quiet,” she said, an easy smile at her lips as she let the door fall shut behind her.  

Fenris froze, but only momentarily, and then continued straightening the cards and put them in the sideboard drawer.  “Your sister seemed not to mind.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”  She went to the sideboard as well, and frowned in puzzlement as she took in all the empty bottles and used glasses.  Her mouth fell open and her cheeks went pink as she closed her eyes and lightly slapped her hand over her eyes.  “Andraste’s knickers, I _forgot about the wine_.”

His chuckle was little more than a breath, but it startled Amelle all the same.  Her hand fell away from her face and soon the full force of her smile was upon him, and he saw the quality of her smile was somewhat different, but no less delighted.  No matter Hawke’s words, he felt nothing at all like his namesake in that moment.

What had he done to make her smile like that?

“Fenris, did you just _laugh?_ ” she asked, her own words tinted with surprised mirth.  “More to the point, did I just _make_ you laugh?”

“I apologize,” he said stiffly, as a strange, uncomfortable warmth crept up the back of his neck.  “I only thought it was not quite so surprising you forgot your initial errand in light of certain events.”

“I remembered to grab a bottle of whiskey.”

“And?”

“And I was so terrified I was going to do something wrong, I forgot to drink it.”

He looked at her then, unable to reconcile Amelle’s words with that he knew of her skill, of what she’d done so far.  “You truly believe so little of your skills after healing Sebastian’s wound?”

Amelle breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled through her teeth as she walked past him to one of the comfortably stuffed chairs before the fire.  As she passed him, Fenris caught the scent of her soap and he chastised himself when he realized he was breathing in a little deeper.  _You’re acting the fool,_ he scolded himself silently, and instead turned to where Amelle was folding herself into the chair, tucking her legs up beneath her skirt.  She tilted her head, indicating the other chair, tacitly inviting him to sit.  _Quiet as a rabbit,_ Hawke’s words echoed back to him.  He lowered into the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

“It’s different, healing a wound,” she began slowly.  “There’s… there’s an injury — something broken that must be mended.  But Ianna wasn’t… she wasn’t _injured._   It wasn’t simply a matter of fixing something broken.  I’d never been in a situation like that — where simply applying the magic and convincing the injured muscle and bone and skin to become whole again… wouldn’t _work._ ”  

“And yet you were victorious.”

Her smile returned, wide enough to reveal the dimple in her left cheek.  “To my endless surprise and relief.” She cocked her head slightly, glancing down at her hands as though she half-expected to find them still bloody.  He followed her gaze to her hands; they were pale and slender, her fingers long and graceful, with close-cut nails, but for all that there was very clearly strength in those hands.  Amelle Hawke, not unlike her sister, was a strong individual.  And, for once — though it was becoming more common lately — the thought was not followed by the words, _for a mage._

Amelle spoke again, jarring him from his reverie as she turned her hands over and stretched out her fingers:  “I’m not sure I want to pursue a career in midwifery, though.”

Fenris found himself at a loss for words. It was a… peculiar sensation. He was used to _choosing_ silence over speech, but this was different. If Amelle noticed, she gave no sign of it, sighing happily and leaning back into the comfort of the chair. “Maker,” she whispered. “A _baby_.”

After another long moment he spent wrestling with words that would not come, Amelle lifted her head and peered around the room. “Where did she _go_?”

“The wine cellar,” he replied. “She said she would be right back. But that was… some time ago.”

“Scrounging in the kitchen, I’ll bet. I’ve never met anyone with such a weakness for middle of the night snacking. Mother used to catch Kiara eating in her sleep sometimes, when she was a child.”

“You jest.”

“I don’t!” Amelle protested, giggling. “She always went straight for the cookie jar and then claimed innocence in the morning.”

Fenris debated his next words, but something of his struggle must have shown on his face, because Amelle’s laughter ceased and her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“She seemed… well, tonight. Better than she’s been.”

Amelle nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip. “I think it was good for her to… to see all of you. Things haven’t been…”

“As they were,” he supplied, when it appeared she would not finish her sentence.

Her eyes were very green in the firelight as they turned to meet his. “Things are never going to be as they were. It’s just… it’s just now we have to figure out how they _are_ , and how they’re going to _be_.” She said the words with conviction, with spirit, and once again he was certain both her nicknames were wrong. Perhaps she was quiet, but she was no timid prey. Perhaps she was a Hawke, but there was nothing _diminutive_ about her.

Before he could take the thought further, they were interrupted  by a crashing thud, and Amelle leapt to her feet, flinging the door wide. Hawke stood on the other side, bottles under her arms and hands supporting an overflowing platter heaped high with bread and cheese and fruit. Fenris thought he spied a little pile of tarts, and he smiled. He was fond of the elf-woman’s tarts. 

Amelle took the food and gave her sister a fond smile. “We’re feeding an army?”

“I’m hungry. You just delivered a baby, so you _must_ be hungry. And Fenris is _always_ hungry.” Hawke grinned at him over Amelle’s shoulder. “ _Tarts_!”

“And Aggregio, I see.”

Hawke gave him a look. “Obviously. You know the good stuff always comes out when Isabela’s gone. I swear I could serve her piss in a cup and she’d drink it down and ask for more, but anything that’s actually any good? Wasted on her entirely.”

Amelle’s eyes widened and she laughed. Hawke joined her. Even Fenris found himself chuckling as he reached for a tart, though he swallowed the sound when he caught both Hawke sisters giving him identical looks of incredulity. Then they looked at each other, and burst into gales of hilarity anew.

#

Some time and several bottles later, the three of them sat around the fire in the library. Fenris and Hawke occupied the two armchairs, while Amelle rested upon the floor before the fire, her arms braced behind her and legs stretched out.  She wiggled her toes in front of the hearth.  

Fenris reached for the nearly empty bottle upon the table between his and Hawke’s chairs, pouring some into his glass, and then some into Hawke’s.  But as he leaned forward to pour the last of the wine into Amelle’s glass, she tipped her head back and smiled up at him, shaking her head.

“You can take my share, Fenris.”  Then, with a mighty groan, she pushed to her feet, collecting her glass and the leather slippers she’d been wearing.  “It’s been a very long, very _full_ day, and I think it’s time I turn in.”

“Yes, I imagine _delivering babies_ takes it out of a girl,” Hawke teased, shooting her sister a grin.

“Don’t kid,” Amelle said, setting her empty glass on the sideboard before a wide yawn clutched at her.  “I’m nearly dead on my feet.”

“Best go to bed then, I think.”  

Amelle nodded, but instead of leaving the room and turning her steps up the flight of stairs, she disappeared down a hallway, returning a few moments later with a folded blanket and pillow loaded in her arms.

Hawke squinted at her sister.  “Mely?  What are you doing?  You have a bed.”

Amelle set the pillow at one end of the divan and the folded blanket at the other, then sent them a grin.  “We aren’t actually going to make Fenris walk all the way back to the mansion tonight, are we?”

“It is a trip I’ve made before,” he replied.  But Amelle just waved a hand.

“This is easier.  Besides, you may decide you want your inevitable hangover dealt with.  Better if you don’t have to walk all the way back here just for that.”

“Healer’s got a point,” Hawke said, taking a drink.

Fenris looked at the divan and then at Amelle, not sure what to say.  Finally, after far too long a silence, he thanked her and was rewarded with a smile.

“It’s nothing,” she said, leaning over the back of Hawke’s chair to press a kiss to her sister’s hair.  “Good night.”

Her steps were almost silent as she went up the stairs.

“ _I_ don’t think we’ll be hungover,” Hawke announced.  “Mely worries too much.”

Fenris nodded silently.  He wasn’t sure whether Hawke was right or not — he didn’t feel _particularly_ inebriated, after all.  The warmth of the wine hummed through his veins, leaving him pliant and content.

“Your sister,” he said quietly, looking once more at the pillow and blanket.

“Hmmm?”

“It is odd she has not…”  Fenris struggled a moment, forming the words.  He spoke them slowly and deliberately.  Not a sign of overindulgence or inebriation, but rather a desire to treat the matter with the gravity it deserved.  “Odd she has not… found some measure of… companionship over the years.”

“Friends?” Hawke asked.  “Mely’s got plenty of friends.”  She counted off on her fingers:  “Isabela, Varric, Merrill, Aveline, you—”

“No, Hawke, I meant—”

Grey eyes widened.  “You aren’t Mely’s friend?”  Hawke looked genuinely distressed at the notion.  “Why not?”  Before he could answer, she leaned forward and asked with something very near forlornness, “Is it because she’s a mage?”

“You _are_ drunk, Hawke.”

She widened her eyes, astonished. “I’m _not_. Tipsy, _maybe_.” Hawke folded her hands around the stem of her wineglass and frowned down at the liquid within. “I really thought… you know, after _everything_ , I thought maybe you’d… made progress.”

He grimaced. “You misunderstand me. On more than one count.”

Hawke pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and furrowed her brow. “You—do consider Mely a friend, then?” Fenris did not dignify the question with an answer, which evidently served as reply enough, because Hawke’s worried expression turned into a brief but brilliant smile. “Well, that _is_ progress, isn’t it?”

He did not dignify _this_ with a response, either. When it appeared she was not going to return to his previous line of questioning, he hazarded a second attempt, rephrasing it slightly. “I have known you both some time, Hawke. You have friendships enough, but nothing more… intimate. It seems curious.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kiara breathed. “Oh, I see.” A shadow crossed her face. “The hopeless Hawke sisters. Has someone been spreading rumors again?”

A flash of irritation stabbed at him when he thought of the rumors Hawke alluded to. He could not claim to be ignorant of them, but he disliked the unhappiness even the mention of them brought. He wondered if they troubled Amelle the same way. “Nothing specific.”

Hawke sighed, raised her glass, and emptied it in a heady gulp. Evidently fortified by this, she said, “It _is_ because she’s a mage, I think. Why she doesn’t… you know. I-I don’t mean to cause offense with the comparison, but… how much time did you spend pursuing _companionship_ when you were running from Danarius? I’m going to hazard a guess and say _not much_. Amelle’s basically been running her entire life. Even if she… and even if she _did_ care for someone, the… the _trust_ she’d need to have… and _that’s_ only if the person involved was able to see past any prejudices _they_ might have. Maybe another mage, but…” She made a face and gave an exaggerated shudder. “Maker knows _that_ wasn’t going to happen, with the option she had on hand. And thank Andraste for it.”

“Indeed,” Fenris agreed, thoughtful. And somehow just as grateful as Hawke.

Hawke toyed idly with the empty glass, spinning it between her fingers with remarkable dexterity, considering the amount she’d had to drink. “At least I know why I haven’t… well, that hardly matters. I know I’m biased, but she’s… Amelle’s the best person I know, Fenris. She shouldn’t have to _hide_ it. She deserves so much better than that. It just… it just makes me so bloody _sad_.”

And it did, Fenris could see that clearly enough.  It made sense, what Hawke was telling him — he _hadn’t_ been inclined toward _companionship_ while he’d been on the run from Danarius.  It hadn’t been safe to trust anyone.

But still, surely…

“Even when you were both younger?” he asked.  “Before coming to Kirkwall?”

A peculiar shadow crossed Hawke’s face, but was gone before he could ask about it.  “Lothering was… it was our chance at a normal life.  But Mely still had to be careful — she always had to be careful.  We all did, for that matter, but I think it _bothered_ Carver more.  He was Mely’s age and I don’t think he really understood until he was older what it all _meant_ , you know?”  She sighed and looked at her glass, half surprised and half annoyed to find it empty.  “We left when Amelle and Carver were all of eighteen.  And our father died three years before that.  So at an age when we _should_ have been whispering and giggling over boys _,_ other things were… more important.”

“Survival.”

Hawke let out a deep sigh as she nodded.  “Don’t get me wrong — she wasn’t cloistered away or anything.  She certainly had her _moments_ of being normal.”  She laughed a little, shaking her head.  “I remember once Carver and I caught her kissing one of the village boys behind the barn.  It was such a little… innocent thing at the time, but Carver was ready to pound the boy into pulp all the same.  She was… Maker, no more than fourteen.  Papa died the next year, and she took that terribly hard.  W-we all did. And then the years following…”  Hawke trailed off.  “So… no, there’s never been… anyone she’s cared enough about or trusted enough.  I mean, some of Hightown’s young men would come by — or used to, back before everything went straight to the Void — but… no. Unless there’s something she hasn’t told me, and I… well, I doubt that.”

The enormity of what Hawke was telling him about her sister began to sink in.  “I see,” was all Fenris said.  If any vague half-thoughts or notions had been on the verge of forming into something more, into something with intent, _that_ realization was enough to end them.  If Hawke’s sister was even half as much an innocent as she was implying…

 _She deserves better than you,_ a dark thought whispered in Fenris’ ear.  He scowled and shook it off.  It had been a foolish, silly notion.  And he a fool for giving it any thought at all.  Over the years he’d certainly given Amelle Hawke no reason to— 

No.  No reason at all.

“She deserves to be happy.  She deserves someone _good._   Someone who can make her happy.”  Hawke set her glass down and pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees.  “I don’t think I’ve seen her as happy as she was tonight since _coming_ to Kirkwall.”

Fenris remembered — was finding it hard to forget, in fact — the radiance of Amelle’s smile earlier that evening.  But he said nothing.  Despite the fact that Hawke was clearly in her cups, she wasn’t stupid.  Saying too much would have been disastrous, and so he looked hard into the remaining wine in the bottom of his glass, twisting it this way and that so the red liquid slid up the sides of the glass.

Unsurprisingly, Hawke didn’t notice his silence as anything out of the ordinary.  She kept speaking, her voice heavy with melancholy.  “Maker knows with what’s coming next that’s not going to happen either.”  She turned shining eyes to Fenris.  “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

He drained what remained in his own glass in a single gulp.  “Very little about the world right now is fair, Hawke.”

When she raised her eyes to meet his, something about her expression—so wounded, so bruised—momentarily stole his breath. “I know,” she said softly. “A great deal of it is my fault. And there’s not a damned thing I can do to put it right.”

“Hawke…”

She rose very suddenly—also with remarkable dexterity—and smiled a brittle smile down at him. “There. I’ve crossed the line. I didn’t mean to. It won’t seem as grim in the morning. It never does.”

“It never does,” he echoed. “Hawke, about Sebastian—”

She chuckled a hard, skeptical little laugh. “Oh no. I’m most _certainly_ not drunk enough for _that_ conversation.” Her fingertips ghosted ever-so-lightly over one shoulder, as though she wanted to make certain he was still _there_. “I am… I am glad you care enough to ask. About her. About me. Even about bloody Sebastian. I find myself oddly… grateful for it.” She shook her head slightly and sighed. “Tomorrow, Fenris. I will be better tomorrow.”

He wished rather than believed this to be true, but he did not stop her when she threw a last sad smile over her shoulder and closed the door, leaving him with the empty bottles, the dying fire, and his own troubled thoughts.


	16. Chapter 16

Amelle woke early — far earlier than she might have otherwise done, given the wine they’d drunk the night before — feeling not only refreshed (or she did after applying a bit of healing mana in the direction of her hangover) but eager to  _do_  something.  

And she had a feeling she knew exactly  _what._

The events of the previous night had stayed with her, burning bright, even through the Aggregio’s intoxicating effects.  Long after she retired, Amelle had lain in bed, thoughts circling madly through her head, memories flickering rapidly behind her eyelids, replaying the first moments she’d held Ianna’s babe in her arms.  Such a tiny thing, with tiny fingers clenched into tiny fists, and tiny feet with tinier toes kicking in something akin to indignation as the baby squalled with lungs that certainly  _sounded_  full-grown.

Life.  It was  _life_  held in her arms, pink and wrinkly and loud, but it was enough.  Enough to remind Amelle that as horrible as things had been lately, and for as much death blanketed Kirkwall now… there was always life.  And where there was life, there was hope.

Never had Anders’ actions seemed further away.  The many innocent lives he’d taken in an act of vengeance dressed up so poorly as justice had stuck with her, clung to her, dogged her every step, and with every victim recovered or — as was more frequently the case — every  _partial_  victim recovered, Amelle had felt more and more heartsick and betrayed.

_You were supposed to be a healer!_

Amelle struggled with Anders’ actions —  _still_  — in a way she wasn’t sure she could explain to anyone else.  As a mage she felt sickened by the idea that such an act had been committed on her behalf — if such was the price of freedom, it was too dear, and Amelle was left feeling as if the blood of those innocents stained her hands as well.  But the deepest betrayal was the one she felt as a  _healer._   She’d looked up to Anders at one time, sharpening and fine-tuning her own considerable healing abilities, always pushing herself to improve, to learn new skills and spells and potions, to  _help._

It was not Amelle-the-mage, but  rather Amelle-the-healer who struggled most with what Anders had done.  The healer who had soothed burns and mended bones and oozing battle wounds — of bystanders and templars both — in the aftermath.  Anders had remade this world, and Amelle was left to pick up the pieces knowing nothing would ever truly be the same as it was.

But holding that life in her hands — squirming, screaming, red-faced  _life —_  changed something in her.  No matter what Anders had done, no matter how many he’d killed in the wake of his grand gesture,  _life_  still persevered.  They would endure, all of them, and even if the worst should occur, life would still march on, and the world would be made whole again,  _somehow_.  

It was with equal parts optimism and raw determination that Amelle levered herself out of bed and dressed in her shabbiest clothes.  Downstairs, she found Orana gliding about the kitchen, making the morning buns.  The elf had been overly modest about her cooking skills from the start, but with a few recipes and after a little trial and error, Amelle and Kiara had decided the girl was the best thing to happen to them since arriving in Kirkwall.  Varric inevitably looked tragically hurt and put-upon at these words — but only until he held one of Orana’s sticky-buns, still warm from the oven and covered in a gloriously melty sugar-glaze, in his hands.

Amelle padded silently through the kitchen and opened the door to one of the storage closets at the back of the room, vanishing inside.  She heard Orana slide the buns into the oven and the soft footfalls as she followed Amelle to the closet.  She paused at the doorway and tilted her head curiously as Amelle peered at the contents of the closet, stacked so neatly on the heavy shelves.  Another thing she admired about Orana: the girl was  _organized._   But alas, the items Amelle was looking for were nowhere to be found.

“Mistress?” Orana asked, watching Amelle as she summoned a gentle blue light into existence and rose upon tiptoes to examine the higher shelves. “What are… what are you doing?”

“Where do we keep the scrub brushes and buckets?”

But the elven girl simply  _looked_  at her, as if she didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of Amelle’s request.  She then cocked her head a little, reminding the mage vaguely of Cupcake.  “But why are you looking for such things at all, Mistress?”

Amelle’s mouth worked silently a moment.  Why  _else_  would someone be on the hunt for cleaning supplies?  “Because I… want to clean something?”

“But…”  Orana hesitated, looking distressed as her fingers went to the hem of the apron she wore and fiddled anxiously with the material.

Amelle lifted both eyebrows at the elf, inviting her to finish her thought. “But…?”

“But that’s my  _job_ , Mistress Amelle,” she explained, looking strangely concerned.  “To keep the house clean for you and Mistress Kiara.  If you think I haven’t been doing a very good job, I promise I’ll—”

“No, no, Orana!” blurted Amelle, holding her hands up.  “No, it’s… no.  You’re doing  _fine_ , really.  Wonderful, in fact.”  Here her expression went slightly sheepish.  “This isn’t… in the house. Exactly.”

“If you just let me know what it is you’d like taken care of—”

“Truly, Orana,” she broke in, “it’s all right.  I want to do this myself; I promise.  I  _want_  to.  I swear it.  It’s okay.  Just tell me where the buckets and brushes are and I’ll be out of your hair until such time as those buns come out of the oven.”

After some negotiating and several more assurances that Orana kept the house in excellent condition, Amelle found herself in possession of several scrub brushes and two buckets.  She went out to the well and filled both, and as Amelle struggled to carry in the two very full, very  _heavy_ buckets of water through the kitchen and down to the cellars, she found herself in the path of yet another elf — this one looking far more displeased with her than the first had.

“Good morning, Fenris,” she chirped, blithely ignoring the water she’d just sloshed onto the floor.  “You’re looking…” Amelle trailed off, peering at him.  “Not very well at all.”

“It… is early,” he said slowly, looking curiously at the buckets.  

“And you’re… hungover.”

For a moment — and only a moment — Fenris looked ready to deny this claim.  Then he only grimaced and shook his head, evidently realizing too late he should have thought better of it.  

“Perhaps.”

“I did promise to help.”  Amelle shrugged, gesturing briefly.  Her gift for healing hangovers was well-known among her sister’s friends; Isabela managed to require it twice in a day, once.  But for reasons that were no secret to Amelle, Fenris had always abstained.  He’d never been rude about it, and she still always offered, but he’d simply… didn’t.

This time, however, Fenris appeared to consider for a moment, and for half that moment Amelle was certain he’d refuse.  In the end, though, he nodded once.  “Very well.”

“Very well?”  Amelle blinked.  “I— you… Fenris, did you just say  _yes_?”

“I did.”

“Oh.”

He canted his head at her after a moment.  “Is there… a problem with that?”

“No, no.  No problem at all.”  Amelle felt her cheeks warm as she lifted her hands.  “No, it’s just… odd, that’s all.”  She placed her hands against Fenris’ head, fingers resting gently by his temples.  The hot-and-cold pulse of her healing magic shifted forward, trickling out until Fenris let out a sigh of what was almost certainly relief.  

She pulled her hands away and peered at him.  Smiling suddenly, she said, “You know, there was a time when you wouldn’t have let me pull a splinter from your hand.”

Fenris let out a soft snort.  “There was a time when I would have accused you of putting it there.”  He paused, then.  “Thank you.”

Suppressing the width and brightness of her smile — or at least reining in her smile — Amelle said, “You’re very welcome.  And beware those dreaded magical splinters.  I plan to rule the world with them one day.”

“And a more terrifying dictator I’m sure we’ll never know.”  He nodded at the buckets of water, still sitting at their feet.  “Tell me, are these part of your cunning plan?”

Amelle breathed a laugh and bent to retrieve the buckets, grunting at their weight.  “Hardly.  This… is a different errand.”  Maker, but they were  _heavy._   

“Amelle.”  But before she could turn to reply — and spill more water in the process — Fenris let out an exasperated sigh and took hold of both handles, smoothly relieving Amelle of the buckets entirely.  

“You don’t have to—”

Fenris reply was brusque.  “You are far too likely to spill every drop before you reach your destination.”  He paused and frowned down at the buckets.  “And I would repay you for…”

“Alleviating your hangover?”

“Indeed.”

A tiny germ of an idea formed in Amelle’s brain just then.  “All right, then.  If you’re in the mood for a little heavy lifting, follow me.  I think I’ve got just the thing.”

### 

“You look pleased,” remarked Sebastian as Amelle came into the room, her arms full of bandages and poultices.  It had been difficult at first, coming into  _this_  room to treat him while he slept, but over time, that ache healed over, and Amelle found it was slowly getting easier to enter the room that had once been their mother’s.  For now, the space was more or less Sebastian’s. Orana had been up here already, it seemed; her patient, still propped up by pillows, held a cup of tea in his hands.

“And  _you_  are looking more and more like you’re thinking about hanging around,” she said, setting the supplies on a nearby table.  A cloud seemed to pass over Sebastian’s brow at her words and she quickly amended:  “And by that I mean you’re looking less and less like you’re on death’s door.  It’s a good thing, Sebastian.  I assure you.”  

The look he gave her was a wry one.  “Then I’m not overstaying my welcome?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, plucking up one of the jars of topical potion and working to unscrew the cap.  “Overstaying your welcome in this house?” She paused, giving the lid another twist, to no avail.  

“Aye.”

“Why, we’re just two helpless little girls, Sebastian,” Amelle simpered, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly at him, even as she kept working at the jar.  

“I see.”

“I’m glad you do. It’s a  _relief_  to have such a big strong man aroun—  _Maker,_  what the bloody hell’s the matter with this thing?” she snapped suddenly, glaring down at the jar before giving it a quick, controlled flash of heat followed by a similarly quick, controlled whack against the edge of a table.  With another twist, the lid came free.

There was a choking sound from the bed and Amelle hid her smirk as she opened the jar with ease and set it aside.  “Don’t aspirate the tea, Sebastian. Healer’s orders.”

The old bandages came off, and Amelle settled on the edge of the bed, leaning forward and scrutinizing the wound as she pulled the poultice free.  She frowned at it.  Then she glared.  “You said it was feeling better.”

“It was,” Sebastian remarked with a grimace as Amelle continued to examine the red, angry skin.  “I thought it  _was_  improving.”

“Well, you’re leagues better than you were,” she said, and it was the truth, at least.  He was  _awake_ , after all.  He was also, more importantly, not dead.

Sebastian looked down at the injured area, shaking his head slowly, as if he could tell Amelle’s thoughts.  “It is truly a miracle you came along when… when you did.”

Amelle only made a noncommittal noise, bowing her head — and avoiding Sebastian’s eyes — as she concentrated on cleaning the area.  She didn’t  _quite_  feel like telling Sebastian precisely how close a thing it had been, finding him in that alley, the work it took to keep his spirit from departing.  Once clean, she pressed gently at the skin around the area; it still felt hot.  “You know, it’s odd,” she said, half to herself.  “This is almost behaving as if the blade had been coated in poison.”

“Why is that odd?  Is it not entirely possible?”

“You said they were templars, right?”  When Sebastian nodded, she shook her head.  “Templars have little use for any poison that’s not magebane based.”

“Magebane?”

“Oh, nasty stuff,” replied Amelle, her nose wrinkling as she sat back a bit.  “My father laid hands on some once — took a trip all the way to Denerim for it.”

“Why?”

She coughed lightly and shrugged.  “So I could… experience it.”

Sebastian gaped at her.  “You’re joking.”

“Indeed not.” She turned and picked up the jar she’d set aside earlier. “He wanted me to know it, to be able to identify its effects so I’d know the very moment I’d been exposed to it.”

“What does it do?”

“It completely inhibits a mage’s ability to spellcast.  In large enough doses, it can be toxic — especially to spirit healers.”

“But… that doesn’t make sense.”

“Think about it,” said Amelle, gesturing with the jar, sending the herbal, medicinal scent of the topical potion within wafting out.   “A spirit healer heals herself — or himself — constantly.  If we’re exposed to any common poison, we use that healing magic to combat it, purify it, and purge it from our system.  We heal our own injuries and illnesses, but as a result we compromise our ability to work work up any sort of natural immunity to anything. Once you inhibit our spellcasting, we cannot protect ourselves even on the most basic level.”

“Can you… build up an immunity to this magebane?”

“I don’t know — no one’s ever had access to enough of it to try.”  Amelle stuck two fingers in the sticky substance, and began applying it to the reddened, irritated skin surrounding the wound.  “The templars keep it under pretty tight lock and key as I understand it.  Father only managed to procure some on a fluke; there’s a shop in Denerim — the Wonders of Thedas. The proprietor sometimes carried a small supply of… black market items.”

“And your father…  _poisoned_  you with this magebane?  How old were you?”

Amelle sighed and shook her head at him.  “It was an important — if incredibly  _unpleasant_  — lesson.  I understood at thirteen that he took no joy in it, but… I’ll know if I’ve been exposed to magebane, and I can… well, at least I’ll know that I won’t be able to count on magic to get me  out of that scrape.  Which means falling back on charm.”  She grinned and gave him a wink.

“And what happened once you took it?”

“It worked entirely as advertised.  I couldn’t cast a spell, couldn’t muster even the tiniest, most insignificant spark of magic.  I also… well.”  Here Amelle stopped and grimaced, looking away as she set the jar back on the table.

“Dare I ask?”

The grimace didn’t fade.  “…Threw up. A lot.”  When Sebastian mimicked her expression, she shrugged.  “I was working minor healing spells by then, so… yes.  I learned how much harder healers get hit by it.”

“Can the effects be counteracted?”

“My, you’re interested in this stuff,” said Amelle on a laugh; she tilted her head and sent him a smirk.  “Planning to poison me in my sleep?”

In an instant, Sebastian went deeply pink, and Amelle realized too late she’d put her foot in her mouth — this was the man, mere days before, who had vowed to rain vengeance upon them all.  “N-no, of course not!  I wouldn’t—”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” said Amelle, giving him a level look. “Only teasing — I didn’t mean anything by it.  Truly.  You ought to know me a little better than that by now, I should hope.”  She looked again at the bottles on the nearby table and plucked one up that shone an iridescent green in the glass.  A tincture of elfroot that would help ease the heat that radiated from the wound.  She handed him the bottle, silently indicating he drink it.  “Anyway, to answer your question, nothing can really  _counteract_  magebane other than time.  Lyrium potion does help, though.  Father put me to bed and gave me a dram of it.”  She smiled then, a bittersweetly fond quirk of her lips.  “Carver kept asking him if he could keep a vial of magebane for himself.”

He handed her the empty bottle.  “But your brother wasn’t—”

“To use on me when I got insufferable.”

“Insufferable?  You?”

“Oh, you’re not getting any of  _those_  stories out of me, serah.  Weasel them out of my sister if you must, but on the topic of myself and the many foolish things I did as a child, my lips are sealed.  I will not incriminate myself beyond acknowledging I might have been on occasion somewhat troublesome.”

She hated the way his smile faded the moment she mentioned Kiara.

_Idiots,_  she groused silently _. The both of them._

“Now…” Amelle cracked her knuckles and shook out her hands as she stood over Sebastian.  “Time for you to let me do the real work, hmm?”

Sebastian was healing slowly, too slowly, but he was  _healing,_  and that was enough for her to feel a measure of relief.  She placed her hands over the injured spot, closing her eyes and feeling that little  _surge_  as her spirit healing energy surfaced.  She felt the blue light surge into existence, felt it grow until the glow surrounded her hands, and she began  _pushing_ waves of the healing energy into the wound.  When she looked down, she frowned to see the flesh still taking its time about healing.  She drew in a breath and felt her mana  _shift_ , felt the light around her hands grow brighter, stronger, until that hotcold thrum turned more hot than cold, and the blue-white light turned more white than blue.

And still she pushed harder, drawing more intently upon her mana, the frown at her brow turning into a scowl as she worked to convince, coerce, and downright  _badger_  the flesh into knitting itself back together again.

Finally, when she couldn’t sustain it any longer, Amelle let the light fade, and shook her head, leaning heavily against the bedpost for support.  She blinked hard at the spots dancing before her eyes.  “Why do your injuries have to be as stubborn as the rest of you?  Honestly — everyone else, I just have to nudge a little here, pull a little there, and everything comes together.  You?  You have to go and be  _difficult._ ”  

“I suppose if I call it a talent, you’ll just hit me.”

She stared.  Rising to the bait  _and_  returning a volley?  Wound be damned, her patient  _was_  feeling better, it seemed.  “Hitting?  Please.  I never resort to such barbaric measures,” she sniffed.  “That’s what I have fireballs for.”

“I’m sure it’s a very…  _effective_  negotiation tool.”

“Did you know I can make it so a man’s eyebrows never grow back?”

“…Effective indeed.”

She grinned crookedly and began applying the topical potion, settling the poultice in place.  “You know, since you are feeling so much better, it might be a good time for you to try what we talked about last night.”  She glanced up from her work to send him a gently pointed look.  “Remember?”

“Aye,” Sebastian replied.  He couldn’t quite keep wariness out of his tone, she noticed.  “I… would not mind a change of locale,” Sebastian he added.  “Provided the healer approves.”

“As it happens, the healer  _does_ approve.  How do you feel about rolling bandages?”

 ###

Kiara’s door was closed.  It would not do.

Amelle tripped downstairs, breathing in the scent of Orana’s nearly-finished sticky buns.  It  _had_  been a productive morning — Fenris had already helped her carry the cleaning supplies down the ladder and into the clinic; Sebastian’s wound had been cleaned and tended, and Amelle’s lightheadedness from that strangely intense rush of healing magic was gradually fading; Fenris was due back from the mansion any moment now; and Varric was on the hunt for more medical supplies.  No telling how long that last one would take — bandages were a rare commodity right now — but she had faith in the dwarf’s ability to find that which proved difficult to locate.

The only thing remaining was the matter of her sister.

“The buns are nearly finished, Mistress Amelle,” Orana chirped.  “Is Mistress Kiara awake yet?”

“Not yet,” replied Amelle as she dragged a chair across the kitchen and stood upon it, the better to peer up at the highest shelf in the room.  “But that’s about to change,” she added under her breath.

A simple, dented tin had been pushed back all the way to the wall, half hidden behind a delicately crafted porcelain tea-service — Orlesian make, according to the stamp on the bottom of the pieces, and one of the best discoveries the old family vault had yielded.  The porcelain was nearly translucent, adorned with delicate, pale blue flowers and gilt accents.  It was, in a word, exquisite.  

It was also one of the sisters’ favorite items in the house — their mother had been the one to find the tea service in the first place.   _“Girls, look at what I’ve found — Maker, I thought this lost forever.  This was your grandmother’s tea service, you know.  Given to her on her wedding day.”_   And how she’d  _smiled_  at this, eyeing her two daughters so speculatively.   _“And which of you shall I give it to, I wonder?”_  she’d asked, eyes twinkling.  And then Leandra Hawke had lovingly and carefully cleaned the dirt and grime from every piece, before inviting her daughters to join her for afternoon tea, and presenting it to them with a flourish.  

That day, filled with sunshine and laughter and three Hawkes sitting down to tea and cakes seemed like so many lifetimes ago.  When Amelle touched the delicately curved spout of the teapot, she closed her eyes and saw her mother, healthy and radiant and  _alive_ , fussing over the tea and gently teasing Amelle about the days when she’d liked more milk and sugar in her tea than actual  _tea._   Then drawing in a deep breath and steadying her hands, Amelle pulled the tray — and the tin of what Amelle  _knew_  was Kiara’s so-called “secret” stash of Orlesian black tea, its leaves caramelized and dotted with flecks of tiny blue flower petals — from the shelf and crept carefully down from the chair.

“I’ve already put some water on for tea, Mistress Amelle.”

Amelle chuckled and shook her head, the tea-service clinking gently as she set down the tray.  “One step ahead of me again, Orana.  I hope you won’t mind if I speed things up a bit?”

The girl smiled and ducked her head as she shook it.  “No, Mistress.  Magic… you know it doesn’t bother me.”

No, Amelle supposed it didn’t, though, as she sent a quick flare of magic to the kettle, she did hope  _she_  was a better example of it than Hadriana had ever been.  Soon steam was rushing from the kettle’s spout as it gave a strident whistle, and by the time the tea had finished steeping, Orana was pulling the buns from the oven and separating them, the gooey glaze pulling away in long, melting strings.  Amelle grabbed one, then two, and placed them on the tray with the tea service.  They only had sugar, as milk was still too difficult to come by in the market these days.  Armed thus, Amelle swept up the tray and carried it up to her sister’s room.

The bedchamber was, Amelle was entirely unsurprised to discover,  _dark_.  She could just barely make out the lump of blankets on the bed, a tuft of mussed red hair sticking out.  So Kiara’s head was under the pillow — a bad hangover, then.  

Well, she’d try not to enjoy this  _too much,_  in that case.

Amelle set down the tray and moved to the window.  “Wake up, sleepyhead!” she sang out, flinging the drapes open and letting midmorning sunlight stream into the room.  Kiara’s reaction was instant:  Amelle’s sister, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the woman who defeated the Arishok in a duel armed with only a bow and arrows, rolled over, jamming the pillow more firmly over her head, and  _whimpered._

“’M gonna kill you,” mumbled a voice thick with sleep and misery.  “A lot.”

“Last I checked,” Amelle replied cheerfully, “I was the one of us who could kill things with the power of her mind. You, on the other hand, would still have to get out of bed and do things like open your eyes.  And focus.”

“…Shut up. Still gonna kill you.”

“I brought tea.”

There was a calculating pause.  “…Kill you after tea.”

“And Orana’s buns,” added Amelle, temptingly.

_That_  was enough to get Kiara to shove the pillow up from her head.  “Buns?” she asked, peering out from beneath the pillow.

Amelle arched an eyebrow at her sister.  “You have an appetite?”

The pillow came away as Kiara sat up, blinking in the bright sunlight.  “I will after you, you know…” Kiara wiggled her fingers, gesturing at her head.

“You have no idea how tempting it is to pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about, just to see if you’ll do  _that_  again.”

“You know, you’re supposed to be my shining example of how all mages aren’t mean and cruel,” Kiara muttered sulkily.  “I’m  _suffering,_ Mely.”

“And we don’t want me perpetuating the stereotype, do we?” sighed Amelle, sitting on the edge of Kiara’s bed.  Her sister grimaced at the sudden movement.  “You know,  _maybe_  if you can’t handle your Tevinter wine,  _maybe_  you shouldn’t consider it a good idea to kill a whole bottle.”

“I didn’t kill the  _whole_  bottle.  Fenris helped.  And you too.”  Kiara peered at her sister.  “Which makes me wonder why  _you’re_  always so bloody bright eyed and bushy-tailed after we stay up too late drinking.”

“Kiara.  I can counteract  _Crow venom_.  A little bit of wine is child’s play.”

“I… cannot help but think that is a horrible waste of excellent wine.”

Amelle grinned, poking Kiara in the arm.  “You’re just jealous I can enjoy it and not shamble about like the undead the next morning.”

Kiara pouted.  “I think you’re a cheating cheater.”

“A cheating cheater who brought you tea, buns, and is going to make all of your immediate woes go away.”

Kiara’s gaze drifted to the waiting tea and buns and she  _beamed_.  “And did I mention the best sister ever?”

Amelle grinned and leaned forward, kissing her sister’s forehead, then touched the spot, sending a rush of healing energy free, washing away the aftereffects of indulgence until Kiara let out a relieved sigh.  “Not lately, but I never get tired of hearing it.”  

“Anything you want,” Kiara said, sagging with relief.  “Anything.  No price too high.”

“As it happens,” Amelle said, pouring her sister a cup of tea, adding sugar, and handing over the teacup, “I may let you make good on that.”  

“Is it illegal?” Kiara asked, scooting forward on the bed and reaching for a bun.

“I could tell you it is, if it’d make you happy.  But no — it requires no sneaking, no skulking, no lockpicking, no daggers, no arrows, no feats of daring-do—”

“And you made me tea and brought me Orana’s buns.”  As if the idea just occurred to her, Kiara looked up and narrowed her eyes shrewdly at Amelle.  “What exactly is it you’re angling for, sister dear?”

Amelle’s smile was such that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.  Then she told her sister her plan.

“I can’t tell if you’re mad or brilliant.”

“I’m too charming to be mad,” Amelle quipped with a wink.  “Let’s go with brilliant.”


	17. Chapter 17

Kiara was having a hard time remembering whether Amelle had always been such a gifted manipulator, or if this was a skill developed only since coming to Kirkwall.  Her baby sister had always seemed to understand and wield the power of a pair of big green eyes with impunity, and possessed a look of patented wide-eyed innocence that… well, for Kiara, that was the first sign Amelle had done something worth killing her for later.  So, maybe Amelle _wasn’t_ all that cunning — but if she wasn’t, it certainly had nothing to do with a lack of effort.

The tea and buns in bed, Kiara had to admit — that _had_ been a good touch.  As had been curing that nasty hangover. She also had to admit revamping the clinic was not the worst idea she’d ever heard.

But as Kiara walked into the clinic, it was to find Amelle deep in conference with Varric.  Then Amelle looked up, and it only took a fraction of a second for her sister to give Kiara the very look of doe-eyed guilelessness that made every one of Kiara’s instincts go on alert.  And she’d barely even _walked through_ the clinic’s doors.

And there.  _There_.  The slightest scuffing of Amelle’s foot upon the floor — then Amelle froze, her foot caught in mid-scuff, as if Amelle realized her tell too late.  Kiara slowly raised her eyes to meet her sister’s.  Kiara arched an eyebrow.  But Amelle just smiled.  Kiara lifted her other eyebrow.  Amelle waved.  And then turned her full attention back to Varric.

It occurred to Kiara that Amelle’s bloody _smile_ was probably what secured every last one of her little helpers.  Maker knew Varric wasn’t immune, either.

In truth, the clinic needed _a lot_ of work.  When Anders had appropriated the space for his own use, he’d done little with it.  People came and he healed them, but as Kiara watched Amelle recite a list of supplies to Varric, who wrote every last item down, it occurred to Kiara Anders hadn’t really seemed to… _like_ being a healer.  He’d done the job, and he’d been more than competent at it.  And he never took half-measures when it came to saving a life.  But there’d always seemed to be something… long-suffering about it.  He didn’t seem to find _joy_ in healing an illness or repairing an injury; he was satisfied at a job well done, of course, but…

Pulling her mind away from that particular track, Kiara’s eyes went to the windows, scrubbed clean.  They were narrow, pathetic things, barely better than a hole in the wall, but they let in light.

Granted, that light highlighted every single dust mote that floated in the air, and every grimy smear upon every possible surface, but at least letting in the light allowed one to see every flaw needing repair.

And her sister looked happy _._   Indeed, she looked utterly aglow — and if Amelle could look _aglow_ when the place still looked a bloody shambles, Kiara couldn’t wait to see her sister when the project was _finished._

Finally Varric nodded at the list he held and looked up at Amelle.  “I’ll see what I can do about this, Amelle.  Shouldn’t be _too_ hard to get most of it, but we’ll see.  Some of these supplies have been in short supply recently.”

Amelle grinned at the dwarf.  “I have the utmost confidence in your considerable skills.”

Varric chuckled.  “You need to get that put on a plaque.  It’d be good for my ego to see that on my wall every morning.”  The dwarf turned and spied Kiara, loitering by the door and laughed.  “The rest’ll be along in a minute, but otherwise looks like the gang’s all here.”

Kiara looked around. _The gang_ seemed to have a loose meaning: the only person other than Varric and Amelle she saw was Merrill, painstakingly potting plants and doing her best to keep out of Kiara’s sight. She frowned, still uneasy, but unwilling to make a scene if Amelle had invited the elf to help. _Perhaps Mely will be the good influence I never quite managed to be_. 

Varric saw the subject of her gaze, however, and shook his head slightly. Quietly enough for Merrill not to hear he said, “Come on, Hawke. Let Daisy be. She only wants to help.”

Instead of acknowledging this, Kiara said lightly, “I don’t see Isabela. What’s a gang without her?”

“She’s doing her part for the cause by sleeping off last night’s… indulgences.  I told your sister the _last_ thing she wants right now is a pissy Rivaini.  She’ll probably be along later.”

“After the hangover fades?” Kiara asked.  Varric laughed and shook his head.

“No, for the hangover _cure,_ ” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Amelle.

Remembering just how grateful she’d been for that same cure, Kiara only smirked. “Mely does manage a mighty fine hangover cure, that’s for sure.”

Amelle sniffed with theatrical disdain. “I’m beginning to think you only keep me around for one reason.”

“Oh no, kid,” Varric replied. “You’re good for all sorts of things.”

“Fireballs,” Kiara supplied helpfully.

“Lightning storms, definitely,” Varric added. “And that creepy squishing thing.”

Kiara arched an eyebrow. “Crushing prison? I _do_ like crushing prison. We should definitely keep her around for crushing prison.”

“I’m just _her_ now?” Amelle complained bitterly. “To _think_ I brought you tea and buns. Tea and buns! Never again, Kiara Hawke. _Never again._ ”

Kiara grinned. “Or at least not until the next time you want me to help move furniture or scrub walls or whatever it is you’re angling for this morning?”

Amelle beamed, though Kiara sidestepped the elbow her sister tried to jam into her ribs. “At least not until then, yes.”

Varric clapped Kiara on the back—she wasn’t quick enough to sidestep them _both_ —and winked at Amelle. “Ladies. I’ve got to see a man about a… well, about a shitload of clinic supplies, actually.  Hope I’ll be back with good news, Amelle.”

Amelle stepped close as Varric departed, also looking toward Merrill. “I know you have… issues, but—”

“Blood magic is more than a petty _issue_.”

With furrowed brow, Amelle replied, “You know I feel the same way. But she… Varric says she’s been at a loss. He’s had to go find her half a dozen times, and she’s almost always near the Chantry. Helping people. And she swears she hasn’t—”

Kiara shook her head. “Blood mages always swear they don’t use blood magic. And then they do. And people die. You _sure_ that’s the kind of person you want… here?” Kiara gestured broadly, taking in the clinic in its entirety.

“I don’t know, Kiri,” Amelle admitted. “But… look, you’ve let her stick around this long. If you wanted to cast her out, you probably should have done it years ago. You can’t keep beating the same dead horse. Either… either let her _try_ to make good on her promises to change, or ask her to go away forever. This… this middle ground has to be hard on both of you.”

Kiara blinked down at her sister. “Maker’s balls, Mely. First Fenris gets all observant on me, and now you’re getting _wise_. Next thing you know Isabela will learn to hold her tongue and Sebastian’ll learn to loosen _his_.”

She spoke the words without thinking, aiming to jest, but the mention of Sebastian stuck in her throat. Amelle went strangely still, and then scuffed at the floor with the toe of her slipper. “Funny you should mention that,” Amelle said, a little hesitantly.

“Funny?” To her credit, Kiara didn’t actually _choke_ the word. And if it was voiced in a tone slightly rougher than usual, Amelle didn’t call attention to it.

“Yes, well, I thought—”

Whatever Amelle’s thought, it was silenced by a grunt behind them. When Kiara turned, already reaching for her weapon, it was no bandit or Coterie thug on the other side of the clinic door. It was Fenris, helping a very pale, very unstable, but still mostly _upright_ Sebastian inside.  She whirled back around to stare at her sister, who was most _definitely_ scuffing her foot across the floor now.

“ _Amelle Arista Hawke_ ,” she hissed, “what do you think you’re—”

“I _think_ ,” Amelle hissed back, “that getting out of that bloody room is the best thing for him right now.”  She paused, narrowing her eyes before adding for good measure, in the same tone Kiara had used:  “ _Kiara Fausta Hawke._ ”

“He can barely stand upright!”

“Which is why he’ll be _sitting_ while he’s doing nothing more strenuous than _rolling bandages._ ”  And with that, Amelle took a step past Kiara, beaming at both Fenris and Sebastian as she moved to Sebastian’s other side and guided his arm around her shoulders, helping Fenris bear the weight.  “You’re a bit early,” she welcomed him, utterly and infuriatingly ignoring Kiara as she and Fenris helped Sebastian maneuver into the clinic.  “Varric’s only just left for supplies.  I’m afraid I haven’t any bandages to roll, but there are plants to be potted, if you’ve no objection to getting your hands a little dirty.”

“Are you certain this is wise, Amelle?” asked Fenris, doubt in his voice.

Kiara knew there was a reason she’d always liked Fenris, even with the taciturn disposition and the rage and the occasional inappropriate heart-crushing.

“I’m certain a change of scenery and a little occupation certainly couldn’t _hurt_.”

Kiara followed them into the clinic, scowling.  What on earth was Amelle _thinking?_   “He could have reopened his wound coming down the ladder, Mely,” Kiara pointed out, forcing her voice to lightness.

“He could reopen his wound _sneezing_ , Kiri,” Amelle tossed back.

“Which he is far more likely to do down—”

“I’m standing right here,” Sebastian said mildly.  “I don’t mind the change in locale, Hawke.  Truly.  And truth be known, I would much prefer this to… idleness.”

Amelle sent Kiara a _See?_ look over her shoulder.  “And I’m sure Sebastian will be careful.”

He chuckled.  “If your tone is anything to go by, Amelle, I’m not certain I have much choice.”

They led Sebastian to a sturdy crate that doubled admirably as a makeshift chair, and Merrill looked up from the windowboxes full of soil and more plants than Kiara could ever hope to identify, and for a moment — the barest, tiniest fraction of a moment — joy overspread the elf’s face.  She opened her mouth to say something, then, suddenly, seemed to think better of it.  The joy fled, replaced by uncertainty and an uncomfortable flush, and Merrill bent her head again, turning her attention entirely to the plants.

Kiara looked at Amelle, then at Merrill.  _I hope she knows what she’s doing._   Then she looked at Sebastian and the same thought circled her head, but with twice as much wariness.

Amelle gave them all tasks — and it wasn’t long before Varric delivered some of her requested supplies before vanishing again to negotiate for more — but by the time Kiara had nearly fallen from the ladder three times (“Wash the walls, Kiara; you’re tall _and uninjured._ ”) as she attempted to _both_ do the job she’d been assigned and keep an eye on the patient, Amelle finally sighed and poked her in the back of the thigh. “Go. There’s linen to cut into bandages now. Do that for a while. You know how I like them.”

“I am _capable_ —”

“Of falling flat on your arse and causing me more trouble than you’re worth? Yes, I see that.”

Reluctantly, Kiara pulled a second crate close and sat next to Sebastian—close, but not too close—picking up an uncut bolt of linen and a pair of shears. Sebastian, fully absorbed in his own task, did not even raise his eyes to acknowledge her, but Merrill said quietly, “Hello, Hawke. It’s… a nice day, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Kiara retorted, too shortly. “I’ve been housebound for a while. Seems the city’s holding me accountable for crimes I didn’t really commit.”

“You mean Anders,” Merrill said needlessly. “But _you_ didn’t… do those things.”

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter, does it, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s chin dipped even lower, and his knuckles whitened around the little bundle of bandage he held.

“Hawke,” Merrill whispered, her tone wounded and her eyes even wider than usual.

“No, Merrill,” Sebastian said, still looking down at his task. “Hawke is… she has every right to her anger.” After a moment he released the fabric. It unfurled in his lap, and he began slowly winding it up again, taking care not to be too rough. Kiara watched his hands work. The left lacked the dexterity of the right, and she wondered again about the lasting damage of the wound he’d sustained.

It wasn’t even anger anymore, not really, not if she was honest. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When she opened them again, she found both Merrill and Sebastian staring at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unkind.”

“It was nothing I didn’t deserve,” he replied. “Nothing I _don’t_ deserve.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Merrill said softly. “It’s so… it’s so _sad_.”

Kiara and Sebastian both looked at the elf, and she squirmed under their combined scrutiny. “Sad?” Sebastian asked. “What’s sad?”

Merrill scrubbed her dirty hands against her tunic. “I-I’m sorry.  There I go, babbling again.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You _didn’t_ say anything,” Kiara groused.

The elf’s brow furrowed, and she looked slantwise at Sebastian. Her eyes were so troubled Kiara almost expected her not to speak, but after a moment Merrill said, “You just… it just reminds me… after, after _everything_ , after Marethari, you told me ‘Guilt isn’t a punishment. It’s just a reminder of all the things you haven’t set right.’”

Kiara didn’t remember the exchange, but if Sebastian’s stricken expression was anything to go by, it had most certainly happened. Merrill twisted her fingers together and said softly, “It’s just… the way you spoke just now? It reminded me. And it made me think… it made me think maybe you feel like you have a _lot_ of things you haven’t set right.”  Merrill looked briefly at Kiara, as if she were going to say more, then almost seemed to flinch before falling silent again and looking down at her hands.

Kiara opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Amelle, standing by the clinic door.  “Kiara?  A moment of your time?  I want to take down this Maker-forsaken lantern, but I can’t quite reach it, and the ladder’s too wobbly to manage on my own.”

“I… yes.  Of course.”  And with hands she didn’t realize were trembling, Kiara dropped the linen and the shears onto the makeshift table and followed her sister outside.  Once Amelle closed the clinic door, however, Kiara saw the lantern had already been removed from its spot.  Puzzled, she turned to Amelle, but it only took seeing the look upon her sister’s face and her arms crossed tightly over her chest to make something cold and leaden settle in her gut.

“If this is how you’re going to be, Kiara Hawke,” she said, her voice low and unmistakably angry, “then you can go right back upstairs and take your lousy attitude with you.”

Kiara blinked hard at Amelle, not believing the words coming from her sister’s mouth.  “ _Excuse_ m—”

“No,” she hissed, taking inordinate care to keep her voice down.  “There is no excuse.  Not for this.  You’re being small and petty, and currently you are bearing _less_ than no resemblance to my sister.  So either knock it off  and stay, or _please_ go back upstairs.  I only figured you might have had enough of being homebound and might actually enjoy a change of scenery and a chance to bloody well _do something_ , but more the fool me.”

Kiara felt her cheeks burn and she wanted to argue the point with her sister, but she knew, deep in her gut, Amelle’s words rang with truth.  And she hated _that_ worst of all.  She scowled and set her jaw, settling into a stony silence — which worked out, as it happened, because Amelle wasn’t finished yet.

“You aren’t the only one hurting, Kiri.  I’m not going to diminish your pain, but _you_ can’t diminish anyone else’s.”  Amelle jerked a thumb at the closed door.  “There is _too much_ broken and ugly and ruined in the world right now, and _I hate it._   So I thought — and maybe I was stupid or blind or too blighted idealistic for my own good — but I thought maybe, if there was something we could build up instead of tear down, something we — _all of us_ — could make a little better, then it might serve to make our other problems a little more…surmountable.”

Kiara’s hands clenched against the embarrassment burning through her.  She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, mirroring Amelle’s stance, and as she did, she could almost hear her father’s voice:  _Don’t get defensive now, kit._

“And for the Maker’s sake, stop jumping all over Merrill.”

“ _Don’t_ tell me you’re defending her, Amelle,” whispered Kiara furiously.  “You?  Merrill’s a _blood mage._   You know — you _saw_ what she _did_.”

Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I’m _not_ defending her.  She messed up.  She knows she messed up.  She knows there are no words for how horribly she messed up and how many lives — including her own — she’s ruined because of it.  But she wants to make amends, Kiara.  Why _deny_ her that?”

Kiara sputtered for a moment.  “She’s a blood mage who tried to unleash a _demon_ through a _mirror._ ”

“No.  She’s a naive girl who didn’t believe any instrument of her ancestors would harm her.  She was stubborn, willful, and blinded by pride.  But she was never malevolent.  And she did a stupid — _incredibly stupid_ and dangerous and horrible — thing.  And she was punished for it.”

“Amelle,” Kiara said on a sigh, but her sister shook her head stubbornly.  Kiara wondered for a moment if _she_ was this stubborn.  Surely not.

“Keeper Marethari was like a mother to Merrill.  And I can’t help but think Marethari wouldn’t have given her life for someone who was a lost cause.  I want to help Merrill, because I don’t want to believe Marethari _died for_ _nothing_.”

The words hit Kiara like a slap and she winced.  Her face felt unbearably hot and embarrassment slowly began to ebb into anger.  But what _could_ she say?  She’d had great respect for Marethari in life, and the woman _had_ given her life to save Merrill’s.  It wasn’t Kiara’s call to decide whether Merrill was deserving of such a gesture or not — and clearly Merrill didn’t think she was.  But what had been done was done.  Kiara sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples slowly.  Her head hurt.

Amelle let out her own sigh, the worst of her anger released now.  “I thought you’d want to work on something good right now, Kiara.  _Don’t_ you want to be part of something _good_?”

The plaintive tone in her sister’s voice cut through all of Kiara’s lingering anger and embarrassment, and she let her arms drop as she _looked_ at Amelle — _really_ looked at her.  

Her sister was smudged with dirt and grime, and her short hair stuck in sweaty, curled tendrils to her forehead and temple, but mainly she saw the _hurt_ in Amelle’s eyes — after she’d been so ridiculously, absurdly _happy_ the night before.  The worst of it was in the deepest, darkest, most secret part of her, Kiara felt something uncomfortably close to envy that Amelle _had_ found something to make her that happy.  But louder than that voice, more fervent, more insistent, was the voice that wanted Mely to be that happy all the time.

But Mely didn’t look happy right now. Far from it, in fact.  She looked hurt, and not a little disappointed, the crease of her brow and the line of her mouth making her look entirely too much like Papa. A disapproving Papa.  Or maybe that was just the lingering vestiges of Kiara’s hangover.

She bowed her head and sighed, all of the anger and frustration and vitriol at the bloody _unfairness_ of it all draining out of her with a sigh.  “I… you’re right,” she said quietly, not meeting her sister’s eyes.  “I’m… I’m sorry, Mely.”

Amelle nodded, then peered closer at her sister, taking Kiara’s chin between her fingers and squinting into Kiara’s eyes.  “Are you feeling all right?”

Kiara gave a grimace and shook her head.  “Just a little headache.  Still.”

Amelle looked worried.  “Must have been quite a hangover,” she murmured lightly, but the look in her eye put the lie to the lightness in her tone.  The fingers at Kiara’s chin swept upward to her temple, and she felt the tell-tale rush and hotcold pulse of healing magic wash through her.  The pounding in her temples ceased.

“Better?”

“Much.  Thank you.”

Amelle’s arm went around Kiara then, her hand rubbing slowly at her back.  Evidently her sister hadn’t _quite_ believed her, because Kiara could feel just a little bit of a tingle anywhere her sister’s hand pressed against her.  “Listen, it’s been a bitch of a morning so far.  Do you want to go back upstairs and—”

“No,” Kiara answered with a firm shake of her head. “I have spent quite enough time upstairs, thank you.”  

After a moment, Amelle nodded and pushed open the clinic doors again.  “Then why don’t you help Fenris for a bit?  I’d like to get rid of some of those horrid exsanguination tables, but I’ve no idea what to _do_ with them.”  Her smile went slightly crooked.  “And maybe moving obscenely heavy, clunky furniture is precisely the outlet you need.”

Sometimes Kiara thought her sister knew her all too well.


	18. Chapter 18

In some ways, it seemed perfectly normal, all of them focused on a common task. It wasn’t slaughtering slavers or tiptoeing around Kirkwall politics, but it was _something_ and they were working together.

In others? In other ways, everything felt _wrong_. It was too quiet, for one, and too strained, and it was the wrong Hawke calling the shots. And Sebastian had the _distinct_ impression he was here on sufferance. 

Sebastian had never deluded himself—he knew he’d never been the most popular of Hawke’s companions. Even though he attempted to be honest and not intolerably preachy, his connection to the Chantry was polarizing to say the least. Even after years of acquaintance, only Fenris—and Hawke herself—were what he might consider _friends,_ but he’d never been openly reviled. _Except by Anders. But what, related to the Chantry,_ didn’t _Anders revile? We have proof enough of that._ Now things were all turned upside down. That it was _Merrill_ pitying _him_ was evidence enough. The younger Hawke and not the elder spoke to him most frequently, most kindly now, and Fenris seemed disappointed with him. Not that he blamed the elf—more often than not, Sebastian felt disappointed with himself.

Now, for instance. It was the first time Hawke had spent more than half a moment in his presence since he’d woken, and although he knew he _ought_ to speak, he couldn’t find words. Her pale eyes glared up at him from beneath the fringe of her hair and he… froze. It wasn’t the _anger_. Anger he could understand. It was the _hurt_. Her gaze was wounded, and, looking upon it, he knew he had been party to the wounding.

_She trusted you. She trusted you and you betrayed her. You walked away when she needed you most._

_You left her to die._

_Tell her you’re sorry. If nothing else, tell her that._

But then Amelle appeared to call her sister away. Not for the first time, Sebastian found himself wondering if the mage had truly done anyone any favors by bringing him back. He remembered little of his time in the Fade, but he’d woken _knowing_ that without her interference he… would have remained. Strange recollections—Anders? A cat?—sometimes drifted through his memory, but it was Amelle herself who continually caught him off-guard. He couldn’t even say _why_ , precisely, but sometimes now he saw a self-assurance in her that struck an odd chord, and he knew she had done more for him—more to bring him back—than she let on.

He saw a hint of that self-assurance in the line of her back and the set of her shoulders in the moment before she closed the clinic door.

And Hawke looked like a stranger, head bowed and shoulders slumped, like a child preparing for a beating she thought inevitable.

When he looked away, he saw Merrill’s eyes turned in the same direction, a thoughtful, almost mournful expression on her face. “Varric says he’s worried about her,” she said quietly. “I think he’s right. She doesn’t seem… she doesn’t seem quite _right_ anymore, does she?”

“Hawke?” he asked, knowing it was a silly question _to_ ask.  Of course it was Hawke.

Merrill nodded, looking again to the closed door.  “It can’t have been easy.”  She winced a little at a private memory and dropped her gaze to the bandages she was cutting so meticulously, snipping the shears in silence for a second or two before adding, “Any of it.”

Sebastian turned his attention to the bandages he held, rolling them with inordinate care.  “No.  I suppose not.  I… heard about the battle—”

“Oh, I don’t mean _that_ ,” Merrill interjected, her head coming up quickly enough to make her braids sway.  “Though, don’t misunderstand me, the battle _was_ difficult.  No, I meant… all of it.  She tried to do her best for years and years, trying to keep people happy and safe — trying to keep _Kirkwall_ safe — and it… so much of it just fell down around her.”  An impossible, untouchable sadness settled on the elf’s face as she said, in a voice too soft to even qualify as a whisper, “It’s awful when the things you try to do for the best turn out for the worst.”

“Aye,” he managed, looking down once again at the linen he wrapped. _Too tight,_ he admonished, and let the bandage unroll slightly before rewrapping it.  He was appalled at himself that he hadn’t considered the truth the elf’s words made so clear, but for as long as he’d known Kiara Hawke, every decision she’d made had been the one she’d thought to be _right._   She was not a woman lacking in empathy or integrity; she was not selfish or heartless.  In all the years he’d known her, all she’d ever wanted was to keep her family safe.  And, over the years, through trial and tribulation, her adopted family had grown — all the more people to protect.

And everything — every careful decision, every moment spent thinking about her actions — shattered and crumbled around her.  And he had done _nothing_ to alleviate that.  He’d been smothered by anger, by rage, by _vengeance_ — something about that word sent an icy tremor through him now — and he’d pushed, wanting her to make the same decision he’d already come to.  He hadn’t wanted her to _think;_ he’d wanted her to _react._  

“It’s probably enough to make you wonder whether it’s worth the effort to bother anymore, doesn’t it?  If things are going to break anyway.”  Merrill looked around at the clinic with a speculative eye.  “Maybe _that’s_ what she’s doing.”

Sebastian looked up, making no effort to hide the puzzlement on his face.  Merrill’s conversational leaps often lacked context.  “What is it you think Hawke is doing?”

The elf blinked owlishly at him, looking every bit as confused as he felt.  “Not Hawke.  Amelle.  _Well_ ,” she said, quickly amending herself _._   “I suppose Amelle is still _Hawke_ , since she _is_ a Hawke, but she isn’t _Hawke-_ Hawke.” Merrill tilted her head a little, “That’s funny, isn’t it? We call Amelle Amelle but Hawke Hawke. I mean, Kiara. Hawke. Doesn’t she like her name? I think it’s very pretty.”

Sebastian nodded dazedly, more than a little amazed he’d managed to follow any of that. He found the thread he thought interesting and followed it backward.  “All right.  What is it you think Amelle is doing?”

Merrill lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug.  “Healers heal broken things.”

“You think Amelle is… trying to heal the clinic,” he said, and yet Sebastian still felt as if the finer points of the conversation were escaping him.

“No, Sebastian,” she replied patiently with a shake of her head.  “I think she’s trying to heal _us_.”

#

Fenris only heard Hawke approach because she wasn’t trying to move silently. It was a lesson she’d learned swiftly and well after the first occasion she’d come up quietly behind him. That time she’d nearly paid with her life before he realized the intruder was not one of Danarius’ hounds come to hunt him. He turned his head, greeting her with a brief nod. It was enough of a look to recognize that Hawke looked… chastened, and, if not precisely happy at least less _hostile_.

He’d overheard just enough of the exchange between her and her sister to recognize the _attempt_ to rein in the frustration and anger that was so upsetting Amelle. Not for the first time, he wondered what it might be like, to have such a relationship with one’s sibling. To care about their happiness enough to attempt to alter one’s own moods to please them. Then, with a disgusted shake of his head, he banished the useless thought, returning his attention to the puzzle of just what to do with the mess that lay before him.

“Seems like Mely should just gather them all together and have an epic bonfire,” she said. Fenris frowned. It wasn’t the words that struck him as odd—it was the tone. _Before_ Hawke would have said the words lightly, laughingly. But this Hawke, the one that seemed patched together from mere pieces of the old, somehow made the jest seem mournful. 

Fenris found himself unsure how to speak with this version of Hawke. She shifted from mood to mood so rapidly—only last night he had thought her almost her old self, but today brought defensiveness and snappishness once again—and he found he could not keep up. “Such a fire would doubtless call too much attention to this place,” he replied evenly.

He was rewarded by the brief upturn of Hawke’s lips. “I suppose there’s that,” she remarked. “Still. It would be… satisfying to see it all burn.”

Fenris wasn’t certain Hawke only meant the broken detritus and blood-stained tables.

He watched as she picked her way through the mess, brow furrowed and lips pursed. “Why didn’t I notice this before?” she asked at last. “Are you honestly telling me the _only_ thing he had on hand to use for beds were tables like _these_?”

Fenris wondered if she was remembering the worst use she’d seen _tables like these_ put to. Even now, it made his gorge rise and his stomach twist to remember what had been done to her mother. 

“I doubt the mage used them for their intended purpose,” Fenris offered at last, but the pacification failed.

Hawke arched an eyebrow at him. “And I didn’t expect Orsino to transform into the creepiest monster this side of a Varterral, either. Sometimes people do things we don’t expect.”

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Hawke calmly. “Is this an allusion to the mage, Hawke? Or to another?”

She blinked at him, evidently startled by the question. “What do you mean by that?”

“It appears Sebastian will live.”

Hawke wrapped her own arms about herself, but it was a defensive posture. “It appears that he will.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I don’t know,” she retorted, raising her chin. It pleased him to see at least a spark of her former fearlessness. “He betrayed me.”

“Which of us has not, Hawke, at one point or another? Yet you… you appear to take this more personally, for all that no one was actually _injured_ by him. How many died for the pirate’s crimes? Yet she you welcomed back with open arms.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If circumstances had been different, Sebastian would have killed every innocent in Kirkwall.”

“There is no point in dealing with what _might_ have happened,” he replied shortly.  “If circumstances had been different, Sebastian would have died of a sword wound in an alleyway.”  Hawke blanched at his words and he shook his head at her.  “Words are not the same as deeds, Hawke.”

“He would have kept his vow, Fenris,” she answered, her voice low, but her eyes hard.  “He _would have_ —”

“And how often did I make similar such threats against mages?” he countered.  “I, who called your sister a viper in the nest and swore to deal with her the very moment she revealed her true nature to us all — and yet, here you and I stand, neither blade nor bow drawn.”

“That was _different_ , Fenris.  That was years ago!  You didn’t _know_ us then.  Maker knows you didn’t know Amelle — _particularly_ if you were calling her a bloody viper.  You were a different person then.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.  “Did you think me unwilling or incapable of fulfilling such a vow against mages?  Did you not take me at my word?”

Here, Hawke sighed, and made a move as if to sit on the corner of one of the filthy, bloodstained tables.  She thought better of it and kept her feet.  “Of course not.  But Sebastian—”

“I cannot excuse what Sebastian said, but neither can I entirely condemn it.  His vow was against _maleficarum —_ not innocents.  The _mage_ destroyed his home.  The _mage_ murdered innocents.  Sebastian wanted retribution.  Whether Anders’ death would have truly satisfied him remains to be seen.”

“A vow against _maleficarum_ I might have understood, but it _wasn’t_ just that. He said he would bring war _to Kirkwall_ so the maleficarum would have no place to hide. ‘I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!’ _That_ was his vow. Word for word. Trust me, I remember it well. _Nothing left of Kirkwall._ I should say that includes innocents.”

“Hawke…”

“Even apart from that,” Hawke spat, “he would have seen Amelle _slaughtered,_ Fenris.  Amelle! Amelle, who—except for a facility with healing spells—couldn’t be more different from Anders _if she tried_.”

“And yet it was Amelle who saved his life, who tended — and continues to tend — his wounds.  Amelle who ventured into the Fade for him.  By your logic, she is the injured party, and should have done none of those things.”

Here, Hawke made a wry face that almost — _almost_ — gave her an air of normalcy.  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Let’s not discuss my little sister’s propensity for hopeless cases and lost causes.  We’ll be here all day.”

“Recall, Hawke, that I was with your sister when we found Sebastian.”  And Fenris was quite certain he would never forget the fierce determination and uncompromising resolve in Amelle Hawke’s face that day.  Whatever Sebastian had said or done in the heat of anger, it had not tempered her actions in the least.  It shamed him when he’d realized he might not have behaved the same way.

Unfortunately, Hawke knew him too well. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And if my sister _hadn’t_ been there?”

“What do you wish me to say? That I would have left him? That I already thought him beyond saving? That I, too, would have held him responsible for crimes he’d spoken of but not yet committed?”

“I know you,” she said, daring him to contradict her. He found he could not protest. “I already know what you would have done. And I know Amelle, so I realize the decision was not yours to make. But tell me, Fenris, and tell me truthfully: what has forgiveness and leniency ever brought me but grief?”

Her voice broke on the final syllable, and it was this that kept Fenris from submitting to the reflexive reactions of disgust or disappointment or anger. 

“We would none of us be here without it, Hawke, and you would not be the woman you are.” She turned her face away, but he saw the words strike her and cut deep. He could hardly blame her; there had been times he thought her indeed too forgiving and lenient by far. Now he would give a great deal to see even some small part of her compassion returned to her. “You are allowing what Anders did to pervert all the other good you have wrought. And you are allowing him to change _you_. I would not have thought it possible, but this—” Fenris gestured, sweeping his hand out to include her from head to toe. “This is not you. And you are not Anders. But neither is Sebastian.”

He saw a muscle jump in her cheek as she clenched her jaw, and she put one hand to the side of her head as though it pained her.

“It would be easier if you hated him,” Fenris said. “But you do not.”

She didn’t insult him by protesting. Fenris considered this a good sign, and something almost akin to progress. Glancing upward, she blinked at the ceiling. He knew she would not wish him to draw attention to the tears, and so he ignored them, turning back to the task at hand and drawing yet another of the monstrous tables to the pile he’d already assembled. A moment later, Hawke joined him, lifting the other side of the unwieldy piece of furniture. They worked in silence, gathering debris into a pile that might be dealt with later, until the marks left by her tears faded, and until the elf girl arrived lugging a vast basket filled with lunch.

#

No one could have been more surprised than Sebastian was when, after sharing the meal Orana brought—and _Maker’s breath_ but the woman could _bake_ ; not even growing up in the palace of Starkhaven had he met with bread so perfect—Hawke joined him. He did not miss the meaningful look Amelle shot her sister’s way, but Hawke only inclined her head in a brief nod before shooing Amelle away.

“We need to talk,” Hawke said simply, her voice tired, but lacking its earlier vitriol.

“We do,” he replied.

“I need to talk first.” When he didn’t say anything, her lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “I’m angry with you,” she explained, her voice cool and reserved and so clearly striving to maintain control. Her eyes were faintly red-rimmed. He wondered if dust or weeping was the greater culprit. He feared the latter. Heedless of his scrutiny, she continued, “I’m disappointed. I’m _hurt_. But above all, I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Most of what she said wasn’t a surprise to Sebastian.  Had she attempted to convince him she wasn’t hurt or angry or disappointed — and _that_ stung worst of all — he would have thought her lying.  In a way, it was almost a relief to hear the words come from her own mouth, for now he knew where he stood.  He had betrayed her, and with betrayal came a price to pay.  There had been a point when Sebastian believed the price to pay for this betrayal was a sum beyond reckoning.

But Hawke was glad he was not dead.  That… was more than Sebastian could have said for himself at points during his convalescence.  More than that, it provided him with an emotional touchstone of sorts — she was glad not to see him dead, which meant there was a chance, however slim, he might be able to pay the price of his betrayal.  He doubted it would be quickly done, and he doubted it would be an easy task, but it was not an insurmountable one.

“I understand,” he said evenly.

Her eyebrow arched a fraction.  Sebastian looked down at his hands and after a little while, clasped them loosely.  He waited to be sure she would not say anything more before adding, “I wronged you, Hawke.  More than that, I betrayed you.  And very little — nothing, in fact — I can say or do will excuse it.  So, aye.  I understand this is… a situation of my own making.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, fiddling with cut-off end of a crusty loaf of bread, sending flaky crumbs drifting downward.  “I suppose you do understand.”

“And I do not… _expect_ anything like… forgiveness from you.  But that does not mean I will not try to work toward earning it.”

This time when she raised her eyes to meet his, he was blessedly relieved to see… if not a _lack_ of pain, at least an ebbing of it. He tightened his hands together until the ache of his still-healing wound reminded him how bad an idea it would be to reach out and brush away the strands of hair falling haphazardly across her cheek. She scrutinized him closely, carefully, with as intense a glare as he’d ever seen her use. For a heartbeat, he felt something almost like pity for those poor fools—slavers and blood mages and Meredith—who’d had the misfortune to meet this facet of Hawke.

When she finally nodded sharply and looked away from him, toward the clean windows with their newly planted windowboxes, he released the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. He felt like he’d passed a test whose questions he didn’t understand. Barely passed, perhaps, but passed nonetheless.

“I’m still glad you’re not dead,” she repeated, half under her breath. There was a kind of surprise in her tone, and something he thought—he prayed—sounded just a bit like hope.


	19. Chapter 19

**KIRKWALL: 9:31 DRAGON**

 

Amelle walked, matching Aveline and Kiara’s strides step for step, tipping her head back and looking at the skies above them.  Nothing unusual about the sky tonight — the stars were the same as ever, a few clouds filtered the moon’s glow.  It was the same walk home she and Kiara had taken night after night since first setting foot in Kirkwall.  They’d done the same work as they had for a year, collecting the same amount of pay — nothing — and now they were walking home, backs tired, stomachs growling.  It was all quite the same as it had always been, but for one small difference.

They were now _all_ masters of their own fate.

Amelle didn’t give voice to the words, of course.  It sounded far too… romantic, phrased just that way.  But there was something incredibly _liberating_ knowing they wouldn’t have to deal with Athenril anymore, and knowing any coin they earned from this point on was _theirs_.  

Earning coin, however, was something that was going to become vitally important for them, sooner rather than later.  Particularly if it put them out of Gamlen’s _sooner._   He’d already been making noises about them “chipping in,” as if he wouldn’t drink and gamble away any money they _did_ contribute, and getting the Void out of his… Amelle couldn’t quite call it his _home,_ but the sooner they got out and could get on their own feet, the better.

Still, despite the uncertainty ahead of them, Amelle couldn’t help but feel her steps were a little lighter.  Which was more than she could say for Aveline.

“Maker, my feet are killing me.”

Kiara sent the other woman a sidelong glance.  “You probably ought to have taken the ones we—”

“ _Not_ looting boots off a dead body, Hawke.  Not now, not ever.”

Kiara’s glance turned into a smirk. “Come on, Aveline. Does the city guard _really_ care where your boots came from? I mean, if they’re not going to provide nice, comfy, cushioned deerskin—”

“Hawke.”

“Spoilsport.”

“How did you manage to find us, Aveline?” Amelle asked. “I didn’t think the docks were on your route this week.”

“They’re not,” she replied. “I’m not on duty.”

“She loves us,” Kiara interrupted. “She misses the good old days.”

Amelle said, “Fighting for our lives against darkspawn? Oh, or do you mean the two weeks of endless vomiting on the ship? There was also that time we landed and instead of having a nice estate to come home to, we had a hovel and a year of indentured servitude…”

Aveline ignored her. Aveline ignored both of them, continuing, “I saw your mother in the market today.”

“You came to collect us for our _mother_?” Kiara asked, wide-eyed. “ _Really_?”

Brow furrowed, Aveline shook her head. “You should let a person finish their explanations before you interrupt, Hawke. Terrible habit.”

Amelle snickered. Loudly. Earning a scowl from her sister, but it was worth it.

“So, Mother sent you to walk us home?” Kiara added, adopting a painfully patient expression. Painfully feigned, too, Amelle knew.

“She said it was the last day of your… job. Today. Seemed like a thing to acknowledge.”

A year. A whole year. Some days it felt like a lifetime. Others, Amelle felt certain it had only been a moment since—since Lothering, and running, and the ogre. She wondered if Aveline felt the same way. She knew, from whispered conversations in the room they shared, Kiara did.

“I wish I had the coin to splurge on a bottle of something decent to celebrate,” Kiara said mournfully. “Alas.”

Before she could think better of it, Amelle opened her mouth and said, “Remember that time Carver drank the bottle of Antivan brandy Papa was saving for a special occasion?”

Instead of anger or silence or stillness—Kiara’s usual responses to a mention of their brother—her sister only snorted a laugh. “Maker. Papa was _so mad._ ” Then she grinned. “You know, I was the one who told Carver where to find it.”

“So when he accused you of trying to get him in trouble…” Amelle trailed off, chuckling.  The pinprick of sadness still remained when she thought of Carver, but it was getting easier, slowly.  She still missed him, and some days, no matter how incomprehensible it was, she missed what an utter _pain_ he could be, but the grief had subsided into something manageable.

“I wasn’t trying to get him in _trouble_ ,” sniffed Kiara.  “I was just—”

“Trying to get him in trouble,” Aveline finished for her.  “Maker’s breath, Hawke, you’ve _always_ been this way, haven’t you?”

Kiara straightened a little and blinked wide, innocent eyes at Aveline.  “What way?”  

“ _That_ way,” the other woman said, not bothering to hide her laughter.  “And don’t steal your sister’s tricks.  She’ll always be better at playing innocent than you.”

“Excuse me?” squawked Amelle.  “ _Playing?_ ”

This only served to make Aveline and Kiara _both_ laugh.  Hard.  Amelle opened her mouth to continue her protestations that she would only ever _play_ innocent, then let her mouth close with a sigh.  

Her sister knew her best, after all.

They rounded a corner and soon a distinctly familiar odor reached all three of them.  It certainly didn’t originate from Gamlen’s hovel — Andraste herself would weep the day he ever cooked anything — but one of his neighbors, Amelle suspected, made a frequent practice of boiling cabbage.  That’s what it smelled like, at least.  And the smell permeated bloody everything.  She and Kiara had held long discussions on whether working at the docks was enough to rid themselves of the stink.  

The answer they came to was generally in the negative.

“Oh, good,” Kiara said, flatly.  “Cabbage. Again.”

“One of these days, Hawke, your neighbor’s going to find something worse to boil.”

“Like his socks?” Kiara asked, then shook her head.  “Too late, he did that last week.”

“And it was every bit as pleasant as you’d think,” Amelle added, on a shudder.  “I don’t know where Uncle Gamlen gets off complaining about poor Cupcake.  How he can complain about _one little mabari—”_

“Oh,” Kiara said breezily, skipping up the stairs to Gamlen’s, “it’s easy to complain when you’re Gamlen.  Plus I suspect his sense of smell is just this side of dead.”

Aveline huffed a brief laugh. “It would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

Kiara paused, hand on the door. “Maker, Aveline. Now you’re _joking_. What’s the world coming to?”

The guard gave a sour look, but Amelle could tell her heart wasn’t in it. A hint of a smile played about the corners of Aveline’s mouth. “Are you planning on keeping us out here all night, Hawke? I’ll say this for Gamlen: it does smell slightly less vile indoors than out.”

Kiara inclined her head to acknowledge the point. When she pushed the door open, however, Amelle saw no light within. Strange. _Too_ strange. Mother rarely left the house at all, and never at _night_ , without one—or both—of them as guards. Even as Kiara reached over her shoulder for her bow, Amelle allowed a tiny flicker of flame to bloom on her palm, and she edged forward, holding her hand out to illuminate the darkness within.

“Mother?” she called.

“Killer? Cupcake, sweetheart, are you there? Come.” Kiara added, her tone tremulous and her mirth vanished. When the mabari didn’t appear, Kiara pulled her bowstring taut. Amelle let her fire grow just a fraction brighter. “Uncle Gamlen?”

“Mother didn’t say anything about this to you, Aveline?” Amelle asked without turning to look back at the warrior. “She was fine when you saw her?”

“Mmm,” Aveline replied. “She was—”

The door to the back room opened wide, silencing Aveline and allowing a spill of light to streak across the floor. Killer came bounding out of confinement, barking and turning in happy circles. “Surprise, darlings!” their mother added, silhouetted in the doorway.

Beside her, Kiara closed her eyes and her lips moved in a silent prayer—or curse, Amelle thought. Curse was probably more likely. After another moment, she lowered her bow. Amelle, on the other hand, lit the candles in the room. It was hard to be angry when their mother looked so _pleased._

It had been a long time since they’d seen their mother’s smile.

“What…” Kiara began, still sounding half-choked, “What’s going on?”

“We’re having a party, sweetling! To celebrate!”

Kiara shot a glance over her shoulder, and even in the dim candlelight, Aveline’s blush was starkly visible. “You knew about this? _Aveline._ I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Aveline arched a brow, the effect ruined somewhat by the lingering pink cheeks. “It was Leandra’s idea. Maker, Hawke, I’m… I’m just glad you two aren’t going to be… working for that woman anymore.”

“She wasn’t so bad.”

“For a smuggler,” Amelle added. “Intent to give us every difficult job in Kirkwall.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Kiara sing-songed back. Because Amelle was looking in her mother’s direction, she saw the moment of sorrow that creased the familiar features, and the echo of haunted grief that swam in her eyes.

“Dinner smells—” Amelle began.

“—Like it’s not cooking yet,” Mother said, smiling again. “You know that’s the neighbors and their cabbage again. But Aveline was kind enough to bring a bottle of brandy.”

Aveline punched Kiara lightly on the shoulder. It was still enough to make her sister stagger. “A bottle of something decent. To celebrate.”

“And where is our very _favorite_ uncle during these festivities?” Kiara asked, surreptitiously rubbing the spot Aveline had hit.

Amelle was fetching cups from one of the higher shelves.  “A good question.  I wouldn’t have thought wild horses would keep Gamlen away from a bottle of something fermented, decent or otherwise.”

Cupcake let out a happy bark and wiggled his rump, while their mother looked… strangely sheepish _._   It was an odd expression on her face.  “You know your uncle, darlings.  He had very important business and…” she paused, looking thoughtful, and that pause lasted just a heartbeat too long.  Kiara turned and smirked at Amelle.

“Mother didn’t tell him about the brandy.”

“Can you blame her?” Amelle asked, clunking down four mismatched mugs as Aveline did the honors, pouring a generous splash into each cup.  “There wouldn’t be any _left._ ”

“Now, _girls_ ,” Mother began, trying to look cross and failing, “though he’s not perfect—”

Kiara’s snort, though indelicate, was eloquent.  Mother’s sigh held a breath of laughter.

“All right, _no,_ I didn’t tell him.”  She sat at the tiny table and pushed her cup slowly around in a small circle.  “It was important that _we_ celebrate tonight.  Just us.”

“Just us Hawkes,” Kiara supplied, grabbing a stool and setting it down next to Mother.

Aveline coughed lightly.  “Just the Hawkes plus one.”  But Mother was having none of it.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Aveline,” she said in a crisp tone that brooked no argument.  It was the same tone she often used when Amelle or Kiara refused to eat their vegetables.

“Oh, Mother’s already adopted you, Aveline.”  Kiara’s smile was wider than Amelle had seen it in… too long.  “Don’t tell me this is a surprise.”

Grinning, Amelle lifted her glass to Aveline, who was looking pleased and discomfited by turns.  “Lucky you, you’re an honorary one of us.“

“I can think of worse things,” said Kiara, lifting her own chipped mug.  She threw a wink at Amelle.  “It’s too dark in here, Mely.  Is Aveline blushing yet?”

“You’ll know it when she hits you.”

Aveline didn’t hit her, though. The guardswoman lifted her chin and her glass and said, “To the Hawkes, then. A more resilient bunch I’ve never met.”

The clink of glasses—cracked and chipped and mismatched as they were—over the table sounded like victory.

#

Kiara couldn’t remember a better day. Not in recent history, anyway. And not only because of the truly excellent brandy, or the dinner with good meat and _no cabbage_ to be seen, or even because it was her last day—ever—working for Athenril. It was the company, and the laughter. It was Mother leaning on one elbow, smiling for the first time in ages. It was seeing Amelle and Aveline, teasing each other.

It was the end of something old and the beginning of something new. For the first time since the blighted battle of Ostagar, she felt like she had a _future_ , and that future was in her hands. It wasn’t going to be easy, necessarily, and maybe it would never look like the Kirkwall life Mother had envisioned for them, but it would be _theirs_. Without Athenril’s missions, Amelle wouldn’t have to drag her magic out in public quite so often. Somewhere, she felt sure Papa was heaving a sigh of relief.

They needed to get out of this house, but now that her time was her own again, she’d figure something out. She’d heard rumors that one of the dwarven merchants was planning an expedition. He might need muscle. Or at least a steady hand. Good archers were hard to come by—Maker, if nothing else, working for Athenril had taught her that much.

“Kiri, you planning on sitting there staring into the fire all night?”

Turning her head, Kiara smiled at her sister. “Just finishing the last of the brandy. Join me? You know if we leave a drop, it’ll be gone the moment Uncle Gamlen catches a whiff.”

Amelle rescued her empty mug on the way over, and sank down next to Kiara. “It’s hard to believe this day is finally here, isn’t it?”

Kiara grinned, wrapping an arm tight around her sister’s shoulders. “The whole world’s ours to conquer, Mely. Feels like hope, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe we could just stick to a little corner? I’m not sure even the intrepid Hawke sisters are capable of ruling the _whole_ world.”

“We could try!”

“You’re drunk.”

Kiara giggled. “I wish. No. I’m just… I’m _happy_ , Amelle. Isn’t that… strange? I’m _happy._ ”

“Shh!” Amelle hissed, trying not to laugh even as Kiara squeezed her shoulders.  “No better way of tempting fate than _that._ ”

Kiara knew her sister was only half-joking, but the half that wasn’t in jest… didn’t bother her.  She finally felt steady, finally felt… _right._   They’d already been through the Void and back.  Now that things were finally beginning to clear, why shouldn’t she feel happy?

“Hang fate,” she said cheerfully, splashing the last of the brandy into her and Amelle’s cups.  They touched glasses again and drank, and after a few moments, Amelle tipped her head to the side, resting it against Kiara’s shoulder.  Kiara looked down at Mely out of the corner of her eye.

“Now who’s drunk?” she asked her sister.

“I’m not drunk,” Amelle protested.  “I’m just…”

“Happy?”

“Relaxed,” Amelle corrected her.  “And, yes.  Happy.”  And then a tiny frown formed between her brows.  “And thinking.”  She pulled away and looked up at Kiara, the firelight flickering in her eyes.  “I’ve been thinking about Grandfather’s will,” she said softly.  “And I think—”

But whatever it was that had been on Amelle’s mind, she didn’t get a chance to share it.  Mother came in from the tiny back room, cradling two bundles against her chest, wound up in burlap and tied, incongruously, with silky ribbon, one white, one red.

“I have something for you, my darling girls.”  Her smile faltered a moment as she looked down at the wrapped bundles, and when she looked up again her eyes were shining.  “It… isn’t much, but—”

“You got us _presents_?” blurted Kiara.  “Mother, you shouldn’t—”

“Indoor voice, Kiara, _please._ ”  Mother drew in a breath and handed her daughters the two bundles.  “As I said, it isn’t much, but… well, I suppose you’ll see for yourself.”

She and Amelle exchanged a brief glance, and Kiara saw her own excitement reflected back in her sister’s eyes. “Count of three?”

Amelle nodded. “One.”

“Two.”

Neither of them waited for three. It was an old joke, made slightly melancholy by the fact that Carver wasn’t there to add his bellowing cry of, “You said _three_. Why do you _always do that_?”

Kiara heard Amelle gasp, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the object in her own hands long enough to look. 

It was a fox. A small, stuffed fox. Not identical to the one she’d toted around through most of her childhood, but near enough as made no difference. It even had a silvery-grey ribbon tied in a bow around its neck. Just like her ragged old one had. Before she left it behind, like so many of their other Lothering things.

A stuffed fox didn’t matter much when the darkspawn were on one’s heels.

Tears filled her eyes, and she clutched the little toy close. “Mother—”

When Kiara glanced toward her mother, she saw Amelle still gazing down at a little stuffed rabbit, ears floppy and whiskers crooked.

“Just a little reminder,” Mother said, with the briskness that meant she was fighting tears of her own. “Of who you are.  And where you come from. You’re grown now, my precious young women, but you’ll always be my little girls.” Reaching out, she settled her hands atop their heads. “This has not… this has not been an easy year. For any of us. But especially for you two. I think… I think your father would be proud.” Here tears did finally spill down Mother’s cheeks. “And your brother would never admit it, but he’d be proud, too.”

“He’d grumble about it, though,” Amelle whispered, running her hands down the little rabbit’s sides.

“And probably break something, just to remind us he could,” Kiara added.

Their mother’s laugh was low and a little broken, but it was a laugh. “And we wouldn’t have had near enough food to feed him.”

“Cub was such a little piglet,” murmured Amelle, still never pulling her eyes from the rabbit.

Kiara watched her sister a moment.  There was no doubt she and Carver had locked horns — they were of two entirely different temperaments — but she was also his twin, and though Amelle didn’t talk much about losing him, sometimes Kiara thought her sister missed Carver in a way none of them could ever fully understand.  She reached over and touched Amelle’s hand, saying, “Nothing little about him.  Do you remember the way he clumped up and down the stairs in those _boots_ of his?”

Amelle looked away from the rabbit she held, her smile torn between mirth and sadness.  “And the way Papa would yell at him to stop tromping around like a herd of bronto?”

“And the way his greatsword was always banging against something?”

“How many times,” Mother sighed, “ _how_ many times did I have to tell him to be more careful with it in the house?”

“He wasn’t _clumsy_ ,” Amelle said, lost again in the rabbit.  “He was just…”

“A boy,” Mother supplied.  “A boy who grew larger and faster than he realized.”

“Maker,” sighed Kiara, leaning back in her chair, “how he lorded it over me when he was finally taller than I was.”

“I remember you looked up at him,” Amelle chuckled, “and you— and you poked him in the chest, do you remember?  And you said…” Amelle sat up a bit, inclined her head and tossed nonexistent hair as she said, in an eerily passable impression of Kiara, “ _That just means you’re an overgrown cub, Cub.  All the inches in the world still won’t make you the boss._ ”

Kiara remembered it clearly, remembered the frustration that had made Carver screw up his face and, of all things, _stick out his tongue_ before turning on his heel and stomping off.

Mother’s smile was fond, but not nearly as sad as it had been over the last year.  “He got so exasperated with you, my darling kit.  With the _both_ of you.  It was difficult for him, growing up with nothing but sisters, I think.  He was convinced the two of you were locked in some sort of conspiracy against him most of the time.”

Kiara and Amelle exchanged another glance, their eyes finding each other’s at precisely the same moment once again. Kiara’s lips twitched with laughter, and Amelle’s eyebrows rose. “Truth be told, Mama,” Kiara said, “he was probably _right_.”

They were still laughing—laughing and telling old tales, some of them old, some of them new—when Gamlen came stumbling into the house, door slamming behind him. “What’s the meaning of all this?” he growled, spreading his arms wide—unsteadily—to take in the cozy scene. And, more accurately, the bottle of brandy, Kiara thought uncharitably.

Amelle gave their uncle that precise, patented, wide-eyed look of innocence Aveline had earlier alluded to, and said, “Sorry, Uncle Gamlen, we’ve just had the last of it. We _meant_ to save you some, but…”

It only started them all giggling again—even Mother—and all Gamlen’s stomping and swearing and annoyance couldn’t even begin to steal their mirth and their joy.

One hand still resting atop the stuffed fox, the other edged out toward her sister. Amelle’s warm fingers met her half-way, and as they sat before the fire laughing, Kiara couldn’t help imagining the better days just around the corner. Fate or no fate. Everything was going to change. For the better, this time. She just _knew_ it.


	20. Chapter 20

A day like this one had no right being so… sunny.

Orana had already been in to open the curtains, so a rogue streak of sunlight slashed across the floor, defiantly cheerful.

Rain was appropriate for funerals. Especially when the plural was so… devastatingly high. Kiara rose from her bed and stalked across the room, violently pulling the curtains shut again. Then she put her face in her hands and breathed deeply until she no longer wanted to scream. A throbbing headache persisted, beating a staccato of pain behind her eyes.

She debated civilian clothes over her leathers, but decided in favor of the latter. A silk dress would no more hide her identity than a haircut or a suit of plate or a mage’s robe. She was who she was: the Champion of Kirkwall who’d failed too many. Almost sadly, she slung her bow over her shoulder. She didn’t precisely _want_ to go about armed, but if Cullen and Aveline’s warnings were any indication, she could hardly take the risk.

Halfway to the kitchen in search of tea and something to eat, Kiara paused. Amelle sat by the fire, Killer’s large head in her lap, running her hands through the mabari’s short fur while he gazed at her adoringly. Amelle glanced up when Kiara stopped, her expression inscrutable.

Her fingers hesitated briefly, then continued on over the dog’s head.  “You… look as if you slept poorly.”

Kiara frowned. “You look as if you haven’t slept at all.”

“It’s nothing to worry about.”  She shrugged and looked back to the fire.  “Dreams.  Nothing new, really.  Father… Mother…” she trailed off and swallowed hard.  “…Carver.  And how we never—” Her fingers clenched then released.  “How we just… left him there.  He never got—” They clenched again and she blinked quickly, looking more intently at the flames.  “I know we couldn’t.  And— and Wesley blessed him, but…”

Closing her eyes, Kiara turned her face away. She rarely dreamed, but she could see Carver’s death on the backs of her eyelids as clearly as if it were happening right in front of her. Again. Her headache pounded its displeasure at the memory, but the thought wouldn’t be banished. Carver’d always been so… so anxious to _prove_ himself. Especially after Father. But after Ostagar, anxiety had become desperation. He’d taken more risks, challenged more enemies outright when it would have been wiser to wait for cover. As he’d done with the ogre. 

And then she’d followed in his footsteps, nearly getting Amelle killed—or worse—in the process. She still remembered every moment of the harrowing race to the Wounded Coast, and turning that corner in the dunes to see Amelle sprawled out like a sack of potatoes on the sand—like Carver, after the ogre threw him so carelessly aside—with Thrask and Grace standing above her. _Threatening_ her. “Amelle,” Kiara said slowly, dragging out the final syllable of her sister’s name. “I don’t think you should go to the memorial.” 

Her sister’s head shot up with a jerk that seemed to carry through her entire body; the tears that had been gathering in her eyes, either at the memory of Carver or the memory of whatever dream she’d had, fell free as she stared at Kiara. Killer looked up, also startled, looking between the two of them before letting out a soft whine. Amelle’s hand went back to the dog’s head, though it was a more conscious gesture. Her green eyes looked too bright in the firelight as her eyebrows drew together, and it was difficult to tell whether her expression was one of shock, confusion, or betrayal.  

“ _What_?” she finally asked, shaking her head slowly.  “Are you mad?  No, absolutely not.  I… no.  I can’t just… not go.”  Her voice quavered slightly.  “How— how could you possibly suggest such a thing?”

Kiara crossed her arms over her chest, the gesture caught somewhere defensive and dismissive. She wasn’t sure herself if it was meant to rebuff her sister, or to protect herself from her sister’s emotion. “It’s not safe. Emotions will be running too high, and you’re a mage. You’re the best… you’re the second-most well-known apostate in Kirkwall, and the first is the one to blame for this destruction. I don’t—I _won’t_ see you hurt because of _him_.”

Standing slowly, Amelle turned to face her.  “And it’s… what, better to hide?  Better to stay shut up inside as if I _were_ responsible?  No, Kiara, hiding implies guilt.  If anything, I _need_ to be there.  I’m grieving, just like everyone else.  Anders betrayed me, too; I’m _not_ going to act as if I’m ashamed to show my face.” With a stubborn tilt of her chin, at odds with the tears still in her eyes, Amelle shook her head decisively. “I’m going and that’s final.”

Kiara squeezed her arms tighter around herself, and the leather gave an unhealthy-sounding creak at the pressure. It was all she could do not to snarl when she replied, “And that’s what you think _I’ve_ been doing? Hiding? Implying my guilt? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“What?  No!”  Confusion flashed in Amelle’s face, in her eyes as she widened them, but that gave way to wariness when she asked, “If you’re saying that I shouldn’t go to the memorial because I’m a mage and because emotions are running high, then how in Andraste’s name could I be accusing _you_ of anything?  No, I’m saying that I reject your reasoning, and I’m going to this memorial whether you approve of it or not.”

“And now you think I’m, what? _Self-centered?_ I should think it’s pretty obvious why I jumped to that conclusion, if it was a jump at all. You disapprove of the way I’ve acted? You think it was wrong of me to keep a low profile after… after everything? While you play the selfless martyr sacrificing her own health and wellbeing to heal others?” Kiara continued at a rush, before Amelle could argue. “Healing is noble work, Amelle. I know it. You know. Shit, even bloody _Anders_ knew it. But look me in the _face_ and tell me what Papa would say. At some point you threw caution _entirely_ to the wind and decided to _flaunt_ your powers. Do you have _any idea_ how much effort it took to keep Cullen from dragging you to the Gallows? You mustn’t, because if you _did_ you’d be a damn sight more willing to listen to me and not _invite_ the attention of the hundred bloody templars who will _also_ no doubt be in attendance at this memorial.”

That was enough to make Amelle flinch, even take half a step back, but somewhere beneath the hurt, anger began to flare to life.  “You tell _me_ what Papa would have said.  You never complained once when I _flaunted_ my powers on some job or other.  I’m not playing bloody _martyr_ — I’m trying to _help,_ trying to— _attempting_ to fix some of the unholy mess that son of a bitch _made_ of this place.  Do you think I was showing off when I healed Sebastian?  Was I playing the martyr then?  _No_.”  Her hands clenched, released, then clenched again.  “I’m trying to do what I can — don’t get angry with me because for once _I can_ do something— I _can_ help, while you’re stuck watching from the sidelines.  You might find this difficult to believe, but my decision to _flaunt_ my powers has nothing whatsoever to do with you.  And I don’t think Papa would have said, ‘Well done, rabbit’ for turning my back on anyone I could help.”

Kiara snorted derisively, shaking her head. “What were my options? Every time I tried to leave you at home, you trailed after me giving me sad puppy eyes or you snapped at me because you didn’t like the way I was ‘interfering’ in your life. You want me to take care of you only when it’s convenient for _you_.” Kiara stalked down the rest of the stairs, keeping herself safely on the other side of the room from her sister. She gazed longingly—just for a moment—at the wine bottle on the table, before remembering she’d not even had _breakfast_ yet. “Papa might not have said, ‘Well done, rabbit’ if you’d walked away from Sebastian or Ianna and her child, but he spent _ten years_ teaching you the apostate’s life, and throwing yourself constantly in the line of danger and exposure wasn’t part of it. I _know_ that because he spent ten years teaching me how to protect you. I didn’t realize how often I’d have to protect you not from templars or bandits or fearful fools, but from _yourself_. Why, _why_ , is it so hard for you to see what you’re doing? They’ll be looking for a scapegoat—a mage scapegoat _even better_ —and you’re going to walk into their hands?”

“Oh, don’t act like it was a bloody _burden_ to take me along,” snapped Amelle, her tone loaded with derision.  “Yes, you’re the _grand protector,_ aren’t you?  How often did _my_ barriers protect you in a fight, how many times did one of my glyphs or one or my spells keep you from having to get healed _again?_   But no, why would you remember something as inconvenient as _someone else_ protecting you?  Someone _else_ saving your reckless hide?  Someone _else_ protecting you from yourself?  If you want to call someone a martyr, why don’t you take a look in the sodding _mirror_?”  She took a step closer, hands clenched at her sides, and said far, far too quietly, “And don’t you _dare_ drag Papa any deeper into this. It’s nothing to do with him and everything to do with you, so at the very least own up to _that_.”

“I didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Kiara spat. “While you were learning not to burn the house down, I was given daily lectures: ‘Mind your sister, Kiara. Keep her safe, Kiara. She’s just a little girl, Kiara. She didn’t choose this, Kiara.’ No one seemed to care that _I didn’t choose this, either_.” Kiara took a deep breath, bending slightly at the waist, as though winded from a long run or a tense battle. Her fingers itched. Her head screamed. “I’ve never made decisions based on how much they might _annoy_ you. That wasn’t my intention. And I stepped into the role Mother and Papa built for me. It’s… it’s my _job_. It’s the only thing I know how to—I can’t _help_ protecting you. I just don’t understand why you seem so intent on _not letting me._ So I can come too late, like almost happened with Grace? Like happened with M—” Kiara couldn’t bring herself to say _Mother_ , but even thinking it brought tears to her eyes which she pushed away roughly with the heels of her hands. It didn’t help. Black stitches and empty eyes swam through her memory, haunting her. Taunting her.

“Fine.”  Amelle’s lip trembled, but she swiped at her face with her sleeve and when her arm came away, her jaw was set and her eyes hard.  “ _Fine._   So we’re both stuck with lives neither of us chose.  You ought to have told me I was _so much bloody trouble_ sometime _earlier_!  I’d have made more of an effort not to get _underfoot_ so often.  I hadn’t realized you’d have preferred I was seen and not heard — or, wait, no, what would be more apt?  _Not_ seen, _not_ heard — Maker,” she said, eyes widening as she tilted her head in affected innocence, “it really _would_ have been more convenient for you if you’d simply let Cullen take me away.  I bet you’re regretting _that_ little stratagem now.” Amelle turned angrily on her heel, stalking toward the doorway.  “So sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, _sister,_ ” she spat, “but I’m _still_ going to that Maker-forsaken memorial.  Maybe if you’re very, _very_ lucky the templars _will_ haul me off.”

“You’re right,” Kiara replied coldly. “It _would_ have been easier to let Cullen take you. But it wouldn’t have been _right_. And it would have gone against everything Papa ever taught me. Since when have I ever chosen the easy path? You’re my _sister_ , Amelle. I love you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever be content to see you wantonly throwing yourself in harm’s way.”

“Oh, please,” Amelle replied acerbically, rolling her eyes.  “The truth’s coming out now; don’t try to sugar-coat it with noble intentions — you’d rather I not be any visible part of your life.  _Fine_.  _I get it._   But I am _twenty-five years old,_ and the only person insisting you protect me _is you_.  So if I want to ‘wantonly throw myself in harm’s way,’ by the Maker, _I will_.And may I remind you, sister, on the subject of templars?  _They all know where to find me._   Showing my face at this memorial isn’t going to deter anyone when they know where I live.  So what’s this all _really_ about?”

“You’re not safe,” Kiara repeated hollowly. She _knew_ Amelle wasn’t safe, knew it in her bones, but nothing she said seemed to make any bloody bit of difference. Meanwhile, the sun kept shining through the windows and the fire kept crackling in the hearth and Kiara’s heart kept racing because she… she’d already failed. She’d failed Elthina, and the chantry, and Mother, and Carver, and those were just the _big_ failures. Kiara put a hand to her face and was surprised to find her cheeks damp. She glanced down at the moisture on her fingers as though it had appeared by magic, or as though its presence somehow spoke of betrayal. “I don’t know what to do.”

“No, I’m _not_ safe!” Amelle cried, rounding suddenly on her sister, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.  “Father taught me that much, at least: apostates are _never safe_.  I have to live with that — and I _do_.  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to cower and hide under my bed praying and hoping the templars never find me _._ What’s the bloody point of trying to live freely if I’m just going to make myself a prisoner in my own home?  I refuse to do that, and I accept the consequences!  Maybe, for once, _you_ don’t have to _do_ anything — and maybe you don’t know how to handle that.  I don’t know.”

Kiara stared at her sister. “Oh,” she said softly. “I—it’s _you_ who wants to be free of _me_. I didn’t… I hadn’t realized that.”

Killer had curled up into the tiniest ball his huge form could make—exactly halfway between them, Kiara noted—but at this he raised his head and whined. Kiara almost called him to her, desperate to feel some kind of _contact_ that didn’t involve the way Amelle was glaring at her.

“I didn’t— oh, Andraste’s buggering _tits,_ I never _said_ —”  Amelle lifted a hand to her forehead and rubbed her fingers against the crease between her brows.  “You’re my _sister,_ ” she said, tiredly.  “And you are giving me a headache.  I just want to go to this bloody memorial and pay my respects and remind people in _some small way_ that not all mages are blighted idiots.”

Kiara nodded, chewing on her bottom lip pensively. Then she walked to the desk that held the bottle of wine, lifted it, examined the label for a moment, before throwing it against the far wall. It shattered, leaving wine like a bloodstain on the stones and piles of twinkling glass in a puddle on the floor. “Maybe Fenris knows what he’s doing,” she said absently, tilting her head as she watched the rivulets of wine run the length of the wall. Then she sank to the floor in a boneless heap, put her face against her knees, and wept.

#

Amelle stared.  First she stared at the mess of glass and wine trailing down the wall, dark liquid streaming out from the smashed glass like blood.  Then she stared at her sister.  And all the while her mind was struggling to absorb everything that had just transpired — she wasn’t coming up with anything resembling logic just yet.  What she _was_ coming up with was a lot of anger and frustration and _hurt_ at the discovery that her sister saw her as little more than an obligation to be taken _care_ of, like some troublesome, high-maintenance pet.

And somehow things got so twisted and turned around that now Amelle was trying to understand what she’d said or done to make Kiara _cry._   She wasn’t having an easy time of it.  From the corner of her eye she saw Sebastian standing in the doorway, alarm etched on his features.  Amelle resisted the urge to rub her temples — hopefully it was the sound of glass breaking and not their _arguing_ that had roused him.  He still needed all the rest he could get.

“Fenris hasn’t flung a bottle at a wall in years,” she said, hearing the tired frustration in her tone.  “And I don’t know if that’s because he ran out of bottles or just got tired of wasting the wine.  What are you doing, Kiara?  What _is_ this?”  She wondered if she sounded as weary, as exhausted and sleep-deprived as she felt.  Probably, she decided.  After the night she’d had, between the tossing and turning and the _nightmares_ , Amelle wasn’t equipped for… this, whatever _this_ was.

“I should have gone right away,” Kiara said, the words muffled by their proximity to her knees. “I was going to, you know. It seemed… sensible. To flee.” Raising her head, she laughed mirthlessly, a single strained, dry chuckle. It sounded painful. “ _I’m_ the one. Who should leave. Who shouldn’t go to the memorial. You’re right. There is nothing for me to _do_ here. And I’m the one they should blame. Just as Aveline and Cullen warned.”

With that, Amelle’s patience, strained by this point beyond all endurance, snapped _._   “ _No_!”she yelled, and she _felt_ the heat struggling to snap free; it felt like the sparks were dancing beneath her skin, trying to push their way out.  She breathed in deep and clenched her fists again.  “No, Kiara — _Anders_ is the one they should blame!  Not you, not me, not bloody _anyone but him._   He did this!  He created this, and we’re the ones left to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess!  I don’t know _what_ in the Void is the matter with you, but if you want to sit here and hide in the dark like a coward, then be my sodding guest.  _I’m_ going to that memorial, and I am holding my head high, templars be damned, because _I’m a Hawke._ ”

“It’s not about the bloody _memorial_ ,” Kiara shouted, staggering to her feet and taking two or three uneven steps toward Amelle. “Maker’s _balls_ , Amelle. I only said I _thought_ you shouldn’t go; you’re the one throwing a temper tantrum and acting like I took your favorite doll away. This isn’t about you getting what you want because you want it.” Kiara’s arm swept wide, encompassing the room. “It’s _Kirkwall_. We need to leave _Kirkwall_. Because we’re more Hawke than Amell, and there’s no place _left_ for us here. Don’t you understand? Don’t you _see_? Our names—my name—the name _Hawke_ is going to be anathema just as soon as the Divine hears we—I—was in _any way_ connected with Anders. There will be assassins, Amelle. And there will be templars. And there will be Seekers. And the likelihood of us surviving is not high. This isn’t a pretend game of Exalted March, Mely. Not even _close._ ”

“ _I’m_ throwing a…”  Amelle shook her head and turned away from her sister.  “You know what?  Maybe you’re right.  Maybe we _do_ need to leave.  Maybe the Divine _will_ send assassins and Seekers and Maker knows what else down upon our heads.  But for _right now_ there’s a mess out there.  There’s a mess and people are dead and still missing and some of them _won’t ever be found_.  I can’t do a blessed thing to undo what Anders did, and I can do even _less_ about whatever it is the Divine’s planning.  But I _can_ do something about this.  Don’t drive yourself mad over things that haven’t happened yet.  There’s no point in it.”  She blew out a breath.  She started again for the doorway, her voice soft and ragged. “We’ll talk more when I get back.  Preferably without the histrionics.”

“Amelle Arista Hawke don’t you _dare_ walk out of this house in the middle of a conversation—”

“We aren’t _having_ a conversation,” replied Amelle, and though she _tried_ to keep the sharp edge from her words, she could hear how badly she failed.  She pressed cool fingertips against her eyelids and swore she could feel the pounding there.  “ _You_ are alternating maddeningly between insulting me and feeling sorry for yourself.  So, yes, I’m going to walk out of this house, and hopefully we can have something resembling a civil conversation _when I get back_.”

“You sanctimonious _bitch_ ,” Kiara spat. “Things get the slightest bit challenging and you walk out? You wouldn’t have a house to come back _to_ , if not for me. You’d have died or been carted to the Circle fifty times before your fifteenth birthday if not for me. I may be feeling sorry for myself, but at least I’m not hiding it behind a veneer of arrogance and entitlement.”

The words shot through Amelle, and it was only through years of practice and training that she managed to keep sparks from spitting from her palms as she spun around and shouted, “Arrogance?  _Arrogance?_   Kiara Hawke, I highly suggest you engage the brain the Maker saw fit to give you before you breathe another blighted word.  Only one of us is arrogant enough to believe she can save the entire bloody world, and it _isn’t me_.  I know my limitations.  Do you?”  She thrust her arm out, pointing at the window and all of Kirkwall beyond it.  “Once _they_ started calling you ‘Champion,’ you _believed it_ — more than that, you _embraced_ it.  After all, champions never _lose_ , right?  Once you became the Champion of Kirkwall, you thought you were infallible — and where did that lead?  You think my _flaunting_ my powers puts me in danger?  I’ll ask you to remember that Grace wanted to _kill me_ for no other reason than _being related to you!_   If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody _sister._ ”  Her throat was tight with tears, raw and sore from shouting.  She closed her eyes and turned on her heel, striding across the room, coming to a stop in the doorway, arms around herself as she leaned against the wall, letting it take her weight.  She needed to get out of the house soon, or she really _was_ going to burn it down.  She closed her eyes and counted to ten.  Then she counted to twenty. Her hands felt hot, intolerably so, and she drew in a deep breath and pushed the rogue energy back down.  

Once Amelle’s hands were once again… well, if not _cool,_ then something like a normal temperature, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, then turned her head slightly to regard Kiara over one shoulder.  “Kiara,” she said, her voice strained and hoarse, “for Andraste’s sake, your own, and mine, just _shut up_.”

Kiara didn’t say anything. Her face went carefully still even as a hot flush of color stole over her cheeks. Then she reached over her shoulder and brought her bow to hand. A moment later, an arrow dangled from her fingers, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.  Amelle turned slightly and felt something icy and leaden settle in the pit of her stomach as she watched, unable to believe her eyes. 

Amelle turned more fully, facing Kiara now, and drawing a breath of mana for a barrier she dearly hoped she wouldn’t actually _need_ to summon.  But Amelle knew Kiara never drew her weapon without meaning it, which left Amelle well and truly confused — and not a little worried.  This was not like her sister, not in the least.

“Kiara,” she began slowly, “what are you doing?”  She wondered for an instant where her nearest staff was, and then hated herself for the thought.  Surely she didn’t need to defend herself against her own _sister._   _Surely._   Amelle looked harder at Kiara, searching her face, her eyes, for some hint toward why her sister was acting so… _mad._

Still Kiara said nothing, and that in itself was almost worse. Lazily, she brought the arrow to the bowstring, and pulled slightly, the way she always did when she was testing the tension. Cupcake stood, his massive head swinging back and forth between the sisters. He padded closer to Kiara, sitting near her and tilting his head. Kiara didn’t reach out to scratch his ears. She didn’t even appear to notice him. She tested the bowstring again, and her eyes lifted, finding the wine stain on the wall. Her cheeks were still flushed, and even from a distance, Amelle could see how quickly her sister was breathing.

“You’re the one with the death wish, Mely,” Kiara said at last, her voice low and ragged. “Wouldn’t it be better to see it coming?”

Hearing the endearment fall from Kiara’s lips while she was aiming an arrow at her was enough to send a chill down Amelle’s spine.  She eyed the weapon, calculating whether she was quick enough to burn the arrow to ash _before_ summoning a barrier spell.  Another breath of mana, and it tingled hotly as it traveled down her arms. “I don’t have a death wish, Kiara — _Kiri_.  I don’t… know what’s wrong here, but _something_ isn’t right.” The magic hovered, barely contained, at her fingertips as she waited, noting her sister’s stance, the tension in her arms.  “Come on, why not put the bow down, hmm?  Let me check your—”

Kiara shook her head, eyes narrowed, and then pulled the arrow back. The creak of bow and string was unmistakable. “You wanted to go? So go.”

Cupcake rose to his feet and barked. Not his usual begging whine, or even his playful yips and growls—this was a full-voiced _shout_ of a bark that echoed in the rafters. Kiara blinked, and finally looked down at the mabari. When she met the dog’s eyes, he barked again, a little more quietly. But still the arrow remained nocked.

The distraction, however, was all Amelle required.  Flicking her fingers, she sent out a small, but intensely focused flash of heat — enough to make the arrow crumble to ash in Kiara’s fingers; before the first flakes of ash could hit the floor, a protective barrier spell shimmered into place around herself… and Sebastian.  He was still frozen in the doorway, unarmed and looking utterly horrified; Amelle she didn’t entirely trust him _not_ to rush into the fray to stop Kiara.  At this point she wasn’t sure what _could_ stop her sister, short of a sleep spell or a paralysis glyph, and she wasn’t quite ready to try such drastic measures. Yet.

“Amelle, what—” Sebastian began.

“I am _not_ healing you twice,” she growled at him, keeping her eyes on Kiara.  “And I have _no idea_ what’s wrong with her.  For the love of the Maker, _stay put._ ”

The sound of Sebastian’s voice, however, did what even Cupcake’s bark could not. As though stung, Kiara opened her hand and the bow dropped to the ground in a clatter. The flush of anger was replaced by a grey pallor, and Kiara pressed the hand that had held her weapon to her heart. “Maker,” she whispered, her voice hardly audible. “Maker, Amelle. I—I’m _sorry_. I don’t know—oh, Maker, I’m sorry.”  

Her sister’s voice had lost its cold, furious edge, and one look at Kiara’s eyes told Amelle her sister was as confused as she was.  The barrier faded away with another brief shimmer of light and Amelle took a tentative step forward, but only one.  “Kiara?  Are you…”  She wasn’t even sure how to finish that question — not when there were a dozen others fighting for dominance in her head, not least among them: _What in all the Black City just happened?_   She licked her lips and asked the safest question she could.  “Are you okay?”

Kiara nodded, and then almost as quickly shook her head. “It was just… you mentioned _Carver_ and…”

“Amelle,” said Sebastian, with a calmness she found enviable, “if you would be so kind?” He gestured at the barrier still glimmering around him, and she released it reluctantly. “I wonder if you might permit me a moment’s conversation with your sister. The… chantry isn’t far. We can meet you there shortly.”

The silence that had settled over the room — over the whole _house_ — was almost overwhelming.  The fire crackled softly.  Somewhere, a clock ticked.  Her own pulse thundered in her ears, counterpoint to Kiara’s breathing.  Indeed, she wasn’t sure if she _should_ leave — ironic, considering leaving was all she’d been trying _to_ do — but Sebastian seemed certain.  After several long seconds of consideration, Amelle swallowed hard and nodded.  He chanced another quick glance at Kiara, then back at Sebastian.

“All right,” she finally said.  “I’ll… see if I can find the others.  We’ll keep an eye out.”  With that, she tapped her hand against her thigh, wordlessly summoning Cupcake to her side.  He seemed as unsure of everything as she did, but he padded quietly to her, following her through the house and out the door and into the sunshine that seemed more incongruous as the day wore on.

### 

Sebastian stood in the doorway until the last echo of Amelle’s footsteps faded into silence, and then he waited a little longer, half expecting Hawke to turn and _look_ at him, at the very least. He still couldn’t believe what his eyes had so very clearly shown him, and what his ears had plainly heard. Even now, his rational mind wanted to dismiss the entirety as a dream, a pain-induced hallucination. It would make more sense than… than what he’d _witnessed_. Hawke had been… quieter, certainly, in the time _after_. Certainly around him. But he hadn’t imagined her so changed as this. Not in the worst of his nightmares.

Hawke did not turn. If he’d not seen it himself, if the pile of ashes that had once been an arrow did not still rest at her feet, he’d never have believed his own memory. She seemed… normal now. More normal. She remained frozen, eyes still gazing after Amelle, fingers still pressed to her breast. Her breathing, at least, was no longer quite so audible. His own chest ached when he took too deep a breath, and it was the catch in his breathing that made Hawke turn at last.

“You heard that, did you?” she asked softly, without even a trace of her usual humor. On a different day, at a different time, she’d have said the same words with a smirk or a cocked head. Then again, on a different day, at a different time, she would never have drawn her bow on her own _sister_.

“Hawke,” he replied, attempting to keep the wariness from his tone and aiming instead for something like lightness even though it was not his first instinct or the least bit natural, “all of Hightown heard that.”

On a different day, at a different time, his rejoinder would have made her laugh. On this day, at this time, it only brought tears.

This in itself was startling enough to propel him down the stairs. It galled him how _difficult_ it was. He had to hold tight to the banister and take each step one at a time, carefully. Even the faint pressure of setting his foot down on the next stair was enough to send frissons of pain through his breast and up into his left shoulder. He made it half a dozen steps before Hawke met him, sitting on the stairs and gesturing for him to join her. He sank down gratefully, leaning against the railing.

“I know I deserve the lecture,” she said, no longer crying, but cheeks still stained with tears. “Best get it over with.” Her gaze drifted to her bow, still lying on the rug where she’d dropped it. “I don’t have any other weapons on me. I probably won’t try to kill you.”

Sebastian did not answer right away. Her voice was too resigned to inspire laughter, though he recognized the words for an attempt at wit. He cast a sideways glance at Hawke. Her features were familiar enough, pinched and pale though they were, but the hunched shoulders and haunted expression were foreign. It was something deeper than mere grief. Sebastian hated even thinking it but… she looked _broken._

He couldn’t help wondering if his own actions had done part of the breaking.

_And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing_ left _of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!_

Ignoring the faint pang of pain from his still-healing wound, Sebastian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. After a moment, he said, “My grandmother died when I was seven.”

Startled, and clearly caught off-guard by his non-sequitur, she stammered, “I—I’m sorry.”

Shaking his head slightly, he continued, “She was… you must understand, in a place where time was a commodity, she always found some for me. I was too young to know what her life was like, as wife of the ruling prince. I had some lessons and responsibilities, but not many, and I didn’t understand how _busy_ my parents were, or my grandparents. Even my brothers were old enough to be more involved.” His lips twisted ruefully. “I was the baby. And everyone in my family treated me like the baby, except for my grandmother.”

Another slantwise glance revealed Hawke sitting up straighter, her shoulders back, her eyes curious. Curiosity he could work with. Curiosity was better than despair. Curiosity was more like _her._

“I had asked her to come watch me practice. I was—” he paused for a moment, and almost smiled, remembering the brutally awful attempts at swordplay. “My brothers favored the sword. I never did. _Disastrous_ was the word my father used, I believe. Luckily my affinity for the bow manifested early. I was proud of myself, and I wanted her to be proud of me. That morning I waited and waited, but she never came.”

“Because…”

“Aye. On the way to see me, she’d fallen. She wasn’t young, but I blamed myself. I… no one had told me she was sick, you see. All I knew was that she’d died because I asked her to watch me shoot some feathered sticks at a target.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. It was an expression he knew so well he almost heaved a sigh of relief. “But that’s ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” he replied gently. “And yet, even though it seems obvious now, at the time I was inconsolable. I hid for three days. I was… very good at hiding.” He did sigh here, remembering those strange days darting around corners and hiding in wardrobes, listening to people calling his name. He’d stolen food from the kitchens when he could, but he’d been hungry all the time. It had been the first time he’d known hunger. That pain had been nothing to his grief. “I thought my grandfather—the prince—would have me arrested. That’s how thoroughly I convinced myself I was guilty.”

“Sebastian…”

Her tenderness was palpable, and even more familiar to him than her curiosity. Even at her most reserved, he’d still seen flashes of tenderness in the week since Amelle had… pulled him back from the brink. Still, the weariness in her mien and the weight of her sorrow had not been present before. _Before_.

“Eventually my brother Connall found me curled up asleep in the bottom of a closet,” Sebastian said calmly. “But I’d missed the funeral. I was devastated. And of course my grandfather did not blame me; I’d hurt no one but myself.”

Hawke said nothing. Her hands were folded so tightly the knuckles were white under taut skin. She brought her hands to her face and pressed her thumbs to her lips, the attitude a strange echo of prayer.

“We do not honor the dead for the dead,” Sebastian added. “They are gone, no matter how we might wish otherwise. But without closure the living… drift. It wounds us not to have our farewells.”

She swallowed audibly and after hesitating, asked, “Is that a true story?”

“Aye.”

“You didn’t… make it up, to…”

“Make you see parallels? No, I did not.”

The breath she released sounded halfway caught between relief and a sob.

“But I did _tell_ it to you hoping you’d see parallels, Hawke. You have cause to worry for your sister’s safety, just as you have cause to worry for your own, but today is a day for mourning. No one will draw lines in the sand. No battles will be fought. And what happened… it was not your fault.”

“I wish I—” Hawke ground to a halt, and even with a foot of space between them, he could feel her trembling. “I wish I’d done things differently.”

“You can’t start pulling threads from a tapestry once its been woven, Hawke.”

She curled forward again, but this time the gesture was one of comfort instead of despair. “So you’re saying I should go.”

“I’m saying we should all go.”

Tilting her head, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “Are you well enough?”

He smiled slightly. “I believe I just overheard this argument, and it didn’t end well for anyone. I… know my limitations. Amelle will see I remember them, no doubt.”

Hawke rubbed absently at her temples, wincing. “I still don’t—I would _never_ —I was just so… I wasn’t even _angry_ , Sebastian. It doesn’t make sense. I was just so bloody _scared_.”

“I understand. Sometimes… fear drives us harder than anger ever could.” Raising his right hand he hesitated a moment before settling it lightly on her shoulder. Instead of jumping at the contact or shrugging him off, he felt her take a deep breath, and settle.

“Are _you_ well enough?” he asked. When she shot him a confused look, he added, “Headache?”

Hawke pulled her hands away from her temples and stared at them as though she didn’t quite believe they belonged to her. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s not crippling. Amelle can—no. Perhaps just some breakfast quickly. Maybe that will help.” She didn’t sound convinced, and her falsely chipper tone did nothing to erase the lines of anxiety and pain at the corners of her eyes.

“We have time,” he replied.

When she rose to her feet, she immediately reached a hand to him. Wordlessly, she helped him down the remaining stairs, and she did not let him go once they reached the bottom. She cast a cursory glance at her fallen bow, but did not stop to retrieve it.

And Sebastian realized that, in spite of its horrifying beginning, this was the longest, most civil conversation he’d shared with Kiara Hawke since… since _before_.

He wasn’t quite sure how it made him feel, but her steadying arm was solid and somehow _hopeful._ On a different day, at a different time, he thought it might almost have made him _happy_. But there was little room for happiness on a day like this one, for anyone.

“We have time,” he repeated, ignoring her bewildered expression.


	21. Chapter 21

It would be wrong to say Cullen woke before dawn. _Waking_ implied _sleeping_ after all, and there had been none of that. Dawn found Cullen alone, however. He’d not been presumptuous enough to move himself into the Knight-Commander’s quarters, so he was still in his old room, sitting on his old stool, before his old armor stand. A mug of tea, long since grown tepid, rested on the table at his elbow. He’d eaten the plate of food someone sent because he knew he needed strength, though he hadn’t been hungry. He could get by on very little sleep—he knew that well enough. Food was another matter altogether.

He was polishing his armor. Carefully. Meticulously. With the soft rag in his hand and his breastplate in his lap, he could almost pretend today was any other day. He knew it wasn’t. His chest was tight with emotion he’d been suppressing for days, for weeks. It had been easy enough in the early days. When there was so much work to be done, who had time for grief? Now when he walked the streets, no one begged him for aid in saving loved ones. There were no more loved ones to save. So he polished his armor. He couldn’t bring anyone back from the dead, couldn’t undo any of the horror that had been done, but by the Maker, he could look the part when he stood to speak blessings over the dead. He owed them that much. He owed them _all_ that much.

Later, he would have to be strong. Alone in his room, polishing his breastplate until it gleamed, Cullen allowed himself to grieve. For the Grand Cleric, for the mothers and sisters and brothers in the faith who’d been taken with her. For the people in their homes when the stones fell. For the people in the streets. _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying? They’re crying for me. Ser, can’t you hear them?_ He grieved his own fallen brethren and their dead charges, men and women caught in Meredith and Orsino’s lethal struggle. He grieved for innocence. What little innocence Kirkwall had ever had was gone now, irrevocably, irretrievably. Cullen knew what that loss of innocence felt like, and he wept for it.

By the time Ser Hugh arrived to tell him it was time, Cullen’s face was once again stoic. The redness around his eyes might have only been from sleeplessness and the ever-present dust in the air. It wasn’t. But it might have been.

#

The sun blazed above, but as Amelle hurried through Hightown, away from her home, she felt cold and hollow down to her bones.  She hurt — _ached_ — and for a moment she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt this way, but then she remembered, and the force of the memory, the wave of emotions that crashed over her, was enough to cause a check in her step, a hitch in her breathing.  Amelle stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth as the earlier hollowness grew suddenly tight, as if something inside was squeezing her, squeezing harder and harder  until she could barely breathe.  Cupcake whined softly, nudging her hand with his nose and licking hesitantly.

She hadn’t felt this empty, this cold, this at loose ends since Mother’s death.

“I’m okay,” she breathed, leaning against a nearby wall and bending forward, bracing her hands against her thighs.  “I’m okay.”  In all honesty she wasn’t sure whether she was telling Cupcake or telling _herself_.  

With a deep breath she closed her eyes, but all Amelle saw behind her lids was her sister, pale and blood-spattered, staring dully at a too-hot fire.  She remembered all too clearly how… how _empty_ her sister had seemed after Mother died.  Amelle remembered too well the _loneliness_ she’d felt, and how absurd it had seemed at the time — how could she feel lonely when her sister was just in the next room?  But Kiara had withdrawn so far inside herself, had walled herself off from everything — she’d had to build up that bloody fire just so she could _feel_ something. 

Amelle shivered; she could almost feel the heat of that blaze herself.  

Cupcake whined again and Amelle shook her head, but didn’t dare open her eyes.  She didn’t want to open her eyes and see Hightown and sunshine and the slow but steady flow of people all making their way to… what remained of the chantry to mourn, to grieve all who’d been lost.  Opening her eyes then would only tell Amelle the morning’s events _had_ happened.  

She felt empty.  Nauseated.  Hollow.  _Cold._

_If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody sister._

“Oh, _Maker_ ,” she whispered.  Amelle felt her gorge rise and she fought back against the sensation.  “I didn’t— I can’t believe I… _shit._ ”  Tears burned anew at her eyes and Amelle straightened, swiping at the moisture with her sleeve.  Cupcake still sat in front of her, dark eyes watching attentively, his head cocked with concern.  She took another deep breath.  Then another.

_Breathe, rabbit.  Breathe.  You’ll be all right, just breathe._

It was perhaps not luck _,_ but Amelle’s tears were not unique to her that day.  Indeed, she noticed as she pushed away from the wall, piecing herself back together and trying desperately to school her expression into something far more neutral and far less revealing, that others were just as red-eyed as she, their faces just as blotchy, their shoulders just as hunched with grief and pain.  No one noticed her distress, and she was strangely glad of it.

Cupcake pushed to his feet and was once again by Amelle’s side as she continued on to the memorial site.  She let her hand rest atop his massive head as she walked, the warm fur beneath her fingertips a balm of sorts.  She could not forget the words she and Kiara had flung at each other, and in the openness of Hightown she felt strangely exposed, _lonelier_.

_The truth’s coming out now; don’t try to sugar-coat it with noble intentions — you’d rather I not be any visible part of your life._

Another wave of nausea clenched at her stomach.  Amelle gritted her teeth and pushed down the sensation, forcing herself to walk.  One foot in front of the other.

_I didn’t mean it, kit.  I didn’t mean it.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it.  I’ll be good, Kiri.  I’ll be better.  I’ll try harder, Kiri._

The crowds grew thicker the closer she got to the site.  Cupcake sniffed at the air, then nosed her hand and let out a soft _woof_ before leading her deeper into the throng.  Amelle caught the glint of sunlight against plate armor in her peripheral vision and her breath froze in her chest, her steps stuttering to a stop.  Countless templars ringed the memorial site.

_You’d have died or been carted to the Circle fifty times before your fifteenth birthday if not for me._

Cupcake mouthed the fingers of one hand, making a noise that sounded strangely impatient.

No, they weren’t just templars, were they?  Amelle looked again — templars stood shoulder to shoulder with members of the Kirkwall city guard, all of them looking somber in polished plate.  Toward the front of the guard she spied Aveline, red hair and armor shining in the sun.  Not far from her stood former Knight-Captain Cullen — the acting Knight-Commander now.  He was less soot-smeared when she’d last seen in him The Blooming Rose, but his face was pale, his countenance creased and heavy with grief.  How many of his brethren, his friends, had perished in the chantry, she wondered.  How _many_ had died?  She thought, suddenly, of Ianna’s babe, Adan, who would grow up without a father through no fault of his own.

People had lost family members and friends, and she and Kiara had spent the morning _fighting._   How many people here would have given their last breath just to have the opportunity to have another morning with their loved ones?  How many of them were even now regretting what had turned out to be the last words they’d ever speak to a mother or sister or father or brother?

How would _she_ feel if the last words she ever got a chance to say to Kiara were, _If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody sister._

An almost-painful nip at her fingertips yanked Amelle from her reverie, and she looked down to find Cupcake watching her, then tipping his head at a path the crowd.  She thought she saw a flash of snow-white hair somewhere in the midst of it all, and though the last thing in the world Amelle wanted right then was company, she nodded at the mabari.

“I’m right behind you.”

#

Fenris recognized the hound first. Mabari were not a common sight in Kirkwall, and more often than not seeing one in Hightown heralded the arrival of one or the other of the Hawke sisters. On this occasion he had expected to find the both of them together—and, indeed, he’d been _looking_ for them—but it was only Amelle walking with Killer, one of her hands resting on the mabari’s large head. As Fenris watched, the hound looked up to her and then once again pressed himself close to her side.

Though the square was growing increasingly crowded, it took very little effort for him to reach Amelle’s side. Crowds tightly packed but a moment before suddenly found space for him to pass. “Amelle,” he said, when he was near enough for her to hear. Still, he was forced to repeat her name three times before she looked up, and even when her eyes met his, it took a moment before recognition and comprehension dawned. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, and her face pale. He supposed that described the majority of this crowd, but something about Amelle’s countenance alarmed him. His fingers twitched at his side, as though they wished to reach out and grasp her elbow. Instead, he closed them into a fist.

“Fenris,” she said, as if surprised to see him. “Kiara’s…” she drifted to silence, then shook her head. “Sorry. Are you… Kiara’s not here. Yet.”

Something _was_ wrong — Amelle looked more than troubled, she looked nearly ill, and that was a look he’d never seen on the Champion’s younger sister.  Amelle Hawke hadn’t been sick a single day in the seven years he’d known her.  Fenris frowned, looking more carefully at her, but Amelle did not meet his eyes.  That too was unlike her.  “She is… coming, then?” he finally asked.

“Yes.  Probably.”  She grimaced.  “I think so.  Sebastian said… he said they’d…  Is anyone else here?  I saw Aveline.”

“She and Donnic are with the rest of the guard.  It is my understanding Varric and Isabela will be along — I don’t expect they’ll be much longer.”

“What about Merrill?”

“I have not seen her.”  Nor had he made an effort to look for her.

“Varric’s probably bringing her,” she replied quietly, looking out into the mass of people around them.  Her eyes were strangely unfocused, as if she wasn’t really _seeing_ any of the faces in front of her.  This time Fenris _did_ touch her elbow, and Amelle gave such a start that he let his hand fall back limply to his side.  

“Are you… unwell?”

A number of emotions flashed across Amelle’s face, and Fenris was certain he missed most of them, but he saw her sadness clearly enough —  more than that, he caught something that looked a great deal like pain _._   “I’m… well enough,” she said, glancing briefly at the sober collection of city guard and templars everywhere.  She fell to silence again, the hand upon the hound’s head sliding back to its neck and curling into a slow fist.

“Amelle.”

“You… don’t suppose they have an axe to grind, do you?”  Then she added, in a much softer tone Fenris wasn’t sure was meant for his ears, “Maybe I _shouldn’t_ have come.”

Fenris was about to tell her such a thought was madness, that today was not a day for blame — and even if it were, the one truly to blame was far from reach at the moment — but a day to mourn the dead.  There was no room for condemnation this day.  He had, in fact, opened his mouth to say those very words, but as fate would have it, he didn’t get the chance.

“Elf,” though he sounded somewhat more subdued, it was certainly Varric’s voice, “you make one heck of a beacon.  Hey, Little—ugh, sorry. _Amelle._   Cupcake.”

Without shifting so much as an inch from Amelle’s side, Cupcake snuffled a greeting. Varric gave the mabari a dutiful scratch behind the ears. “Where’s big sis?”

Again, Fenris witnessed the brief, strange play of emotions on Amelle’s face and wondered at the root of them. “Coming. With Sebastian,” Amelle replied shortly. “Where’s Isabela?”

“Drunk,” Varric answered on a sigh. “Really, really drunk.” He waved his hand in an inclusive gesture. “All this emotion. She… well. She’s drunk.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” growled a voice. Fenris turned, and was met by a grim-faced—and yes, obviously drunk—Isabela. The pirate scowled down at Varric. “I told you. I’m _fine_.” She blinked several times at Amelle. “Are there two of you, kitten?”

“Only one,” Amelle said, with a lightness that belied the darkness in her eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” Isabela remarked. “Where’s your bloody sister? I only came because I knew she’d give me one of her bloody _looks_ if I didn’t show my bloody face.”

“She’s coming,” Amelle repeated, a muscle jumping as she clenched her teeth.

“I suppose Choir Boy’s slowing her down?” Varric asked. “How’s he holding up, anyway? I’m assuming there’s been no repeat of… well. No one man Exalted Marches going down in the Hawke Estate?”

This made Amelle glance up at him, and a pale smile ghosted across her lips. “None at Sebastian’s insistence,” she said. Varric looked so confused Fenris knew at once the dwarf had no idea what kind of risks Amelle had taken. “And he’s doing a great deal better, I think. Not fully healed, not by a long shot, but I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Still not sure it’s the safest place for him,” Varric said. “You know, what with the sweeping threats and all.”

Cupcake gave a low bark, as if to say _none of my people get hurt on my watch._

“He is going to stay with me for a time,” Fenris stated.

Amelle blinked at him. Varric raised his eyebrows. Isabela swayed on her feet, putting a hand on Varric’s shoulder to keep herself upright. He was fairly certain the latter had nothing whatsoever to do with his statement and everything to do with the pirate’s current state of inebriation.

“In your… mansion full of corpses?” Amelle asked feebly. “I’m not sure that’s… sanitary.”

Fenris scowled. “Not all the rooms have… corpses. He has been improving. I thought a removal from your home might… help. Sebastian seemed to agree when I spoke with him about it yesterday. I believe he intends to come with me after…” Fenris glanced around, taking in the square and its crowds and the ring of armored guards and templars. “After this.”

“Consulting with the resident healer might have been appropriate,” Amelle retorted sharply. “Since he’s still a patient in her care, and all.”

“His constant presence weighs on Hawke,” Fenris replied, shaking his head. “Such sustained contact can help neither of them in the long run. Not while things are so… unstable between them.”

“Right,” Amelle said, “ _Hawke_.”

There was certainly no disregarding the bitterness in her tone, but Fenris was kept from asking about it by the sudden shift in Amelle’s expression. When Fenris followed the line of her gaze, he saw Hawke and Sebastian not moving through the crowd to join them, but standing near Aveline, and the templar Knight-Commander. “And there she is,” Amelle said softly.

Whatever reason Hawke had for choosing such a… visible location, even Fenris could see she certainly didn’t look precisely _comfortable_ there. Indeed, the only time he’d seen her look _worse_ was directly after her mother’s death. Casting a surreptitious glance at Amelle, he saw some of the same strain playing around the mage’s eyes, and he found himself abruptly certain there was more going on than distress over the day’s events. He couldn’t have said _how_ he knew, but once he’d noticed them, the signs were obvious.

Fenris looked to Varric, to see if the dwarf was noticing the same things he was noticing, but Varric was thoroughly engaged in keeping Isabela upright.

Perhaps now wasn’t the time to ask, but he would find time—time and an appropriate moment—to do so later.

#

The walk through Hightown from the Hawke estate to what remained of the chantry and its wreckage was a slow, quiet, _painful_ process.  If Sebastian attempted anything faster than a slow shuffle, his body fought him, every step a reminder of what the recent days had wrought.  

Hawke seemed not to mind the slow pace; she was lost in her own thoughts, utterly silent as they passed house after house, the structures gradually showing more signs of damage the closer they got to the site.  Only the oldest, most stubborn families in Hightown remained; an alarming number had fled, leaving behind abandoned homes, most of which had already been picked over by enterprising looters.

If he were to be truly honest with himself, though, he was almost _thankful_ for the slow pace, for it allowed him time to think about what he’d walked in on.  And what he’d _almost_ walked in on.

He imagined Hawke was thankful for it too.  She seemed… better now.  Almost.  True to her word she’d eaten breakfast, downing a phial of elfroot potion and chasing it with a cup of dark, strong tea to combat her headache.  She’d insisted those measures had worked, and maybe they had, but Sebastian couldn’t help but notice how wan she looked, how _ragged_.  Her red hair made her skin look even more pale, made shadows beneath her reddened eyes look like bruises — it was worse in the daylight, Sebastian thought.  Firelight was warmer, more forgiving, but the harsh light of day hid nothing.

As they reached the outermost edges of the assembled crowd, Sebastian looked above the heads, his eyes scanning the area for a flash of white hair, or a glimpse of a blue headscarf.  Unsurprisingly, it was Fenris’ hair Sebastian’s eyes were drawn to first — after a second or two he saw Amelle and both Varric and Isabela were already there.

“I’ve found them,” he murmured to Hawke, jerking his chin in the direction he’d just spied their friends. “Just over there.”

A shadow passed over her brow and she pushed herself on tiptoes — Hawke was not a short woman, but there were more than a few bodies taller than she wedged into the area — to peer out into the crowd.  He knew without asking whom she was looking for.

“Amelle is with Fenris and the others,” he told Hawke.  Her wince told _him_ she’d just caught sight of her sister.

“I see her.”

“Did you perhaps think she wouldn’t come after all?”

“Less _think_ , more _hope,_ ” she replied under her breath, and on any other day — any other day _before_ the world shifted — the words would have been imbued with dry wit and graced with a smile as charming as it was self-deprecating.

“It will be fine, Hawke.”

She sent him a dubious look.  “You were _there._   You _saw._ I don’t think fine has anything to do with any of this.”  Her face tightened with worry as she looked up whether the chantry tower used to stand, and after a too-long silence, shook her head, whispering, “This is all my fault.  I don’t belong here.”

“Remember what I said,” he insisted. “Everyone deserves closure, Hawke. Everyone deserves to mourn. You lost, too. We all lost. And we both know whose fault this was.”

She masked her skepticism somewhat, but he still saw it lurking behind her eyes. Resolute, she began making her way through the crowd. Sebastian followed at her heels, carrying himself carefully. They were forced to move slowly—even the Champion couldn’t make the sea of people part by presence alone. Hawke looked back every few steps. He hoped it was concern for him, but he feared she simply didn’t trust him out of her sight.

They’d made a little progress—a little, not a lot—when a hand dropped on Sebastian’s shoulder—the shoulder on his wounded side—and he very nearly fainted at the sudden pain. He gasped, and Hawke whirled, hands already balling into fists, as though she’d attack anyone who’d encroached too far into his personal space.

“Maker’s bloody balls, Cullen! Can’t you see he’s _injured_?”

The hand abruptly jerked away, but Sebastian wasn’t certain if it was an improvement. Blinking rapidly, he focused on the way the sunlight gleamed in Hawke’s hair. “I’m fine,” he said, though no one had asked. Even to his own ears he did not sound anything close to fine.

“Forgive me, Brother Sebastian,” Cullen apologized, his eyes wide. Sebastian supposed it was only natural, but every person he met seemed to look more exhausted than the last. “I was only so relieved to see you. I had no idea you—anyone—had…”

The templar’s voice faded before he could speak the word they were all thinking: _survived_. Sebastian moved his shoulder slightly. The pain was still present, but less sharp. Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go get Amelle.”

Cullen’s already pale face went ashen. “Maker, Hawke. Not _here_.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sebastian repeated. “It was only the surprise. Hawke. It’s not… you mustn’t put your sister in such a position. Not… in present company.”

The templar looked momentarily affronted, and then shook his head. “I thought I might ask you to… to give the blessing, Brother. Otherwise it falls to me, and—”

“I am no longer a Brother,” Sebastian reminded the templar. Pain stole the intended gentleness from his tone, leaving only tension. Hawke took half a step closer, her eyes scanning him. When he glanced down, his white shirt was still pristine. “I am… not certain it would be appropriate.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “Surely you’re a better choice than the acting Knight-Commander? You, at least, will be recognized. You’ve been associated with Kirkwall’s chantry longer than I have, Br—Sebastian.”

The templar was right, of course.

“No,” Hawke protested. “He’s _injured_.”

Sebastian bowed his head. “Speaking a prayer will hardly tax my injury, Hawke. And I—”

“Need the closure,” she whispered. He nodded. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“Perhaps you should be with Ame—” Sebastian began, but she silenced him with a muttered, “I _am_ coming with you. Let’s not argue about it.”

Sebastian exchanged a glance with the acting Knight-Commander. For all their attempt at subtlety, Hawke noticed and said, “Unless you fear a… a repetition of the circumstances under which we last met, Knight-Commander?”

Cullen sighed. “No, indeed. Perhaps it’s best you be seen with me, for all that. And Aveline will be there.”

One thing Sebastian noticed: the crowds certainly parted for a templar Knight-Commander. Even if he was only _acting_.

#

Kiara’s head hurt.  

Even after the tea and the elfroot potion, her temples still pounded, pressure still pulsed against her forehead, against the back of her skull.  The sunshine that had put her into such a foul mood when she first woke now made the inside of her skull throb with pain.

Through the haze of her headache, she saw her failings reflected in the faces around her.  She saw families broken, missing a father or a mother or, Maker help her, a child.  She heard it, too. Then, it had been screams amid acrid smoke and ash. Now it was softer sobs, muffled with varying measures of success.  Her failure loomed around her:  failure to _see,_ to _question,_ to _act_ before Anders had gone even half as far as he had.

She’d been their Champion, and she’d let them all down.  She was used to dealing with the consequences of her actions — indeed, it was something drilled into all the Hawke children from a young age.  But Papa had never taught her how to deal with the consequences that arose when she did nothing at all.

And then Amelle had mentioned Carver.  Another life lost, not because she’d failed to act, but lost _before_ she could act.  Amelle had mentioned Carver and Kiara realized she was standing alone in the room with the very last shred of family she had left in the world — aside from Gamlen at least, whom she decidedly did not count — and she found herself seized with such a sudden and boundless _terror_ she could scarce contain it.  She found herself wondering _what if something happened to Amelle?_ Something _could_ happen, some ill _could_ befall her… and if Kiara had learned anything over the last seven years, she’d learned it could happen whether she did _something_ , or whether she did nothing at all. She’d only ever wanted was to keep her family safe, and one by one she’d failed them. It only made sense Amelle would be next.

Amelle had mentioned Carver, and fear, intense and irrational, had wormed its way so deeply inside Kiara could barely _think_.  A world without her sister.  A world without family.  A world in which she’d failed _every single person_ she ever loved or cared about.  

That fear had been so blinding that even now Kiara had difficulty remembering exactly how her bow had come into her hands.  But it had, and she was so utterly aghast the very idea of _facing_ her sister now made her stomach lurch with nausea.  She’d seen it clearly enough when she spied Amelle through the sea of people. By her sister’s expression she knew she was the last person in Thedas Amelle wanted to see.  And Amelle was just another in a long list of people Kiara wasn’t sure she could face.

Problem was, as Kiara followed Cullen and Sebastian through the crowd, it was beginning to look like she was going to have little choice _but_ to face them all, and all at once.

#

Cullen didn’t realize how much he’d been praying for the Champion’s return until he spied Kiara Hawke across the crowded courtyard and realized the woman he’d known—the _true_ Champion of Kirkwall—was still missing in action. This version of Hawke wore leathers at least, but her bow was not slung on her back and there was something so… so wretchedly _broken_ about her. Looking at her too closely made him ill. He’d spotted her sister already, safe enough within a knot of Hawke’s companions, though it had surprised him not to see the Hawkes together. Just as well. Today was a day of healing broken things, and mourning, and by the Maker, the people of Kirkwall were going to start by forgiving their Champion. Perhaps it was just as well she did not arrive with a mage at her side.

Then again.

He did not see who threw the stone, but they had good aim; it bounced off Hawke’s shoulder. She winced, but did not retaliate. Indeed, there was no spark of defiance in her. She merely bowed her bare head, her coppery hair gleaming in the sun, and waited like a martyr. He had visions of the scene he’d broken up in the marketplace, Hawke bloody and under attack, and he clenched one hand around the hilt of his sword.

Cullen was having none of it. None of _any of it._  

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, his voice carrying as only a soldier’s voice could. Conversations fell into silence, until only the sounds of shuffling feet and the occasional soft sob stirred the air.

Hawke’s eyes darted toward him, as though she suspected the words were meant for her. He could hardly correct her, but that she thought herself in any way _deserving_ of them was no small part of the problem. Beside him, Brother Sebastian’s sharp gaze was scanning the crowd, and his jaw was clenched hard. It seemed so strange to see all the defiance in him and none in Hawke, like the world had been shifted upside down.

Perhaps it had. But Cullen wasn’t having any of that, either. Not today.

“Today is a day of mourning,” he continued. “A day of grief. All of us have lost loved ones, friends, family. All of us have wept.”

_The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying?_

“Today is for honoring those who fell. Today is for lighting candles and telling stories. Today is for _remembering_.”

Hawke’s chin tilted up, just a little. Her shoulders straightened. Not entirely, but enough. Her pale eyes swam with tears. Cullen swallowed past the hard knot of emotion in his own throat. _Ahh_ , he thought. _Champion. There you are._

“Today is not about blame,” he insisted, looking away from the Champion, casting his gaze out over the assembled crowd. He recognized so many faces, and was aware of too many missing ones. He had a list of names. He’d written it out himself, painstakingly. Every name. Everyone reported missing, assumed dead. There were so many names. So _many._ _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying?_ Those names were Meribel, Dora, Theo. The baby was Mikken. Their mother’s name was Tamma. Tamma, with her hands bloody from clawing at immovable stone. Tamma with her tears and her disbelief. Tamma had taken her own life, a week after the explosion, as soon as anyone left her alone. Her name was on Cullen’s list, too, though he thought he might be the only one left to mourn her. He only knew the children's names because the one time he’d visited Tamma in the Rose she’d been curled in a corner, repeating them over and over and over.

He should have known. He should have known what she would do, in that first moment she was left alone.

“Today is not about throwing stones. Today is not about violence. Violence has brought us pain enough; we do not need to add to it.”

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Cullen had a list of names. _Tamma. Meribel, Dora, Theo, Mikken._ Behind him stood a gaping hole, a wound cut deep in the heart of the city. Before him, the sea of people whose hearts and lives had been pierced just as deeply by the loss. He’d dreaded feeling nervous, having to have so many eyes upon him, but instead he only felt like one of them. Perhaps for the first time. His was the voice, perhaps, but they all might have spoken the same words in his place.

“We are all here for the same purpose: to grieve for what was lost. To grieve for that which was stolen. To grieve for Kirkwall.”

No one threw another stone.

#

 _I don’t know what I was expecting,_ Amelle thought as she watched her sister accompany the acting Knight-Commander and Sebastian to the front of the assembly.  But, no, that wasn’t true — she _knew_ what to expect when she and Kiara fought.  Though arguably the _worst_ in recent memory, this certainly hadn’t been the first argument between them. Usually after a short while apart, they approached each other, however warily, and… _attempted_ to heal the breach between them.

But now, as Amelle watched Kiara walk further away from _her_ to stand up with Aveline, with Sebastian, with the templar Knight-Commander, she felt a cold knot settle in her gut.  No, this wasn’t right.  It wasn’t right at all.  And though she was loath to admit it, betrayal twinged faintly beneath her breast.  Amelle wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly cold.  Suddenly as if she ought not to have come at all, as if she had no _business_ being here at all.  Cupcake snuffled her leg and pressed more firmly against her.

What made it worse was that Kiara was standing with acting Knight-Commander Cullen.  Granted, he’d stood up to Meredith, and he’d been more than fair — nearly kind, really, or at least concerned enough to warn her to be discreet when he’d come across her in the Rose.  But he wasn’t _family._   And no matter how badly they’d argued, Amelle… _wanted_ her sister by her side.  Particularly now, put face to face with such a stark reminder of loss.  And though her rational mind rejected the idea, part of her could not help but feel as though Kiara maybe didn’t _want_ to be by her side any longer.

 _Foolish little mageling.  The truth is out now, and big sister’s made her choice; surely you see that much._ A dark, traitorous thought whispered through her mind.  Amelle scowled and shook her head.  _No.  This is Kiara.  She wouldn’t._

But the taunting, prodding whispers had only just begun.  _Well, if the problem isn’t her, it’s probably_ you _.  You were the one working to heal so many, and it was such thankless work, too.  And still they all prefer Kiara.  You mended their bones and healed their cuts and saved their children, and still they want their Champion.  Face it, no matter what you do, or how hard you work, how much you risk for them, it will never be enough.  You will always be the Lesser Sister.  You’ll always be_ just a mage. _It won’t matter what you can do for them, because that is all you are and that is all they’ll see.  Kiara’s decided you’re just not worth the trouble anymore.  And can you truly blame her?_

Then a lone cry shot up from the crowd and a rock pelted her sister and Amelle, despite her bitterness, despite her anger, despite what she _knew_ was a demon trying to whisper poison into her mind, felt the sudden warmth of energy flowing down to her hands, summoned nearly before she’d thought of it.  They’d fought, they weren’t speaking, Kiara had drawn a _sodding bow_ on her, but all of that aside, _no one_ hurt her sister without consequences.  She narrowed her eyes to try and seek out the aspiring marksman, but the sudden — and surprisingly _tight_ — grip on her arm yanked Amelle out of her anger.  Fenris was standing close, one hand clapped over her wrist, the warning clear in his eyes.

“ _Do not,_ ” was all the elf said.  He was watching her closely — too closely — and his eyes darted down to her hands meaningfully.  “Do not,” he said again.  “Not here, and not now, Amelle.”  His brows lowered into a scowl.  “You are not so foolish as this.”

It would have been easy to direct her peevishness onto Fenris — and indeed, she started to, jerking her arm away and sending him a glare, but very few people ever glared at Fenris with any true measure of success, and Amelle did not find herself in the lucky minority.  The elf merely met her gaze and returned it steadily.  His eyes held no anger — only concern — and she realized, however perversely, she _wanted_ Fenris to be angry; after several seconds Amelle was the first to look away, biting back a particularly vehement curse.

“It is not the time, Amelle,” he said, his voice low and brooking no argument.

“So I ought to let her get _stoned to death_?” Amelle hissed back, frustration tightening her throat and making tears prickle anew at her eyes.  But Fenris only jerked his chin at Kiara, Sebastian, and Knight-Commander Cullen, standing before the crowd.  Cullen’s voice carried with surprising clarity as he dressed down any who would do violence on this day.

Frustration warred with shame, and heat rushed to Amelle’s cheeks as she looked down and then crossed her arms, hiding her hands against her body.  _Now we see why — of course they prefer their Champion.  You’ll only ever be Little Hawke, not worth half so much as she.  You won’t meet your sister’s eyes, but you’d not hesitate to strike down a complete stranger in retaliation?  On a day such as this one?  Pathetic.  No wonder they prefer Kiara.  Never mind how many of their lives you saved, how many burns you healed, how much bleeding you stopped.  You will never live up to that.  You will never be her equal. Never. Never. Unless…_

A soft voice at her side startled her almost enough to make the magic sing in her veins again, but a swift glance revealed Merrill, looking frazzled and confused, her braids askew. “Am I too late? Did I miss it? It’s only I kept getting lost and there are so very many people. I was looking for Varric, and then I thought, _oh Merrill, but he’s the shortest_ and once I started looking for Fenris’ hair I saw you instead. I’m so sorry, Amelle, they threw that stone at your sister. It’s just so _strange_ to see them mad at _her_. But it’s very good you didn’t do anything foolish; there are so _many_ templars around.”

Something about the incongruity of this—the Knight-Commander pleading for peace, Merrill chattering in her ear, her wrist still aching from Fenris’ grip, Kiara _almost_ looking like herself again—sent the last of Amelle’s anger, her desire to retaliate, dissipating into nothing. She was left with a strange hollow feeling, an aching void desperate to be filled. Only she wasn’t certain what was going to sweep in to fill the emptiness, and it _frightened her_.  She could _feel_ the tickling of the demon’s whisper, reminding her of all she was and all she wasn’t, of all Kiara was, and all she was perceived to be. Little Hawke. Lesser Sister. 

Merrill’s fingertips brushed the back of Amelle’s hand, startling her again. “Are you okay, Amelle? You look like you’ve been crying.” Then Merrill ducked her head, saying, “Oh, Creators. _Everyone’s_ been crying. Of course.”

Amelle was saved the necessity of answering by the sound of Sebastian’s voice taking over for Cullen.

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Is that Sebastian? He’s so much less… shiny without his armor, isn’t he? And so thin.”

“Silence, mag—elf,” Fenris growled.

Owl-eyed, Merrill blinked at Fenris and then at Amelle, but she did stop speaking. For a moment she looked so stung, so tragic, so _alone_ , Amelle reached out and wrapped her fingers around her hand. Merrill squeezed back. The silent whispers continued to prod at her, but Amelle set her jaw and pushed back _hard_ at the unpleasant tickling inside her skull, choosing instead to focus intently on Knight-Commander Cullen’s voice as he read the names of the lost.

#

In truth, given half a chance, Fenris would have confronted the coward who’d thrown a stone at Hawke.  It was a craven gesture, made even more so by the sheer size — and thus the anonymity — of the crowd.  But he caught the soft glow of Amelle’s gathering magic and that alone chased any and all thoughts of confrontation from his mind.  The climate in Kirkwall was too unpredictable, and Amelle a lone apostate surrounded by templars.  It didn’t matter that Fenris agreed with her sentiment and the motivation behind her reaction, but any show of magic at that time, at that place, would have been dire indeed.

But when he’d closed his hand around her wrist, Fenris was unprepared both of the warmth of her skin and the strange tingle of magic emanating from her.  He felt the distant call of the lyrium in his skin in answer, but before he could make anything of it, she’d jerked her hand away and turned her eyes — though not her attention, Fenris suspected — back to the Knight-Captain and Sebastian.  But Amelle’s expression darkened, and the longer he watched, the more he grew confident something was very wrong indeed.  The color at her cheeks was mottled and the way the muscles jumped in her jaw, she was very clearly clenching her teeth.

Concern evolving into alarm, he’d nearly pulled her away then and there.  Better to remove her from the memorial and find out for himself what made her features so pinched with pain and flushed with what he strongly suspected was anger, and what could possibly have induced her to nearly reveal her magic in front of so many hostile eyes.  Many were sad this day, but whatever was troubling Amelle Hawke was not mere sadness. Or even affront on her sister’s behalf. A stone was only a stone, in the end, and Hawke protected by powerful allies.

But then Merrill appeared at her elbow and Fenris found himself unwillingly beholden to her for providing Amelle the very distraction she required. A few moments of Merrill’s chatter did a great deal to bring Amelle’s color back to normal, though her features remained pinched and nothing but time would ease the redness of her eyes.

Fenris raised his eyes to scan the crowd once again, this time to be certain no templars seemed unsettled—or overly curious—about Amelle and her overly warm skin. A few seemed to meet his gaze, but no one moved toward them. Most were listening as carefully as the crowd to the Knight-Commander’s words. 

Still, Fenris felt a prickle of tension between his shoulder blades, and he didn’t think it was the presence of so many templars and guards. It was something stranger, less easy to define, and he thought it had a great deal to do with how unwell Amelle seemed. He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the sense of unease, but the gesture was utterly ineffectual. It was a feeling he remembered well; in the past, when he’d felt such pressure, it had always been an indication to run. From Danarius. From his hunters. Even now, Fenris had to convince himself it was better to stay than to draw attention by running.

#

Though his first instinct had been to refuse the acting Knight-Commander’s request, as soon as Sebastian lifted his voice in the familiar cadence of prayer, he was glad he had not. And although he found it troubling how difficult it was to find breath and voice enough to make his voice carry—he, who’d often led the Chant, who’d been praised for his fine voice—he was soothed by the sense of peace that settled on him as he prayed.

It was peace tinged with sorrow, of course. Everything was tinged with sorrow, these days. He hadn’t been entirely certain about how he’d feel—and save for his foray into the clinic to help Amelle, this was his first time away from the Hawke estate since… 

He could scarce bring himself to look upon the empty expanse of sky where once the familiar facade of his home had risen. This time the ache in his chest was not all the result of the wound there. It was all gone now, all empty. It was too enormous to bear. The weight of it was so heavy. Too heavy. Everyone. Everyone he’d known, everyone he’d cared for, everyone he’d eaten meals with or cleaned floors with or laughed with. The cooks who’d baked the bread he loved so well. The garden he’d spent so much time in. Elthina. _Oh, Maker be merciful, everyone_. He could not bear to think of Elthina, even now. Instead, he remembered the sound of voices raised in the Chant, and he strove to match that memory, to make that memory proud.

But his voice trembled. A moment later, Hawke stepped closer to him, until the back of her hand brushed the back of his hand. She didn’t look up at him. Nothing about her posture changed. But the backs of her fingers brushed the backs of his fingers, and a moment later he heard her voice—soft and timid and never on any kind of key—join his. He didn’t think anyone else could hear it, but no one else had to. It was enough. It was enough to help him go on. His voice did not tremble again.

#

For seven years, Kiara had been weaving herself into the fabric of Kirkwall. One couldn’t live in a place, become a part of a place, _adopt_ a place without caring. And for all her laughter, for all her quips and smirks, Kiara _cared_. She’d helped every damned person who’d ever bothered to ask—no matter how great or small the task—and in the process, she’d come to care. Not just about big things—templars, mages, viscounts, qunari—but about the little ones as well. She cared about the plight of the refugees, certainly, but she also cared about the _individuals_. Most of what she’d done to earn the title _Champion_ had been done because she couldn’t stand to see a person struggling, hurting, despairing when she had the power to help.

She couldn’t help with this. She couldn’t help in the face of such overwhelming struggle, hurt, _despair_.

As Sebastian’s voice fell into silence, Cullen’s rose once again.

Names.

Kiara closed her eyes, unable to stop the sudden spill of tears down her cheeks. She knew too many of the names. And she knew too few of them. Some had faces vividly attached. Ser Paxley, with his bushy mustache. Guillaume de Launcet. The elf Elren, whose daughter Lia she’d once saved from Kelder Vanard. Kiara felt a pang of surprise and grief when Cullen read out the name of Ser Keran’s sister, Macha. But the grief swiftly became numbness. Too many names. Too many faces. Even Cullen’s strident voice soon grew hoarse, and she knew there were still so _many_.  

Aside from Cullen’s voice and the occasional cry of a gull, Kirkwall was silent.  So silent every gasp, every whispered oath carried as clearly as Sebastian’s prayer, or the litany of names itself.  Every name elicited some reaction. 

Nobles, elves, refugees — so _many_ had found refuge at the chantry.  Had they she not been locked in a pissing contest with Meredith and Orsino at the time, Kiara knew she could have been inside.  Sebastian, certainly.  And though she’d never gone on her own, Kiara knew her sister loved the sound of so many voices joining and blending as one in prayer or song.  Many times, when they’d be rushing through the chantry courtyard on one job or another, Kiara had felt Amelle’s hand on her wrist, slowing their steps to a stop, just so she could close her eyes and tip her head up to listen _,_ a content but strangely secretive smile at her lips, as if to say, _I might not be invited to the party, but I can still enjoy it._

If her sister had paused to listen in the chantry courtyard then, she’d have been just as dead.

Those moments melded into one memory for Kiara and the clarity of them all hit her so hard that she drew in a sudden, involuntary breath.  Scanning the crowd, she searched for her sister’s face, but when she found it, a host of other memories crashed over her, wiping away the image of a content, smiling Amelle, and replacing it with the young woman she saw now.  This other Amelle’s cheeks were hot with anger, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, her jaw tight — _Amelle, for the Maker’s sake, if you keep grinding your teeth that way you’ll have none left in your head to speak of,_ Mother always said — her eyes looking anywhere but at Kiara.  From somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she heard Carver’s voice, whining at Papa to make Amelle stop _looking_ at him.

_Look at me, Amelle.  Rabbit, look at me.  Papa, make Amelle look at me._

But she didn’t.

Cullen’s voice fell silent, his long list of names ended. Silence fell over the square. Kiara didn’t see who started it, but from somewhere within the crowd a voice rose, singing. It took her a moment to recognize the hymn, but when she did, she smiled through the sudden pang of pain. It was a song of peace, and it was one of Elthina’s favorites; the Grand Cleric had led the congregation in the same hymn at every service Kiara had ever attended. More voices joined the first. Beside her, Sebastian raised his head, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. He, too, began to sing.

Soon, the entire square was singing. When the first hymn ended, another began, and then a third. Gradually people began to break away from the square, departing in twos and threes with their voices still raised in song, until it seemed all of Kirkwall echoed with music.


	22. Chapter 22

Kiara didn’t want to go home.

Home was an argument waiting to happen, waiting to be continued. Home was her bow still on the floor. Home was a pile of ashes that had once been an arrow.

Cullen and Aveline were attending to their duties, making certain the crowds dispersed peacefully—though no one seemed inclined to make trouble, now—but she could sense their eyes on her. She’d been trapped within the walls of her home for weeks, first waiting for a death, and then waiting for… something. Waiting. 

Her head ached and she was thirsty and she didn’t want to go home. So she turned to Sebastian and said, “I’m going to The Hanged Man.”

Before he could answer, she heard Isabela say, too loudly, “Sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day!”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. His face was still mottled from his tears, though he no longer wept. Lifting his chin, he regarded the approach of the others with calmness Kiara wished she could emulate.

Amelle still wasn’t looking at her. One hand rested on Killer’s head. The mabari, at least, met Kiara’s gaze. She didn’t think she was imagining the reproach in the hound’s dark eyes, but at least he wasn’t baring his teeth or growling.

“You’re not the only one who’s had that idea, Hawke. Corff’s throwing a bit of a wake,” Varric added, one arm slung around Isabela’s waist. The pirate was leaning on him heavily, her eyes also red-rimmed, but Kiara had never known the pirate to drink to _that_ kind of excess. Isabela usually just passed out before visibly appearing drunk in any way. Kiara had the strangest feeling the drunken act was just that—a cover. An excuse. A deflection. “Raise a glass for the lost. Remember we’re still alive.”

“I’ll walk you back, Sebastian,” Kiara said softly. She was startled when his eyes sought hers and he shook his head.

“I would rather join you,” he replied, his voice still rough with emotion, and his Starkhaven accent all the heavier for it. “Unless… I understand if I am not welc—”

“Fenris says you’re planning on leaving us,” Amelle interrupted. Kiara’s stomach twisted, and she couldn’t have said if it was Amelle’s words or her tone or just that her sister sounded… sounded as though she’d never said words like _if you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody_ sister _._

She was standing close enough to feel Sebastian tense. “Fenris has been kind enough to offer a place to stay, and I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough.”

“No,” Kiara said. “It’s too far. You’re still injured. Amelle needs to—”

“Amelle can walk to Fenris’ almost as easily as Amelle can walk down the hall,” Amelle retorted. “He’ll be close enough to check on. And Fenris knows where to find me if there’s a problem.”

Kiara swallowed hard. Still, Amelle would not look at her. Her sister’s gaze was, instead, fixed on Sebastian as she spoke, and her fingers dug deeper into Killer’s fur. The mabari whined.

“I don’t think—” Kiara began, only to have Amelle say, “He’s not our bloody prisoner, Kiara. Let him go, if that’s what he wants.”

_If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody_ sister _._

Sebastian cleared his throat. “It wasn’t—”

“No,” Kiara said, “Amelle’s right. It’s your decision. It’s fine. Let’s go.”

Varric glanced between Kiara and Amelle, frowning. Then he did what he did best and effortlessly changed the subject. “Good to see you up and about, Choir Boy. Heard it was touch and go there for a bit.”

Isabela’s mask of drunkenness slipped for a moment as her astute eyes darted to Sebastian. Kiara could see the wheels turning behind them. “Also heard you’ve maybe rethought some of those things you said,” Isabela said.

“I have,” he replied evenly. “I am not ignorant of the apologies I owe each and every one of you.”

“I didn’t think you would do those things,” Merrill said. “You were upset.”

“We were all bloody upset, Daisy. But an apology’s an apology. And I’m not keen on holding a grudge. Not after a day like today.”

“I’m not drunk enough for all this emotional shit,” Isabela muttered. “Give me a pint, a deck of cards, and some of Sebastian’s coin and we’ll see how forgiving I feel.”

For once, Kiara agreed with Isabela completely. “The rest of you coming?”

Amelle’s eyes flashed to hers for such a brief moment Kiara almost thought she’d imagined it, and in that instant she saw the thousand questions swimming behind her sister’s gaze, all mingled with pain and frustration and anger.

_It’s you who wants to be free of me._

Perhaps Amelle’s words were double-edged. Perhaps it was not only Sebastian Amelle feared a prisoner in the Hawke estate. _Let him go. Let me go. Let them all go. They are none of them yours to hold, Kiara Hawke._

She hardly noticed the flurry of assent—even Aveline called out a promise to stop by with Donnic.

Amelle didn’t say anything at all, but she followed when Kiara turned to leave. She stayed near the back, though, listening to Merrill talk, and she did not look up again.

#

Amelle just wanted to go home.

She just wanted to go home, where it was quiet and private, and she wouldn’t be forced to wear this bloody aching mask any longer.  She wanted to go home, to her room, where she could curl up let the worst of this day slough off of her.  Everything inside her felt brittle and stretched and cold — and so _empty._   She wanted a cup of tea and the chair by her fire, and she wanted to let out the painful, wracking sobs that had been building in her chest since that morning.  

But, as strongly as she wanted to go home, Amelle knew to go now would only call more attention to the tension between her and Kiara.  Amelle could feel it, and she knew Sebastian could see it.  Varric’s shrewd eyes watched them both a little more closely. The day’d been emotional enough to explain any number of odd behaviors, but Amelle didn’t think for a moment her sister’s friends would believe their behavior was simply a result of… of an emotional sort of runoff.

_Her sister’s friends._   Yes, they’d always been that, hadn’t they?  It had been Kiara who’d found them all, who’d secured their friendship in any number of ways.  It was Kiara they looked to.  Amelle had never noticed that before — of course, it had always been Kiara _she’d_ looked to as well.

But now, as they made the trek from Hightown to The Hanged Man, Amelle noticed it so much more clearly.  She’d drifted to the back of the group, Cupcake still by her side — and that _still_ seemed odd, since the dog was Kiara’s, had always _been_ Kiara’s — and watched.  Varric led the way, evidently hampered not at all by Isabela leaning so heavily on him.  Still, most of his conversation was directed over his shoulder at Kiara, who was flanked on either side by Sebastian and Fenris.  Aveline and Donnic were coming by later, but if she’d been along with them, she would have been farther ahead as well.  

Indeed, on any other day, Amelle would have been by Kiara’s side, right about where Sebastian stood now.  

Merrill chattered happily during the walk; that was less odd, as Kiara had never made any secret of her opinion of Merrill.  She tolerated the Dalish elf, probably out of some lingering affection for Marethari, but Kiara very clearly did not _like_ Merrill.  For her part, Amelle had been just as frustrated, just as angry over the odyssey with the mirror as her sister had been.  She’d been just as disappointed in Merrill’s comporting with “spirits” and her protestations that blood magic was simply another _type_ of magic.  But Amelle had always had a harder time actively _disliking_ the mage.  

There were times when Amelle wondered if perhaps she gave Merrill a bit more leeway because anyone Anders disliked so strongly couldn’t have been that bad.  

_And look what became of_ him, she thought darkly.  An answering whisper slithered through her mind, jeering, _No, look what’s become of_ you _, Lesser Sister._

“Shut _up,_ ” she muttered under her breath, startling slightly because she hadn’t meant to say the words _out loud,_ but Merrill hadn’t seemed to notice.  Cupcake whined, giving her an odd, slantwise look, but that was all.  And there it was, another reason to go home — it was a bad sign indeed if she was muttering aloud to voices in her head.  Usually she was better at pushing them back, keeping the walls up in her mind to hold any unwelcome presence at bay.  But Amelle was exhausted and hurt and _frustrated_.  Above all, she was damned sick and tired of how bloody _astute_ the whispers were becoming.  So she pushed back against them, harder and harder still, keeping her eyes averted, lest anyone notice… notice what?  That she was on the cusp of unraveling like a cheap sock?

She just needed to make it through the next few hours.  Then everything would be… well, not _fine_ , but at least somewhat within her control.  She could go home, and in the sanctuary of her own room, clear and quiet her mind.

Varric pushed open the door to The Hanged Man, releasing a wave of noise and what sounded a great deal like merriment within.  It was the sound of the living trying to celebrate life instead of mourning loss, and for a moment Amelle’s own spirit lifted.  Perhaps a mug of ale and a hand of cards _would_ help.

They all filed up to Varric’s suite, with the dwarf plunking himself down at the head of the long table that took up more than half the room.  Kiara sat to his right, and the rest of her sister’s companions settled in around her.

Amelle’s flicker of optimism guttered out as she settled in the chair at the opposite end of the table, her back to the door.  For all she tried to tell herself they were all simply filling in from one end to the other, it was difficult to ignore the way she felt… strangely on the outer edge of things.

“C’mon, Daisy,” Varric said, to Merrill, patting a stool between him and Isabela, “I saved you a seat.  I hear Rivaini’s been teaching you Wicked Grace.”

“Well… a little,” admitted Merrill, taking her seat.  Varric laughed.

“If she taught you her rules, better stick by me, kid,” he said, which set off a comfortably familiar retort by Isabela insisting she didn’t _cheat_ , of course, to which Varric replied serenely, “Didn’t teach _Daisy_ to cheat, you mean.”  At which point Isabela sputtered, and the rest of the table grinned or chuckled or exchanged knowing smirks.

Suddenly a pint and a round of cards didn’t seem quite so appealing anymore.

#

It wasn’t so much that Sebastian wanted to be at The Hanged Man, because he didn’t. 

Even when everything was fine, he rarely _enjoyed_ the tavern. The drink was bad, the food was worse, and the general atmosphere was one that screamed of brawls just waiting to happen. It was impossible to think in The Hanged Man, and he found himself constantly grinding his teeth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And things most certainly were not _fine_. Nothing about this day was _close_ to fine.

Unlike the card game he’d overheard while still abed at the Hawke estate, no one laughed here. Conversation was muted. Varric _tried_ , but even his strain was evident. Sebastian felt abraded, raw, _flayed_ by the events of the day—and not _only_ the memorial; the argument he’d witnessed between the sisters was still fresh in his mind—and all the shouting and song and laughter and _tavernness_ from belowstairs did nothing to soothe the ache left by the names and the emptiness and the unalterable, irrefutable knowledge that whatever home _had_ been for Sebastian, nothing of it remained.

He didn’t want to be sitting around a table in a Lowtown tavern, drinking watered wine, staring at a hand of cards he was certain couldn’t win, no matter how well he played. He wanted to be home. And home didn’t exist anymore.

Beside him, Hawke was desperately trying to rally her spirits—mostly for _their_ benefit, Sebastian thought—but he could see the brittleness of her smile, and hear the forced lightness when she spoke. He didn’t think anyone was fooled. Not even Merrill. And the more Hawke forced herself to be bright, the darker Amelle seemed. The mage curled into herself, rebuffing all attempts to draw her into conversation. Sebastian didn’t need templar skills to know Amelle hovered near some unseen breaking point, but he didn’t have the slightest idea how to soothe her.

If Hawke was forcing herself to smile, her sister was clearly forcing herself not to cry.

At his other side, Sebastian thought he saw Fenris’ eyes turned toward Amelle at least as often as his own were, and the elf looked nearly as troubled as Sebastian felt. Troubled and confused, which told him Amelle had likely disclosed little, if anything, of the argument to him. For a moment, Sebastian almost wanted to pull the elf aside, to reveal what he knew.

But then again, perhaps it was not his place.

He’d never been entirely sure what his place was.

Less so, now.

He disliked seeing the Hawke sisters so at odds with each other, though. He knew that much.

“So,” Varric said, with amiable—and enviable—easiness. “You in or you out, Little Hawke?”

Amelle flung her cards down on the table as though they’d burned her… or as though she’d burned them. Sebastian didn’t _think_ he was imagining the brief curl of smoke. “Out,” she snapped, and Varric cringed as comprehension dawned.

“Shit. Sorry, Ame—”

Pushing herself upright, she curled her hands briefly into fists and said, “It’s fine.  Never mind.  I’ll get another round,” before stalking out.

Every single glass on the table—even Isabela’s—was still full.

A beat of silence followed, broken only by the sounds from the tavern itself. Then, slowly, Sebastian got to his feet. “I’ll… help her.”

Hawke’s expression looked both relieved and somehow sheepish, but she stayed in her seat.

It took a great deal of effort to maneuver through the crowd, but he managed. Once or twice he was jostled too suddenly and he had to pause to blink through sudden pain.

Amelle stood near the bar, a little apart, arms wrapped around herself. Evidently the other patrons sensed her ire, for a little pocket of space had formed around her. When her gaze flicked up and met his, there was no mistaking the irritation there. “Did she—?”

“Amelle,” he said softly. “No.”

Bowing her head, she scuffed her toes against the grimy floorboards. “I’m sorry. I just… how can she _pretend_?”

“I don’t think she’s pretending—”

“Sebastian, _please_.”

“—I think she’s _trying_. Everything is so… broken. And they look to her. You know they do. _She_ knows they do. She feels it’s her responsibility to—”

“Oh, _Maker_ ,” Amelle said with a pained grimace. “The _volumes_ I could write about Kiara Hawke and her overinflated sense of responsibility.”

“Amelle,” he repeated, but when the younger Hawke met his eyes, he didn’t know what to say.  _Cheer up, Amelle, you’re not the first person Hawke’s drawn her weapon on_ didn’t quite have the right ring.And he knew all too well how deep the cuts from an altercation between siblings could run.  His relationship with his own brothers had been proof enough of that.  It was obvious both sisters were hurting, and dealing with it — or _not_ — in their own very different ways.  He sighed.  “She’s trying,” he said again.

“We’re all _trying_ , Sebastian.  It’s not…”  She swallowed hard, still quite clearly trying to keep her tears in check.  “You heard her.  Heard every word, I don’t doubt.  I’m just… a nuisance. _She’s_ the one who protected me when we were young.  _She’s_ the one who convinced Cullen not to take me to the Circle.  She did all those things.  And I never knew it before, but I’m just… just some sodding _obligation_ of hers.  I only wanted to help, to _do something_ and be a part of her… her _team._   I wanted to be someone she could count on like she counts on all of you.  I… I wanted to be _more_ than just her _little sister_ , but for all those efforts, all she ever thought was that I was _flaunting_ my powers and adding to her burden of bloody _responsibility_.”  

“You can’t believe Hawke _meant_ such a thing, Amelle.”  Indeed, Sebastian had difficulty believing it himself.  But while he knew a great deal about siblings, he knew very little indeed about the unique trials undergone by any sibling trying to protect her apostate sister.

Part of him could not help but take Hawke’s part — Amelle was an _apostate._   Why _shouldn’t_ she feel some measure of gratitude to Hawke for the very protection that chafed her so?  Did she not understand the _risks_ Hawke took to make sure she remained free?  And yet, Sebastian knew as well as anyone that Amelle had healed her sister’s wounds, had _saved her sister’s life_ more than once.

“Can’t I?” replied Amelle hollowly.  A tray appeared on the bar, laden with the round of drinks she’d gone to retrieve in the first place.  She hefted it into her arms. “It’s not as if Kiara was _lying_ about anything she said.  No, every word was absolute truth.  And that’s the worst of it.  I will only ever be Kiara Hawke’s little sister, the one she selflessly defends and rescues at every turn, no matter the peril to herself.  I really ought to have known better than to _want_ anything else.”

She sounded so bleak, so _hopeless._   So unlike the young woman he saw overseeing them all in the clinic — _that_ Amelle Hawke seemed so very far away.

And then he _realized_. 

_I will only ever be Kiara Hawke’s little sister._

Sebastian knew well the chill of living in an elder sibling’s shadow.  And Hawke, without trying, without — Sebastian firmly believed — _wanting_ to, was _keeping_ her there.

When Sebastian looked up, Amelle had the tray settled firmly in her arms.  “We should go back upstairs,” she said, sending him a small, wan smile.  “I shall be very cross if you reinjure yourself in a tavern without even a brawl involved.”  But the jest fell flat and she looked down at the drinks she carried.  “Maker,” she sighed, and for just a moment, in the scant space between syllables, Sebastian heard every ounce of frustration, sorrow and, yes, resentment she was trying too hard to hold at bay. “I just want this day to be over.”

He knew precisely how she felt.

#

If Hawke seemed at all surprised or distressed at her sister’s abrupt departure, Fenris didn’t see it reflected in her countenance.  Indeed, his friend seemed intent on acting as if everything was fine.  And perhaps she was doing it for all their benefit, but Fenris found the artifice somewhat distasteful.  He knew Hawke, and he definitely knew her well enough to know she felt it was her responsibility to bolster the spirits of those around her, but Fenris wondered if perhaps such a day was not better spent in quiet contemplation instead of… this.  Normally he would never have turned down drink and a game of cards, but the atmosphere was too forced — and it was not only the Hawke sisters contributing to that, but _everyone,_ in a thousand infinitesimal ways.  Fenris was certain even he was contributing to it, whether he meant to or not.

Then Amelle and Sebastian retreated downstairs for more drink — and Fenris could not help but wonder anew at what was troubling Amelle — and the strangest thing happened:  the air cleared, and the atmosphere relaxed.  Even Hawke’s smile seemed less… thin.  Brittle.

Varric lifted himself partway out of his chair and leaned over, looking down the table and along the hallway where Amelle had gone.  Then, dropping back into his seat with a sigh, he shook his head.  “How come no one _told_ me she hated me calling her that?”

Isabela downed the last of her drink in a single swallow and grimaced before saying, “We all figured you’d pick up on it sooner or later.”

“Andraste’s buttcheeks, how was I even supposed to _know?_ ”

“Everyone knew, Fuzzy,” Isabela said pointedly.

“You knew she hated me calling her that, Rivaini?”

“Of _course_ I knew.”  

“As did I,” Fenris said.  

“Me too,” added Merrill, frowning at the color of the liquid in her glass before draining it.

During all this, Hawke appeared strangely intrigued with the contents of her glass and said nothing.

The pirate squinted at him over the top of her glass.  “Are you listening, Fuzzy?  _Everyone_ knew.  Either you’re drunker than I think, or I’m not nearly drunk enough.”

“That would depend on your definition of _drunk enough,_ ” came Aveline’s voice as she and Donnic walked in.  “It’d also depend on if those words existed in your vocabulary, which I doubt.”

Varric waved at the newcomers.  “Pull up a chair, kids.  We’re discussing the end of an era.”

Husband and wife sat, Aveline arching a ginger eyebrow at Varric as she did.  “Care to elaborate?”

As if she couldn’t quite believe it herself, Merrill told them, “Varric didn’t know how much Amelle despised being called—”

“Little Hawke?” Aveline supplied with a grimace.  “Maker, and here I thought all these years you were calling her that specifically to annoy her.”

Varric let out a groan and held his head in his hands.  “ _No_.  Okay, just so we’re clear.  Anyone at this table who _didn’t_ know Amelle hated — no, _despised_ — my nickname for her, raise your hand.”

No one moved.

“She’s not just a little version of me,” Hawke said softly, pushing her mostly-full glass away, very carefully meeting no one’s eyes. “I don’t imagine you’d have enjoyed being known as Little Bartrand.”

Varric shuddered. “Noted, but… you’re _you_ , Hawke. There are worse people—Bartrand, for example—one might be compared to.”

“Not for Amelle,” Hawke retorted, each word sharp and cold and brutal.

If the room hadn’t been full, Fenris _would_ have asked the problem, because it was very, _very_ evident there was one.

Varric grimaced, leaning forward on his elbows. “Come on, Hawke, that’s hardly—”

Hawke slapped her cards down on the table—face-up, and a surprisingly good hand—and pushed them away. “Give her a new nickname, or don’t, but for Andraste’s bloody sake don’t make it about _Hawke_.” She rose so quickly her chair nearly fell backward. “I’ve got a murderous headache, and that racket from downstairs isn’t helping. I need some sodding _air_.”

Without waiting for a response, she headed for the door. Fenris half-rose to follow, but she only shook her head and gestured for him to sit. He hesitated a moment longer before sinking back into his seat. He’d seen Hawke in many moods, but never one quite so foul as this, and he couldn’t believe it was all to do with the destruction the abomination had wrought. Not given how troubled Amelle seemed as well.

Silence descended once Hawke had gone. Finally Varric cleared his throat and said, “I, uh, I guess birds are out altogether?”

With forced cheer, Isabela added, “And body parts. She’s not the type.”

Aveline glanced between them and added, “Especially not hair color. Smacks too much of—”

Everyone stopped, frozen.

Wincing, the guard-captain said, “Smacks too much of that time you tried to nickname me Red. And we remember how well that went over.”

“Right,” Varric said. “Red. What about, uh… huh. She does like fire?” He peered intently around the table. “She _does_ like fire, doesn’t she? That’s not going to blow up in my face?”

Isabela snickered. “Nice word choice, Fuzzy.”

Even Fenris felt his lips twitch briefly into a tiny smile. “She favors fire, yes.”

Varric’s expression brightened. “So. That’s something. Firestarter!”

Fenris shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aveline shudder her disapproval.

“Firecracker? Firebomb?”

“Oh, Varric,” Merrill murmured with obvious disappointment. “Neither of those are _her._ ”

“Fire…work?”

“Firefly,” said Fenris. All eyes turned to him, and he felt his shoulders stiffen under their scrutiny. “If it must be related to fire at all.”

Varric looked unconvinced. “You think a bug’s better than a bird? Or a body part?”

Fenris did not dignify this with any reply save a very even gaze. After a moment, the dwarf sighed. “It’s on you, Broody.”

“It is not,” Fenris replied firmly. “It is you who has trouble using names. It was merely a suggestion. Take it or do not.”

Varric looked poised to argue the point when Amelle returned. Alone. Fenris rose and took the heavy tray from her arms. Her eyes flickered to his, briefly grateful. She was still tense—still tense and troubled and obviously upset—but the intensity of it all seemed to have ebbed somewhat. There were no more rogue curls of smoke.

“Where’s Choir Boy?”

“Trailing after my sister,” Amelle said, passing out drinks with single-minded dedication. “Where else?”

Secretly, Fenris found himself glad of it. Even when she disagreed with him, Hawke always had an ear for Sebastian. He hoped the priest might succeed where he had failed; at least she’d not immediately shooed Sebastian away.

When the drinks were distributed, Amelle paused a moment, hesitating. Fenris thought she, too, was going to disappear, so he nudged Hawke’s seat with his foot. “I do not think she intends to return, Amelle,” he said gravely. “Sit.”

A spasm of some emotion he couldn’t quite put a name to crossed her face in the instant before she flung herself into the chair that had been her sister’s. The game had grown so disrupted Varric had them start over, and while he was dealing a new hand, he regarded Amelle carefully. “So, uh… Firefly? You in?”

Amelle’s eyebrows lifted and the closest thing Fenris had seen to a smile all day played about the corners of her lips. “Sure, Varric.”

“And you’d… you’d _tell_ me this time, wouldn’t you? If you, uh—”

“I’d tell you.”

“It’ll do, then?”

Fenris felt eyes on him again, but he studiously ignored them, shifting the cards in his hand as if moving them might make them better.

“I… like it, actually. Firefly. We used to catch them, back in Lothering. I thought they were magical, back before I…” Amelle’s voice drifted into silence. Fenris heard her swallow hard. “I like it.”

“Good,” Varric said. Fenris ignored his look, too. “You going to raise, Broody, or are you just going to stare at your cards hoping they get better by force of glare alone?”

Fenris turned the force of his glare on Varric, instead.

“I’d still like to know why I never rated a nickname,” Aveline grumbled.

“I still call you Red in my head,” Varric said. “Not my fault you vetoed it.”

It was still the strangest, tensest game of cards Fenris had ever played, and it seemed odd to see everyone around a table with no Hawke binding them together. But beside him, Amelle calmed just a little. Later. Later he’d ask the trouble, and help if he could.


	23. Chapter 23

Neither Sebastian nor Amelle were prepared for Hawke’s appearance at the top of the stair.  Amelle, for her part, just managed to steady the tray of drinks she held when the sight of her sister made her startle, and though her face betrayed nothing, Sebastian heard the way the glasses clinked softly together.  

From the looks of things Hawke hadn’t expected to see them, either.  Her eyes darted between them for a moment before her lips parted.  Had this been any normal chance encounter, Hawke might have been preparing to utter something as mundane as, _Excuse me,_ or _Beg pardon, coming through._   As it happened, though, she only got as far as drawing the breath for whatever she intended to say.  Amelle’s face went carefully blank as she swept to the side of the stairway, tacitly giving her sister the room she needed before she could speak a word.

Never before had Sebastian seen so much exchanged on so little said _._   Hawke’s expression was patently bland, but her hand clenched the railing.  Amelle’s angled her body away from her sister, her shoulder raised slightly.  Almost protectively.  They scarcely looked at each other when Hawke passed Amelle upon the stair.

Before she could pass him, however, Sebastian cleared his throat.  The sound was by no means great, but it was more than enough to catch Hawke’s attention.  She came to a sudden stop and simply looked at him, as if she wasn’t sure it was he who’d made the sound to begin with.

“Leaving already?” he asked in what he hoped was a light tone.

“Headache,” came Hawke’s curt reply.  “I need some air.”

“As it happens,” Sebastian said, sending Amelle a brief look he could only hope was pointed enough, _meaningful_ enough, “so do I.”

Hawke barely had time to _look_ dubious before she blurted out, “You need air?” 

“Aye.  It’s too loud and close in here by half.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

She was trying to push him back, trying to push him _away_ , but he’d been here before.  He found he didn’t want to let her. “Perhaps, but it seemed more important at the time that I come along.  Could I importune you to walk me just as far as Fenris’ home, Hawke?”

“The place Fenris lives can hardly be called a _home_ ,” she said.  And he couldn’t help noticing as sharp and unwelcoming her tone, she hadn’t refused him outright.  He knew her well enough to be certain if she truly did not want his company, she would have told him so.  Possibly in more than one language.

There was a soft sound upon the stair and out of the corner of his eye he saw Amelle ascend the stairway.  Hawke waited for her sister to disappear completely before speaking again.  “Fine.  As far as Fenris’.”

In this, too, Sebastian heard the unspoken sentiment: _as far as Fenris’ and no farther, and we’ll say not a word during the trip._

The walk to Fenris’ mansion was slow going. Frustratingly slow. And silent. But with every step, Sebastian grew more certain Hawke would speak, if only he allowed her the opportunity to do so in her own time. When they’d traversed Lowtown, walked the stairs to Hightown, and stood poised to cross what had once been the chantry courtyard, she paused. “I—you lost more than any of us, didn’t you?” she asked, and even though the words were spoken softly, the eerie silence sent them echoing back around them over and over. He felt, just for a moment, as though he were hearing a hundred voices. Ghosts. 

“We all lost. More or less matters very little in the face of grief.”

“I’ve been avoiding you.”

He swallowed hard, and chose honesty. “I know.”

“Is that why you’re going to Fenris’?”

“No.” Even in the twilight, he could see the sudden flash of her eyes as she turned, and he could see she didn’t believe him. Sighing, he realized he did not entirely believe _himself_. “Not entirely. I lost my home. I lost… what I thought would be my future. I am not certain what will take the place of those things, but that is… not for you to bear. I see you, Hawke. I see you and know you have lost something even less tangible than the things I have lost. Your faith, perhaps. I do not know if it’s your faith in the Maker that is shaken—and would not blame you if it were—but I know… I know what I said, what I did, shook your faith in me. In those you trusted.”

Her voice held a trace of scorn. “You take a great deal on yourself, Sebastian Vael.”

Shaking his head, he amended, “It is a small part, perhaps, of what hurts you, but I am well enough to… remove myself from your concern. I cannot change what is done. I cannot undo or unsay those things that have wounded you. But I can leave you in peace.”

“You think that’s what I want?”

He did not reply at first, because he wasn’t certain he could read her tone. The question seemed simple enough, and, indeed, it _was_ what he thought she wanted. Her home back, without the constant reminder of betrayal under her nose. But something didn’t sit right with him—he felt as though her question held a test, and he was afraid of failing it. “I haven’t any idea what you want, Hawke,” he finally said.

“Neither do I,” she replied. Then, in a smaller voice, a more haunted voice, she added, “I… broke something I don’t know how to fix.”

 _So did I_ , he thought. But what he said was, “You are family. It will heal.”

“Will it?” she asked, sounding very much as though she didn’t believe it was possible. “I don’t know if it will.”

“She loves you. You love her. You have been through… you have been through so much together. It will heal.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed, and she regarded him with such calm shrewdness he fought the urge to shrink away from her. “Is that enough? Love?”

“Hawke—”

She silenced him with the brief, cutting motion of one hand. “I think she’ll always see the point of an arrow when she looks at me now. _That_ is what I think. And I don’t know how something like that gets healed.”

“Time,” he offered.

Folding her arms over her chest, she turned the same thoughtful gaze on the abandoned courtyard. Heaps of flowers and mementos covered the stones, now, silent testament to the loved ones lost. “I thought the names would never end.” Her voice hardened, turned dark. “I wish I could carve each one of those names into his skin, and force him to live with them haunting his flesh. I wish I hadn’t let him go.”

Sebastian remembered the anger he’d felt, staring at Anders—shoulders hunched, face resolute, waiting for the blade of Hawke’s knife to slide between his ribs.  He remembered waiting, too: waiting for Hawke to act, to move _,_ to do what needed to be done. He remembered all too clearly his impatience and anger rising through the cold numbness as she did nothing.

He’d felt much the same way Hawke looked now.

She took a step back and glanced up at the sky streaked with the setting sun, a riot of blues and purples and pinks, with the barest glow of gold touching the clouds.  And yet, as glorious as the sunset was, as unutterably beautiful, it was scarred by the absence of the chantry tower.  “I didn’t realize it, you know.  At the time.  Didn’t realize how… how _many_ —”

“None of us knew.”  Sebastian had guessed.  Oh, he’d _guessed_. And even those guesses had barely scratched the surface of the reality.  “None of us could have known—”

“Anders knew,” she cut in, flatly.  “He knew what he was doing and he did it anyway.  He _chose_ it.  He bloody well _orchestrated_ it. Sela Petrae. Drakestone. A potion to help separate him from Justice. That’s what he said. Just exactly what he knew I wanted to hear. Just exactly what he knew would make me help him.”  Shaking her head, Hawke wrapped her arms around her body, warding off a chill only she could feel.  “How could he?”

“He had his reasons. I daresay he thought them good, if he was willing to go to such lengths to see his idea of justice done. But he was working under his own agenda, Hawke.  And it was one that did not include you.  It included none of us.”

“It may not have included me, but he bloody well dropped enough _hints,_ ” she spat.  “ _Everyone must choose a side,_ he told me.  He wanted to push the city against a wall, he wanted to shove it into a corner and force everyone’s hands.  And by the bloody Maker, he got _just_ what he wanted.  He got what he wanted, and… and we’re left to pick up the pieces.  He left the city in his bloody blaze of bloody _glory_ ,Sebastian.  He got his grand gesture, and he’ll never see all the blood on his hands.”

Sebastian had no answer for her.  “Hawke,” he said, his brogue thick with emotion he did not care to name.  “You cannot hope to understand the motivations of—”

“Of an abomination?”  She shook her head.  “The _demon_ made him do it?  No.  _Anders_ did this, just as he accepted the bloody demon into himself in the _first place_.”  Hawke turned suddenly, hair flying as she flung out one arm to point at the wreckage.  “This was not justice.”  Then, suddenly, clenching both fists, Hawke took a stumbling step and tipped her head back, screaming at the heavens, “ _Do you hear me, you bastard?_   _This is not justice!_ ”

And then she began to cry.

Sebastian felt his heart twist in his breast at the sound. His hands twitched at his sides, anxious, _desperate_ to do something to comfort her, but he knew very well how unwelcome such an overture would be. From him. Now.

Still, when she fell to her knees, bending under the weight of sobs he felt certain she’d been suppressing for weeks, he could not stop himself. He sank down beside her, not quite touching, but close. Close enough she wouldn’t have to feel alone. She hardly seemed to notice him, putting her hands flat on the ground before her, grinding her fingers into the dust and rubble still marring once-pristine flagstones.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, her words hardly recognizable, her shoulders heaving. She curled into herself as though making herself physically smaller might somehow reduce the magnitude of her grief. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing he _could_ say.

But he knew exactly how she felt.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

And he hoped that, wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, the Maker would one day rain down true justice on Anders for this. For all of the lives, all of the names, all of the brokenness he’d left in his wake.

When her weeping subsided, though broken sniffles still hitched every other breath, Hawke sat back, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the sky, where the first stars were appearing, and said so softly he almost didn’t hear it, “Thank you.”

He had nothing to say to this either, so he merely sat next to her, mimicking her posture as best he could with his still-pained left side. After a moment their shoulders brushed briefly, and he was almost certain the gesture had not begun with him. Sitting together as the moon rose, they were enveloped in a silence that could almost, _almost_ have been called companionable.

#

“I’m out,” announced Amelle.  

The chair scraped loudly across the floor as she stood, rolling her shoulders.  It was hardly a surprise, Fenris thought — Aveline and Donnic had left not long before, looking exhausted.  He suspected it wasn’t remotely coincidental Amelle had waited just long enough to give Hawke a reasonable head start.

He glanced up in time to see Varric looking closely at Amelle, brows drawn together, as if she were a thing to be puzzled out.

“You sure about that, Firefly?”

She waved a hand at her cards.  “No amount of magic is going to fix those cards.  Though you’re welcome to them if you like.”

Varric’s answering smile was a strange one, both rueful and calculating, but he shook his head.  “No thanks.  I’ll make do with what I’ve got.”

“What about you, Merrill?” Amelle asked the elf.  “If you’re ready to head back—”

Merrill never looked up from her cards as she shook her head quickly, her dark hair swinging back and forth.  “No, no.  No, I think I’ll… stay a while longer.”

Amelle arched an eyebrow.  “Stay a while longer?” 

Still, Merrill didn’t look up.  Instead, she rearranged her cards, murmuring, “Mmhmm.”

Amelle’s lips twitched in a badly-concealed smile.  “You’re quite sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Merrill mumbled.  It could have been a very bad hand capturing her attention so raptly, but Fenris suspected not.

Amelle’s grin widened as she said, “Probably for the best. I heard a stampede of rabid bunnies was let loose in Lowtown.  The stairs are nigh impassable.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Fluffy bunnies everywhere.”

“Of course.”

“And on _that_ note—”

Merrill’s head shot up, her eyes wide.  “I’m sorry, Amelle, what were you saying?  Something about bunnies?”

But Amelle was already leaving the room.  “I’m afraid you’ll never know, Merrill.”

“Careful, Daisy, there’s always going to be _one_ who tries to break your concentration,” Varric cautioned.

“Maker, please,” said Isabela.  “You couldn’t have broken her attention with a sodding _mace._ ”

“Not touchy because you’ve got a crap hand, are you, Rivaini?”

“I do _not_ have a _crap hand_ , thank you.”

“Oh, so you’ve got a _good_ hand.”  Varric looked back at Amelle, who had crossed the room and was lingering on the threshold.  “Sounds like you’re leaving just in time, Firefly.”

Amelle cast another look around the room, with all its empty chairs, and a rapid flicker of emotion crossed her face.  “I’d have said not a moment too soon,” she murmured.  Then she gave herself a shake and shrugged, waving one last time.

“I _never_ have crap hands,”Isabela muttered darkly as she raised the bet again.

“Because you keep so many cards up your sleeve, no doubt,” Fenris said.

“I don’t even _wear_ sleeves, Broody.”

“Which only leaves one to wonder where it is you hide those cards.”  He glared again at the hand he held and grimaced, setting them face-down on the table.  “I fold.”

The way Merrill brightened told him hers was a very _good_ hand.  Fenris wondered if Isabela was going to let the elf win.  She would if Varric had anything to say about it — the dwarf had been trying to convince Merrill to join the card games at The Hanged Man for too long now.  If letting her win would draw her out of her house more often, Fenris had no doubt Varric would work those circumstances to the best of his ability.  His _considerable_ ability.

Fenris had no doubt Merrill would be bringing home the purse tonight.  

“Leaving us, Broody?” Varric asked.

“I think it best.  Sebastian is staying with me for a time.”  

“And you want to make sure he doesn’t trip over any of the corpses.  Smart idea.”

Fenris did not dignify this with a response. Once he was free of Varric’s suite, he took the stairs to the taproom two at a time, and walked—walked, certainly didn’t _run_ , but walked very quickly—until he saw Amelle’s familiar back. The mabari kept pace with her, but for a moment he frowned, unhappy at the blatant risk she was once again taking. She shouldn’t be so unprotected, not so late, and not so soon after what the abomination had done. It wasn’t safe.

“Amelle,” he called out, not wanting to frighten her into retaliating with magic if she suspected someone was following her. Her pace only quickened, and this startled him a great deal. Ever since he’d agreed to watch over her in the Fade, and certainly since he’d become Sebastian’s only other bedside visitor, he’d felt they’d reached a sort of… detente. On good days it almost felt akin to friendship. It unnerved him to see her walking away from him so rapidly, and with such purpose. “Amelle, wait.”

Her shoulders stiffened, but at last she slowed. Without facing him, she muttered, “Let me guess. My bloody sister put you up to this? When I was downstairs getting drinks? I can walk on my own, Fenris. I don’t require one of my sister’s babysitters. Cupcake will see I make it home okay. Won’t you, boy?”

Her voice was thick with tears. The mabari tilted his head toward Fenris and gave a low whine.

Fenris crossed the last of the distance between them rapidly, wanting to reach out and holding back at the last moment. “Your sister said nothing to me.”

“Oh, please. What do any of you do that isn’t because she wants it?”

It was Fenris’ turn to stiffen, swallowing hard against the sudden rise of anger. “That is both unfair and untrue.”

She flung a hand up in a gesture reminiscent of shooing a pest away, but midway through the motion she froze, and her arm dropped heavily. “I… forgive me, Fenris. It’s not your fault.”

“But there is something troubling you,” he said. It was not a question, and it was enough to finally bring her about to face him. He had obviously caught her weeping, if the blotchy skin and freshly red-rimmed eyes were any indication.

Reaching up, she scrubbed her palms down cheeks still damp with tears, and then she looked at her hands as though they’d somehow betrayed her by coming away wet. “Of… course,” she said feebly. “It was a… hard day. With everything.”

But something about this felt strange to him—something in the way her words quavered, and the way her green eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. “It was not only the memorial,” he said, “or what the abomination did. I am not entirely unobservant, Amelle.”

On a sigh, she said, “Would that you were.”

“We needn’t speak of it, if you do not wish to do so.”

Bowing her head, suddenly very absorbed in the stones beneath her feet, she asked softly, “What did you… observe?”

“You are troubled, as I said. And your sister equally so. You argued?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Probably the most understated way, but it is a way.”  She let out another deep sigh, still looking down at the stones.  “Was it that obvious?”

“It was evident something was amiss between you.”  As he spoke, Amelle wrapped her arms around herself, head still bowed.  Finally he understood what she was really asking him, and said, “I… suspect they noticed things were strained.”

“I doubt we did a good job of hiding it.”

“It has been a… difficult day.” 

She lifted her head a fraction, offering him a crooked attempt at a smile in the half-light.  “You do have a talent for understatement, Fenris.”  At his shrug, she let her arms fall as she exhaled deeply.  “Everyone seemed tense tonight.  Even Varric.  And with everyone… everyone downstairs at the tavern— they were… they were laughing and telling funny stories, remembering the _lives_ those people had lived.  They knew names and stories and— and it brought them all a little closer, you know. In their grief, they found… something.  Something _good_.  Comforting.  But we were just sitting upstairs not looking at each other.  Pretending everything was fine.”  She made a face suddenly, as if recalling some private, unpleasant memory.

The question left his lips before he’d truly decided to ask it.  “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” answered Amelle with a shake of her head, but something about the way her lips had pressed into a pensive line suggested that wasn’t entirely true.  Fenris remained silent; if Amelle wanted to fill that silence, she would do so at her own pace.  Soon her features twisted into a grimace and she shook her head, walking again.  Fenris fell into step beside her.  Several seconds passed before Amelle spoke once more.

“It was… suggested to me that my sister wasn’t trying to pretend everything was fine, but that she was… trying to put back together something that was… broken.”

He sent her a slantwise look.  “Sebastian.”  When a strange mix of embarrassment and something almost akin to shame crept across her features, Fenris reminded her she had not spoken to a great many people that evening.  “In any event,” he went on, “I do not think he is entirely wrong, but neither do I think he is entirely correct.”

Amelle said nothing, only walked on by his side, and Fenris remembered what Hawke had said about her sister:  _silent as a rabbit._   She was giving him opportunity to fill the silence with an explanation, just as he had; something about this realization surprised him and he allowed several more seconds of silence as he gathered his words.

“The damage the abomination wrought is irreparable.  It is not surprising Hawke would wish to make an attempt to fix that which is broken.  It is, for good or ill, what she does.  If she pretends, it is because she wishes to project confidence, but what she fails to realize is that _Hawke_ is the only one whose confidence in Hawke is dwindling.”

“Maker, Fenris,” Amelle murmured after a long silence, “it’s almost as if you _know_ her.”  They went a few more steps before she said, very, very quietly, “She didn’t think I should go to the memorial today.”

“And that is where the argument began?”

“It went straight downhill from there.”  She chewed on her lip and Fenris saw her blink rapidly, reaching up and dashing away tears before they had a chance to fall.  “I tried to be reasonable, Fenris.  I swear it, I did.  I just— I don’t know.  I _tried_.  I knew she was upset.  I was too.  But it went— it all went so horribly _wrong_ , so _fast._   And then the things she said— the things _I_ said…”  She trailed off, shaking her head.  “I wanted nothing more than to go to the memorial, but I spent the whole bloody day wishing I was home, in bed, under my covers instead.”

“I suspect you are not the only one. It was—”

“A difficult day, yes,” Amelle said, with just enough dryness Fenris was able to remember her usual good humor. Unfortunately it only served to highlight just how far from that good humor Amelle currently seemed. None of her usual spirit danced in her eyes.

“You have argued before.”

Amelle gave him a look. “We’re sisters. I think we spent whole _years_ arguing when we were growing up. But this… was…”

She fell to silence, and much as Fenris wanted to press her for details—for _anything_ that might help him understand the strange, shuttered look in her eyes—he did not.

“Fenris?” she asked, as they moved through the silent Hightown marketplace, “Do you think I’m… reckless? With my power?” He did not miss the way her hands twisted together, fingers clutching at each other until the knuckles whitened. Even with her shoulders hunched and her head ever so slightly bowed, he could see the troubled cast of her expression.

When he did not immediately reply, she stopped and turned, raising her head reluctantly. “I—I’d rather you tell me the truth,” she said.

Fenris inclined his head. “Occasionally,” he replied. The single word hit her with force enough to draw a wince, and though he regretted causing her pain, he did not regret the honesty. “Had you turned on those who attacked your sister today in the square, it would have been reckless. Even Hawke’s uneasy truce with the Knight-Captain could not protect you if you worked magic in front of every remaining templar in Kirkwall. Not after the abomination’s actions. You have admirable restraint, Amelle, and good judgment I have always found lacking in those with power… _until_ someone you care for is in danger.”

“Kiara accused me of—” Amelle snapped her jaw shut mid-sentence, and though she did not physically turn away from him, he could sense her retreating.

“You may speak to me of it, if you like,” he said. She shook her head, briefly, reflexively. Fenris clasped his hands loosely behind his back to give them something to do, and swallowed his sigh. “You worry I might discuss this with her? I will not, if you do not wish it.”

She looked terribly confused for a moment, and he found himself wondering what he’d said to cause it.  

“You… wouldn’t?”  The words held only the barest whisper of a question, and Fenris shook his head.

“I would not.”

“You’re her best friend.  You’ve always— you’ve— you’re _loyal_ to her, Fenris.  I can’t—”

He bristled slightly at the implication his loyalty to Hawke somehow made him untrustworthy in other matters.  “Amelle,” he said solemnly, “if you speak to me in confidence, I would not betray it unless you asked me to keep a secret from your sister that might cause her harm.”  Again, a strange series of emotions flickered across her face, but too quickly for him to identify; soon everything was locked again behind her eyes.  “My loyalty is not blind.”

More silence passed as they walked, and they were halfway up the stairs leading away from the market when Amelle stopped abruptly and sat down, wrapping her arms tightly about her knees.  It was true she was shorter than her sister, but the way she curled in upon herself at that moment, she looked impossibly small.  Her shoulders were rounded, hunched forward, as if the weight hoisted upon them by the argument was physically pulling at her.

“She didn’t think I should go to the memorial.”

Fenris sat down next to her, a little more than an arm’s length away, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely.  “As you said.”

Amelle swallowed hard, and when she spoke, it was haltingly, in low tones.  “I… I _understand_ why, Fenris.  I do.  I know she worries about me.  I know she loves me.”  There was an ominous pause then; Amelle grimaced a little, as if she’d caught herself in the middle of a falsehood.  She swallowed hard and shook her head.  “And that’s what makes it worse.  That she— that I got so _angry_ with her when all she’s ever wanted was to keep me safe.”

In truth, he had no experience in such matters, and he momentarily wondered why he felt himself qualified at all to speak with Amelle about familial squabbles.  And yet.

He frowned, listening to her words, piecing them together with what he already knew of the Hawke sisters.  What Amelle was saying wasn’t untrue; Hawke did worry about her sister’s safety, more so after their mother’s murder.  “You feel… ungrateful, then?”

It was a long time before she answered, letting out a deep sigh before saying, “I feel as if I _ought_ to feel ungrateful.  Mostly I’m just… frustrated.  I’m frustrated that she— she gets to be the person she wants to be.  No one stops Kiara Hawke, and those who try are in for a fight.  But me… I’m always… _protected._ ”

There was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone, as if the word itself tasted foul.  “You resent it.”

“I’m— I don’t _resent_ it.  But I hate how… how it always feels, being the one held back, kept away, kept _safe._   All I ever wanted was to feel _useful_.  I wanted my sister to… to _value_ me, like she values all of you.  I wanted to be part of her… her life— no, that’s not it.  I wanted to be someone she could count on, I guess.  But she was always a little too afraid of me getting hurt to let me really… _be_ anything.”

“That is untrue,” he countered with a brisk shake of his head.  “You accompanied your sister on a number of—”

“Because I fought for it,” she interjected flatly.  “I don’t think she ever really _wanted_ me along.  She certainly never _asked_ me to come.  And… and I tried to prove I could be useful, but… you know, now I think I only irritated her.  She always had to worry about keeping me safe.  Better for her if I just… stayed out of the way, you know?”  Amelle let out a short, hoarse bark of laughter.  “She worked so hard to keep me out of the Circle, but sometimes I wonder if she wouldn’t be happier if I _had_ been brought there.”

“You cannot mean that.  If your sister truly didn’t care—”

Amelle’s head came up and she regarded him steadily, the moonlight catching her eyes and making them gleam oddly.  “I didn’t say she doesn’t care.  I think she cares _too much._ ”  She sighed again.  “And it’s so _bloody lonely._ Always being kept aside, held back — no matter what I do, or how hard I try, or how many times I tend her wounds, I… I felt — I _feel_ — like an imposition.”

He frowned at her words; as he digested them, his frown deepened.  “I was there after Hawke dueled the Arishok.  I saw the condition she was in.  Had you not been there—”

“She’d have died, almost certainly.”  When Fenris nodded, Amelle went on to say, “She only brought me along that night because it would have been too dangerous for me to stay locked up in the house by myself.”  She looked down at her hands, looking unaccountably _sad_ as she murmured, “She wanted me somewhere she could keep an eye on me.  Somewhere she could make sure I was safe.”

“And do you not worry about your sister’s safety in turn?”  

“More than she knows.  But…”  Amelle turned her hands over and frowned at her palms.  “From the time my magic showed itself, our parents drilled it into her.  I was her responsibility.  She had to keep me safe.  I was her _job._   I love my sister, but sometimes I wish I could be her _sister_ a little more often than just another sodding responsibility.  And I know it would be different if I wasn’t a mage.  I _know_ it would be.  Sometimes I wish… sometimes I think it’d be better if I _wasn’t_.”  Her voice broke on the last word and Amelle curled in on herself even tighter.

Fenris did not say anything for several seconds; he’d never heard such a sentiment before, and yet he did not doubt Amelle’s sincerity.  Her bleak tone left him with the unfamiliar urge to reach out and touch her hand, her arm — something, if only it might provide some measure of comfort; he clasped his hands tighter instead.  “You… wish you were not a mage.”

Those hunched, rounded shoulders lifted in a shrug.  “Sometimes.”

“Amelle, that is—”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong.  _You_ , of all people…”

He sighed.  “You would not be who you are if that were the case.”

“Yes, well.  I’m not so sure _who I am_ is anything to brag about.”  At his questing look, Amelle gave a guilty grimace.  “I was so tired of being lectured.  So tired of hearing some variation of _it’s for your own good, Mely_.  So tired of being _reminded_ how much _work_ it is to be my sister.  I got angry, and I said— Fenris, I said some _awful_ things.  And I said them out of frustration and anger, and— and I’m not _proud_ of them, and _Maker_ , this never would’ve happened if I _weren’t a fucking mage._ ”

“Sebastian would be dead.”  Her expression twisted into something like annoyance.  Her annoyance melted swiftly into shock when he added, “A great deal more than just he would have perished if you’d not gone into the Rose on so many occasions to tend Kirkwall’s wounded.”

“I… didn’t know you knew.” She winced, shaking her head. “I was trying to be discreet.”

“You were.” His lips quirked into a very small smile. “As was I, evidently.”

“As were… you’re not saying…?”

He twitched an eyebrow at her. “To be honest, I did not expect it to be you. I expected your sister to chafe under the requests Aveline and the Knight-Captain made of her, and I thought to… aid her, if necessary. Aveline was quite troubled after the incident in the marketplace.”

Amelle’s expression turned incredulous. “Aveline asked you to keep an eye on my _sister_?”

“I took it upon myself to do so. And then, when it… became apparent I was keeping an eye on the wrong Hawke—”

Sourly, she interrupted, “You thought I needed to be watched over, too?”

Fenris regarded her levelly. “If I have learned anything in these years at your sister’s side, it is the value of not being alone. I ran from Danarius for three years before I met Hawke. They were not good years. There is neither shame nor weakness in requiring aid, or accepting that aid when it’s offered. You were doing a charitable deed, but the environment around you was hostile. I was able to deflect some of that… hostility.”

She blinked at him. “Was there… hostility?”

“The occasional instance arose where someone had to be reminded to look in a direction different from the one they were looking in.”

Her eyebrows dropped, furrowing anxiously. “But no… bloodshed?”

Inclining his head, he said, “No bloodshed. A few headaches, perhaps.”

“I… had no idea.”

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, he replied, “It was evident how much you had on your mind. I did not wish to trouble you further.” He stared hard at the stones between his feet for some time before adding, “Perhaps it is not said as often as it ought to be, but you are _valued_ , Amelle.”

When she did not reply at once, Fenris hazarded a glance in her direction. He was somewhat relieved to find her sitting up straighter, and though her gaze was still distant, and her brow still troubled, she no longer seemed quite so _sad_. That he—his words—should be the catalyst for such a change in her made him uncomfortable, just for a moment, until discomfort was replaced by relief. 

Relief, however, turned into something else entirely when Amelle slid across the stones until her hip, her entire leg, pressed against his, even as she reached out, capturing his right hand in both of hers and squeezing warmly.  She dropped her head lightly upon his shoulder, letting out a long, deep breath.  

“Thank you, Fenris.  I really needed… just— thank you.”

He hadn’t thought his words so moving as to elicit such a response; indeed, he hadn’t expected such a thing at all, and could not quite help his own reaction.  Amelle’s hands, smaller and smoother than his, and so very warm, squeezing at his fingers — the magic in her touch once again called to the lyrium in his skin, or if it was not that, then _something_ made his skin grow warm, prickling pleasantly at the base of his scalp.  He went very still; Hawke’s demonstrative displays were one thing, but Amelle had always been far more reserved around him, touching him only to heal.

But then she pulled away with a start, warm fingers gliding lightly across his knuckles as she slid back across the stone step.

“Sorry, Fenris,” she said, shaking her head briskly.  “I’m didn’t — I… forgot myself.  I didn’t mean…”  The hands she’d had wrapped around his were now clasped together, and the hunch of her shoulders looked distinctly _embarrassed_ now.

“It was…” Fenris struggled for a moment, unsure what to say, how to proceed.  “It was not an imposition, Amelle.”

“Thanks,” she replied ruefully, pushing herself to her feet.  “I…” she trailed off and cleared her throat.  “I… really didn’t mean to fall apart on you like that.”  The mabari rose from the ball he’d curled himself into, licking at her hand. She scratched behind his ears absently, as Fenris followed her example and stood.

They were nearly at the Hawke estate when Fenris spoke again, almost against his will. “Your sister has never been known for holding her tongue. If you… if you spoke words you regret, I am certain she must have returned them in kind.”

Amelle stiffened, nearly stumbling on an uneven cobblestone. Catching herself at the last moment, she turned to face him. “It was… a very unpleasant argument.”

The hound whined.

“You’re right, Cupcake.” Amelle met Fenris’ gaze, and though the distress had not entirely left it, she seemed more settled. Less desperate. “Tomorrow’s a new day. I’ll… I’ll be by in the morning to check on Sebastian, if that’s all right with you?”

Fenris blinked, dipping his head in a graceless nod. “As you wish. Are you… is his condition still a concern?”

One dark eyebrow arched for her hairline. “Seeing as he’s walking around with the most stubborn wound I’ve ever tried to heal? Yes. But… perhaps it will do him some good, being away from—he needs to rest, Fenris. He’ll only heal if he rests.”

“I will see he does.”

Her brief laugh heartened him. “I know you will. And I’ll see you both in the morning. Perhaps with a basket of sweet buns.” She lowered her chin and the moonlight threw silvery lights in her dark hair. He almost thought she was going to speak again, but instead she merely shook her head and offered him a smile that was almost natural, almost normal.

Not quite. But almost.

When she was standing at the doorway, he called softly, “Amelle?”

He saw her head turn in the dark.

“Sleep well.”

“And you, Fenris,” she replied, so softly he almost did not hear the words, before the door opened and she disappeared within.

Fenris was so distracted, turning his conversation with Amelle over and over— _it’s so bloody lonely_ —he very nearly ran into her sister. He’d not have thought it possible, but Hawke looked, in some ways, _worse_ than her sister had. Even the moonlight and shadows could not hide the marks of tears that had not been present when he’d seen her at The Hanged Man. Her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks even paler than usual. 

“Hawke,” he greeted, startled.

Hawke raised her reddened eyes and stared at him a long moment before blinking and giving her head a brief shake. She did not reach out to touch him. Indeed, she took a step backward. “Fenris. Are you—has everyone left, then? Is—did—?”

He frowned. “I accompanied your sister home, if that is what you are attempting to ask.”

The relief that overspread her face was almost as palpable as the vestiges of her tears. “Thank you. I—we—how… how did she seem?”

“Troubled,” he replied. It was the truth, but he hoped Amelle would not consider it a breach of her faith. “You both seem troubled.”

Hawke ducked her head, running a hand through her hair and then rubbing the base of her skull as though it pained her. “It’s my fault. We… it doesn’t matter.” When she glanced at him again, her expression had gone almost sheepish, and Fenris found himself wondering about the details Amelle had left out. It took a great deal to make Hawke ashamed, and none of what Amelle had related seemed quite enough. “I’m going to talk to her. I… I am going to talk to her. It will be… I’m going to talk to her.”

It sounded, for a moment, very much as though she was attempting to convince herself.

“And Sebastian?” Fenris asked.

She blinked again. “At your house. Baffled by the presence of the corpses. It has been some time since he was there, and I… think he thought we were exaggerating the mess.”

“There is a clean chamber for him.”

“Really?” Again Hawke raised her hand to her head. “That’s… he has to rest.”

“So Amelle said.”

“Otherwise he’ll hurt himself again.”

“I understand, Hawke.”

Her brow knit. “And if he hurts himself, you must send for Amelle at once. Do you understand? He should never have—but never mind that. Just… be certain he rests.”

Fenris canted his head slightly. “And will you come with your sister in the morning?”

A shadow crept over her face. Fenris found himself wondering if it had more to do with the argument with Amelle, or with Fenris’ new houseguest himself. “Perhaps. I’ll—perhaps.” She glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of her own estate. “I should—it’s… it’s been a long day.”

“It has. Would you like me to—?”

She waved him off before he could finish. “I’m fine. Thank you, Fenris. I’ll… I’ll see you.” Without saying anything more, she turned again and headed in the direction of her own home. He watched as long as he could, until her hunched shoulders and bent head disappeared, and then he opened his own door, wondering. And somehow more concerned even than he’d been before.

#

By the time Amelle reached her bedroom and began her evening ablutions, the events of the day clung to her, weighing her down like sopping wool.  She was tired; she was _beyond_ tired.  And, when she walked into the small washroom adjoining her bedroom to find the tub filled with water — cold, but that mattered little — she breathed a quiet, heartfelt thank you to Orana for always knowing precisely what she needed.

Rather like Fenris’ words, as they’d sat upon the cold stone stair.  _You are valued._  

Even the _memory_ of them lightened her heart.

And that such a sentiment came from Fenris.  _Fenris._   Fenris, who wouldn’t have lied to her about magic just to spare her feelings.  Who’d given her an honest answer when she’d asked for it, even when the honesty of the answer stung.  He had not placated, he had not patronized; those things held the most weight of all.

_You are valued._

The pain of her argument with Kiara still remained.  The memory of Kiara’s eyes, icy and leaden like a winter sky, as she held her bow with its arrow trained on Amelle still lingered, still hurt.  There was much to be healed between them, and Amelle hadn’t the first idea where to begin, but the overwhelming hollowness that had swept in, leaving her heart and spirit achingly _empty_ , had begun to subside with those three words.

With a flick of her fingers, a ripple of power shuddered through the water until it steamed, and Amelle’s mana began to shift and settle easily once she’d done so.  The pressure had been building and building and _building_ throughout the day, her power surging up when least convenient and simmering too close to the surface for too long, and she never in a place or position where she could safely release some of that growing tension. Now, not only was the bathwater hot, she could breathe more easily.  With another touch of mana she lit the fire in her hearth for good measure, closing her eyes and dropping her head forward as her shoulders and back further loosened and she sagged with relief.

From deep within the house, the front door opened and closed again.  Soft footfalls upon the stair followed and, moving as quietly as she knew how, Amelle went to her door and watched the play of shadows across the floor.  One such shadow moved past, then came back and stood perfectly still for several breaths.  Kiara.

Amelle swallowed hard, reaching out and resting her fingers against the wood, watching the scant inch of space beneath the door, watching Kiara’s shadow stand there, weight shifting from foot to foot before walking away, just as silently.

Not tonight, then.  Perhaps tomorrow.  Perhaps they’d speak then.

Very briefly she entertained the notion of flinging open the door and charging into her sister’s bedchamber, refusing to leave until they’d spoken and cleared the air between them.  But that was not an Amelle tactic.  It wasn’t even a Kiara tactic.  No, that was all Carver.

Like so many other things, memories of her twin had hovered too close to the surface all day, and memories of him standing in front of her after they’d argued, using his bulk to block her way until she _spoke_ to him formed all too easily.

“Ah, but that’s not kit, is it, cub?” she whispered to the empty room.  No voices replied, and Amelle didn’t realize until just then how afraid she’d been to _hear_ one.

 _Looks like I won’t be going mad tonight,_ she thought, exhaling a deep, shuddering breath.  With one last lingering look to the bottom of her door, Amelle returned to her bath, still steaming, and added several generous drops of scented oil to the water before shedding the day’s clothes.  If only it were so easy to shed sorrows, worries, and fears, pulling them off like a second skin at the end of the day to be washed clean and dried in the sunshine, coming back fresh and unsullied.  

Alas, she’d have to make do with a hot bath.

Amelle lowered herself into the water, hissing first at the temperature, and then groaning a little as tense muscles continued loosening.  Dunking under to wet her hair, she then leaned back and closed her eyes.

_You are valued._

Fenris couldn’t have known just how badly she needed to hear those words and _know_ they were true, that they weren’t just an empty platitude.  He couldn’t possibly have known about the voice jeering _Lesser Sister_ over and over again until the words filled her head and echoed in her ears like a pulse.  She’d lost hand after hand of cards because concentration had been so very far away as every one of her shortcomings curled and twisted through her mind no matter how hard she pushed against the intrusion.

He wouldn’t have said the words if they weren’t true.  And the _truth_ of them struck her with all the clarity of a bell.

Of course then she’d gone and forgotten herself entirely, practically collapsing on him in her relief.  It wasn’t until she realized he’d gone preternaturally still — didn’t seem even to be _breathing_ — that she remembered Fenris wasn’t someone overly fond of being touched.  Less so by a mage, she supposed.  Occasional and necessary healing aside.

_You are valued._

_Yes, valued as nothing more than a friend_ , she told herself sternly.  And that was fine; having a friend at all right now… helped.  Or at least made things seem less bleak and insurmountable.

Maker help her, Amelle almost felt _hopeful._


	24. Chapter 24

For three days, Fenris did his best to play nursemaid, and was rewarded by Amelle’s grateful smiles when she came to check on her patient. For all that she had not been entirely pleased with the arrangement, she did not seem to bear him any ill will over it. Instead, she came thrice a day, usually toting carefully-packed meals from Orana, and always accompanied by the mabari. Hawke did not come. Indeed, he had not seen her since the night of the memorial—since their brief conversation in the darkness outside his house—and when he once made the mistake of asking Amelle about her sister, all he received in reply was a terse, “I’m not her keeper, Fenris.”

For the most part, Sebastian was an easy houseguest. He kept to his chamber, emerging only to find books to read or to eat the meals Orana sent over with Amelle. Fenris, however, saw the toll the inactivity took. His friend seemed… strained, frayed at the edges and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t. His eyes, when they looked up from their reading, were haunted, and he never quite regained the healthy color he’d had before his injury. Fenris did not need to be a healer to see the man still suffered, whether he was willing to admit it or not.

On the third evening, Fenris invited Sebastian to join him at The Hanged Man, but Sebastian only shook his head and murmured something about being tired. Fenris could read the lie on the man’s face, but did not call him on it; it seemed both cruel and unnecessary to do so. He thought about remaining behind himself, but he was restless, and an evening with Isabela and Varric would go a great way toward easing some of that agitation. He smiled slightly. He was never quite so peaceful as when he was a bottle of wine in and too many coins down, except, perhaps, when he was at Hawke’s side battling slavers and blood mages.

It occurred to him that his idea of _peace_ might be a strange one.

By the time he returned to his mansion, it was very, very late, and though all was still, the… _difference_ in the place was palpable. Sebastian was likely long since asleep, but knowing another person lived beneath his roof—however temporarily—made Fenris look about with clearer eyes. He’d lived here so long he hardly noticed the damage any longer. Most of the corpses had already decayed, though he still caught the scent of death on the air when he wandered into parts of the house left vacant and untouched too long.

Shaking his head slightly—it was pleasantly foggy with wine—Fenris glanced around and thought it might be time _perhaps_ to think about… dusting, at the very least. This thought died as exhaustion made itself abundantly known and the temptation of his bed grew impossible to ignore. 

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

The next morning something— _something_ —hammered through his slumber, and a vicious headache prodded him awake. It was less to do with wine and more that the light through the grimy windows was barely bright enough to indicate dawn. Not enough sleep by half.

 Groaning, Fenris swung his feet to the floor and leaned heavily, elbows on thighs, waiting for the room to cease spinning. And pounding. After a moment the spinning halted, but the pounding did not. Wincing, he remained still a moment, trying to figure out what exactly had _woken_ him. It didn’t take long for him to realize—even exhausted and plagued by headache—the noise sounded remarkably like an _actual_ hammer. Levering himself out of bed, he padded out of his room and down the hallway to investigate.

Downstairs, he found a most astonishing sight: in the foyer was a particular wall sporting a hole—he could not recall just then whether it was made by a thrown wine bottle or a more orthodox weapon, only that the damage had been there as long as _he_ had. The damage, however, was in the process of disappearing even now. Loudly. At Sebastian Vael’s hands.

“…Sebastian.”

Sebastian turned, hammer in hand, his brow still knit in concentration. He blinked twice at Fenris before saying, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I was not.”

Sebastian glanced down at the hammer, clearly taking Fenris’ meaning. Shuffling his feet slightly he said, “Ah, I am sorry about that. I didn’t realize… you must’ve come in rather late, then?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow. Late or not, dawn seemed an odd time to tackle… significant household repairs. Sebastian’s face looked pinched, and beads of sweat stood out on the tall man’s brow. “Cards ran late at The Hanged Man. As they so often do.”

“Of… course. I can be… quieter.”

Fenris scowled. “Rather late for it now.”

Sebastian scrubbed his free hand—his left hand—through his hair and even from several feet away, Fenris saw the way the action caused a sharp flash of pain. Sebastian, however, seemed indifferent, turning back to the wall and tilting his head, as though trying to figure out how best to proceed.

Fenris was tempted to answer _leave it_ , but did not. Instead he said, “Hawke came last night.”

After an awkwardly long pause, Sebastian asked, “And… Amelle?”

Fenris shook his head even though Sebastian wasn’t looking at him to see it. “The Hawke sisters appear to be… quarreling.”

“Ahh,” Sebastian murmured, turning again. Concern furrowed his brow. “Still.”

“It is unlike them. I find myself troubled.” Fenris was not quite able to keep the confusion and dismay from his tone. Hawke had seemed… out of sorts. More so than seemed warranted. She’d stayed only a couple of hands, had too much to drink too quickly, and then excused herself with flimsy protestations of needing to work. Fenris had noticed how carefully she did not mention Sebastian herself, but how her attention was unwavering when he or the others spoke of him.

“Was she…?” Sebastian drifted to silence, bowing his head and refusing to meet Fenris’ gaze. “No, it’s… none of my concern.”

Bending at the waist, Sebastian retrieved a piece of wood from the floor and held it level against the wall, a nail propped between thumb and forefinger. Fenris watched, bewildered, and said, “If you wish to know how she is, why do you not ask her?”

Sebastian swung the hammer, hit his thumb, and let out a stream of invective bawdy enough to make Andraste herself blush, if she were listening. Fenris’ lips twitched, but he was not quite awake enough to smile. Ignoring Sebastian’s oaths, Fenris added, “You might consider joining us, next time.”

Glaring at his wounded thumb, Sebastian muttered, “At The Hanged Man? No, I do not think that’s wise.”

“I know it cannot be against your beliefs to enter a tavern. You do so regularly enough when Hawke asks it of you.”

A faint flush tinged the man’s cheeks. Fenris pretended not to notice. “Old habits… die hard. Given everything that’s happened—”

“You’d rather pound holes into the wall?”

A hint of a smile pulled at one corner of Sebastian’s lips. “ _Fix_ the holes someone else already pounded, I’ll have you know.”

“I only wished you to know you would be welcome.”

Under the pretense of checking something on the wall, Sebastian turned away. Not before Fenris heard him murmur, “Oh, I doubt that.”

Rather than let it go, Fenris pressed, “You cannot continue living under assumptions that may have no root in truth—”

In an unnaturally even voice, Sebastian replied, “I know what I said to her, Fenris.”

“And you believe you are the only one to ever have spoken to Hawke in anger?”

Sebastian gave his head a single, violent shake. “ _You_ didn’t turn your back on her.”

“You are wrong. I did. In the Fade. She… does not hold it against me. But I do not forget it happened. Nor, I think, does she.” He could see Sebastian was unmoved. “When we brought you back to her, she did not suggest we abandon you, Sebastian. She wished to see you well again. Of that I am certain.”

“I was… injured. Of course she—”

“If Hawke were truly vindictive, do you think that would have made any sort of difference? She could have let you die, and rid herself of a potential problem, a potential enemy. She would not.”

Sebastian did not reply at once, returning his attention to the wall. He ran his fingertips over the damage, and when he spoke, it was not to answer Fenris’ admittedly rhetorical question. “What did this, anyway?”

“Either a full bottle of Aggregio, or—”

“There are scorch marks.”

“Lightning, then. Or a fireball.”

He looked at said scorch marks, a funny little smile not quite making it to his lips.

“And you’ve… left it here this long.”

“It adds to the ambience. And that was a poor attempt to change the subject.”

Sebastian ignored him. “And the corpses? Are they meant to provide ambience also?”

“No.”

“So…?”

“Why bother with them? They’ll decompose eventually. Most already have.” With a sigh, Fenris went back to playing nursemaid, as Amelle had asked, waving in Sebastian’s general direction. “Are you meant to be up and about? I believe Amelle made herself _very_ clear. Rest was high on her list of your priorities.”

“I feel… fine.”

Fenris raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Swinging a hammer hardly constitutes heavy lifting.”

“Why do I feel Amelle might disagree?”

Sebastian shrugged, but looked chastened. After a moment he put the hammer down again. “This isn’t the end of this.”

Fenris chuckled, and then regretted it when the sound echoed unpleasantly in his own aching head. He would have given just about anything for one of Amelle’s hangover cures. Catching himself, he felt his eyes widen, just slightly. _Wishing_ for the aid of a mage. He shook his head.

Sebastian sighed, obviously thinking the gesture intended for him. Fenris did not disabuse him of this notion.

“Breakfast, then?” Sebastian asked, with false cheer.

Fenris grimaced. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _Breakfast_ requires you to be up and about as well, does it not?”

“Again, hardly strenuous. It’s breakfast. And… _and_ I doubt Amelle would approve if her patient went hungry.” He said the last with the conviction of a man who knew his argument was irrefutable. Fenris did not bother with a reply, as they both knew Sebastian’s point was a solid one. Abandoning his repair work, Sebastian crossed the room, heading for the door to the area that was… technically a kitchen, though Fenris could not fathom the last time it had been used to such a purpose.

“I do not possess particularly domestic skills,” Fenris said, very nearly at a growl.

“How… surely you _eat_ , Fenris.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Fenris replied, “One does not need to know how to cook in order to eat.”

Sebastian paled slightly. “Please don’t tell me you actually eat at The Hanged Man. The rumors about the stew—”

“Of course not.”

“Well. I suppose that’s a relief—”

“As it happens, The Blooming Rose has a rather accomplished cook.”

Sebastian stumbled mid-step, coughed, and put out his hand even though there was nothing for him to hold on to. Then he muttered a prayer—for strength, Fenris thought—under his breath and turned his head.

“Eggs?” Sebastian asked.

Fenris looked at him.

“Bread? Fruit? I daren’t _hope_ for sausages.”

“All easily procured at The Ros—”

“Market,” Sebastian interjected. “All easily procured at the market.”

Fenris bristled. “I won’t _cook_ for you.”

Sebastian shook his head, smiling wryly. “As it happens, I’m a deft hand with a frying pan. And… and I would like to repay you for your hospitality somehow. I… am aware you prefer your solitude. I am grateful you are permitting me to… intrude upon it.”

Bristling was replaced by complete and utter bafflement. Fenris blinked. “You want to… cook? For me?”

Sebastian’s smile widened. “Servants of the Maker possess any number of talents you might not expect. Cooking just happens to be one of mine.”

Fenris blinked. Again.

“Is that agreement, then?”

“Amelle will be displeased if you re-injure yourself.”

“Then I will bear her ire gladly. We mustn’t count on Orana—or The Rose—for all our meals.”

“You are… quite determined?”

Sebastian sighed. “I only wish to make myself useful in some way, Fenris. And, as I said, repay you for your hospitality.”

Fenris frowned, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t still dreaming after all. Fixing walls and cooking breakfast seemed… terribly far from the purview of either priest _or_ prince. Sebastian kept looking at him, gaze even and unblinking. “If you re-injure yourself whilst repaying me my hospitality, I doubt Amelle will be terribly forgiving to either of us.”

“True, but—”

“ _Particularly_ if you hurt yourself while _cooking breakfast_ , of all things.”

Sebastian sighed again, with even greater long-suffering. “I might just as likely hurt myself picking up a book to read, and she hasn’t stopped me doing that. Let me put it this way: I intend to do this. I will… accept whatever repercussions my actions bring.”

Fenris scowled for a moment before resigning himself. “I suppose the least I could do is… make the walk to the market. That would doubtless alleviate some of the physical strain.”

Sebastian shot him an inscrutable look. “You’d do the shopping.”

“I believe I can manage such a thing.”

“So you know how to tell the difference between a ripe and overripe tomato? How to select the freshest eggs?” With a smirk, Sebastian indicated the desiccated remains still piled in the corners of the foyer. “Do you know how to tell when meat’s gone rancid?”

Fenris blinked, thinking of his familiar table at The Blooming Rose, with the smiling servers whose offers for more than breakfast he never accepted, but who never failed to bring him lovely plates piled high with food.

“We will both go,” Sebastian decided.

“That… rather defeats the purpose.”

“ _If_ I re-injure myself, then you may deposit me in Amelle Hawke’s care and I will attempt to explain to her why I’ve…” he trailed off, and Fenris watched a strange play of emotions run rampant across the other man’s face. He thought these particular emotions had less to do with the younger Hawke and everything to do with the elder, but Fenris did not push.

At length Sebastian said softly, “Perhaps I will simply be careful.”

Rubbing at his still-sore head, Fenris muttered, “I have the distinct feeling I am going to regret this.”

#

Kiara had a headache. Again. She wished she could blame the few drinks she’d had at The Hanged Man the night before, but she’d not had nearly enough to merit the current agony throbbing behind her eyes. She had too much on her mind. She felt like she always had a headache these days, and she _knew_ she had too much on her blighted mind. Too much by half. And none of it promised to go away any time soon. It took a great deal of effort not to reach out and touch the piece of paper folded in her pocket; she felt as though it was burning a hole there, and the longer she went without dealing with it—two days, now—the more anxious she became. The pounding in her head told her to see to the letter straight away. The twist in her gut kept her from doing so.

Every morning she woke thinking _today I’ll ask Amelle for help_ , and every morning she bathed and dressed and ate her breakfast and gulped down her tea, and by the time she saw her sister— _if_ she saw her sister—the desire to ask for help had faded into irritation and frustration. And the headache remained. 

Amelle was spending a great deal of time in the clinic, mopping and tidying and doing Maker-knew-what, and though Kiara thought of joining her, she always… _stopped_ just before climbing down the ladder.

It wasn’t as though the fight before the memorial was the only one they’d ever had, but somehow… somehow the words they’d spoken—hurled—at each other had cut deeper than the words of other arguments. 

 _I’ll ask you to remember that Grace wanted to_ kill me _for no other reason than_ being related to you _! If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody_ sister _._

And drawing the bow. There was that. She couldn’t forget it, no matter how much she wanted to.

Even when she thought to apologize, the sentiment died on her tongue before she could give it voice. She told herself it was because to apologize now would be to concede defeat, somehow. And though the memorial had cleared the air somewhat—Cullen and Aveline had given Kiara permission to go out in the streets again, at least—Kiara couldn’t help feeling the strain underlying the city even still.

It felt not unlike the strain between herself and Amelle, to own the truth. Oh, they nodded at each other and spoke when they met in the hallway and sat down to dinner when Orana called them, but something had shifted. And she didn’t have the first idea how to fix it. She didn’t know if it _could_ be fixed. It just felt… _wrong_. And she wasn’t used to feeling _wrong_ around Amelle.

It gave Kiara a headache. More of a headache.

Given everything that had happened in the city, and with Bodahn and Sandal gone to seek their fortunes—and their safety—elsewhere, Kiara could see Orana was skittish, still, especially about visiting the marketplace, even with Killer to accompany her. Feeling restless and needing the air, Kiara had offered her services. Amelle had opened her mouth, and for one instant Kiara’d thought her sister was going to ask to join her. They’d often done the market shopping together before. Kiara always haggled with the butcher, and Amelle knew where to find the freshest produce.

But then Amelle had closed her mouth and departed for the clinic without another word, and Kiara was left to her own devices.

 Entering the market, basket slung over her arm, she could understand why the place unnerved Orana. The square was teeming with people, and the scents and sounds were instantly overwhelming. Kiara only put her head down and wove her way through the crowd. Produce first. It was always what got picked over earliest.

As she drew near her favorite stall, she thought she caught a glimpse of strawberries, and for one glorious moment, everything else was forgotten. It seemed an age since she’d had strawberries. Her mouth watered at the sight, and she had to swallow repeatedly, overcome by sheer anticipation.

Then, standing next to the strawberries, she saw a shock of white hair she’d recognize anywhere, even without the tell-tale armor beneath it to give away its owner’s identity. She almost smiled. Fenris must be in dire straights indeed to brave the market. She knew he took most of his meals at The Blooming Rose, but she imagined Sebastian—

Catching herself mid-thought, she realized it was not only the white hair and lyrium-tattooed skin and sharp armor she recognized. Though his back was turned to her and he no longer had his distinctive armor to wear, she recognized the height and breadth of the man standing next to the elf at once. Sunlight glinted in his auburn hair.

When he turned to hold an apple out for Fenris’ inspection—Fenris only shrugged and looked intensely uncomfortable—she saw how _pale_ Sebastian was, and she went cold. Clenching her hands around her basket’s handle, she pushed her way through the crowd, earning a few curses and a yelp, and barked, “ _Andraste’s blessed arse!_ What are you _doing_?”

Sebastian jumped at the sound of her voice, and she saw the pain even as he tried to bury it. The apple fell from his hand. He immediately knelt to retrieve it, and when he rose something very clearly tweaked and he lost what little color he’d had. Fenris reached out, grabbing Sebastian’s arm to steady him, but the taller man shook him off.

Kiara glared at Fenris. “He’s supposed to be _resting_. Look how bloody _pale_ he is!”

Fenris gave her a black look, raising one hand as if to ward her off. “This was not my—”

Ignoring him, Kiara turned on Sebastian who, she noted, at least had the good sense to look contrite. “And you! What in the Maker’s bloody name do you think you’re doing up and out and _in the bloody market_ in your condition? Do you have any idea how serious that wound was? It wasn’t a scratch, Sebastian! You can’t slap on a poultice and ignore it. You have to _heal_.”

He blinked under the onslaught. “I was merely—”

“Trying to kill yourself?” Kiara snapped.

“Hawke,” Fenris said quietly. He laid a hand on her shoulder and she startled under his touch.

“Don’t use that tone with me, Fenris. You _promised_.”

“Hawke,” Fenris repeated, a heavier warning in his tone. “Not here. Let us go back to the mansion…”

Kiara cast a quick look around and realized they were now at the center of a great deal of attention. People were whispering. A few were even pointing. She glowered. “Amelle is at the clinic, I think, Fenris. I’ll take Sebastian to the mansion. I don’t trust him not to jump up and start _doing things_ the second my back is turned.” Kiara pushed one hand through her hair. Sebastian’s eyes were lowered, and he still looked unsteady. “What’ll it be next, Sebastian? Archery practice? Taking on the Coterie single-handed? Rebuilding bloody Kirkwall brick by bloody brick?”

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris growled. “Enough.”

Kiara closed her mouth, somewhat reluctantly, and put one hand to her aching head. Sebastian’s eyes tracked the movement, before looking away quickly again. “Fine,” she replied. “Get Amelle.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, likely taking offense at her tone, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She glared at Sebastian as though daring him to argue with her and began to move through the crowd, toward Fenris’ mansion. People stumbled in their effort to get out of her way. It wasn’t until she was nearly through the press that she realized Sebastian wasn’t with her. She turned, ready to tear into him— _how, how could he be so stupid?_ —when she saw he was _trying_ to follow. The crowd did not part as easily for him, and he was walking slowly, carefully, holding his left side away from the crush of shoppers.

He seemed so much smaller without his white armor. He hardly looked like himself at all.

Swallowing hard, she waited.

“Forgive me, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Kiara interjected. “I didn’t realize.”

Truthfully, he was _very_ pale. She reached out, freezing before instinctively touching her fingers to his brow. Someone jostled him from behind, and instead of checking his temperature, Kiara was forced to shove herself under his right arm to keep him upright. He groaned, but didn’t lean against her; she noticed he pulled away as much as he was able. She tightened her grip, taking as much of his weight as she could.

He blinked, and she was alarmed at how long it took his gaze to regain focus. “I… thought—”

“Obviously you didn’t. Or you would be in bed. Resting. Like Amelle _told_ you to do.”

He inhaled sharply, and straightened, though he did not entirely pull away from her. “Are you ever going to let me finish a sentence?”

Kiara froze, but said nothing.

“I can manage, Hawke.”

“No, you absolutely cannot. You look like death, you’re about a breath from passing out, and I don’t want to lug you back to Fenris’ by myself. Honestly, Sebastian. What _were_ you thinking?”

He snorted and then grimaced again. “That I was hungry.”

It was such an unexpected reply that she nearly stumbled, which would have taken them both to the stones in a heap. Shaking her head, she began urging him toward Fenris’ mansion, small step by small step. “Of course,” she said, trying for lightness. Her headache wasn’t cooperating. “I don’t think Fenris has ever _used_ the kitchen.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

She glanced up, shooting him a questioning look.

“It makes an excellent room for storing corpses.”

Kiara almost laughed, except she was standing so close she could feel the heat rolling off him in waves. His limbs trembled and sweat beaded on his brow that had nothing to do with the temperature outdoors. She pressed him a little harder, urging him to take faster steps.

“I should have told Fenris to run,” she muttered. “We should have turned back to my estate. I should never have agreed to let you leave in the first pl—”

“Hawke. Please. I’ll sit. I’ll rest. Just… don’t blame yourself. We both know whose fault this wound is, and it’s not yours. It is… it is less than I deserve.”

Kiara was horrified when her eyes filled with tears. She was even _more_ horrified when she actually had the audacity to sniffle.

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, his voice low and worried. _Him_ worried about _her._ It was absurd, and just enough to hold the tears in check.

“It’s nothing. Come on. We’re… we’re almost there.”

“Please,” Sebastian whispered. “Please don’t cry. Not for me. Not after what I—”

Once again she cut him off mid-sentence, but only because he was walking the dangerous line of beginning a conversation she was not quite ready to have. “You _idiot_. I’m only… if I _was_ crying—and I’m not—it would be because I want to hit you but you’re injured and I _can’t._ ”

He ducked his head and almost smiled, and Kiara urged him on, praying for Fenris to hurry.

#

Amelle was tired.  She hadn’t had a proper night’s rest since the memorial.  Oh, she _slept,_ but fitfully, as if the tension between her and Kiara not only filled the house, but soaked into her sleep as well.  She didn’t feel quite as stretched, as emotionally _drained_ as she had the day of the memorial, and her mind and spirit were settled and quiet — and Amelle was thankful for that; the tension between her Kiara was bad enough, and she still had no idea how to combat _that_.  Intellectually, she knew that talking to Kiara was the first step.  But it felt like such a _large_ step; she and her sister were circling in the anxious little figures of a dance Amelle didn’t quite understand, and much as she wanted to stop… she didn’t know _how._ Kiara scowled and snapped when she wasn’t hidden in her room or shooting quiver after quiver of arrows into targets in the garden. Amelle could see Kiara was troubled—could even see that she was _hurting_ ; her sister never ceased rubbing at her temples—but somehow the words _do you need healing, Kiri?_ refused to form.

Neither did the words _do you need help?_

Amelle yawned and rolled her neck expressively to banish some of the more persistent knots. She was in the middle of transplanting some seedlings from their nursery bed to the windowboxes. She nearly dropped the one she was holding when she heard the door squeal on its hinges— _another thing to do; oil the doors_ —and she called out, “I’ll be with you in a moment!”

When she turned, she was startled to see Fenris standing in the clinic, a strange expression on his face. He looked drawn and tired, and from the way he was squinting slightly, she could tell she was not the only one who hadn’t slept well.  Though Amelle suspected, given Kiara’s brief foray to The Hanged Man the night before, that Fenris’ exhaustion had more to do with the tavern’s stores of wine than anything else.

“Fenris,” she said, unable to keep the surprise from her tone. “Kiara’s gone to the market, I think. Unless… oh, Maker, is it Sebastian?”

Fenris inclined his head slightly. “We were—we came upon your sister at the market. She insisted I bring you to see to him.”

Brushing the potting soil from her hands, Amelle glanced around. Her supplies were pitiful at best, but she grabbed a few helpful potions and a spool of uncut bandage. “What did he do? Was it bleeding? Is he conscious?”

“He was… only pale.”

Amelle paused, glancing at him with raised eyebrows. “Kiara sent you because Sebastian looked _pale_?”

Fenris put a hand to his forehead and sighed. “I knew I was going to regret letting him do this.”

“Letting him…? Do?”

“When I woke this morning he was attempting to repair holes in my walls.”

“…What?”

Fenris sighed again. “Sebastian was up at dawn this morning fixing the holes in my walls.”

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, that I were. In comparison, allowing him to make breakfast seemed the lesser of two evils. Had he not come to the market with me, I have no doubt he’d have gone back to the repair work. He was… quite insistent.”

She gave him a small smile. “I suppose that explains why you look so wretched. Hangover _and_ no sleep _and_ no breakfast. We’ll collect some buns from Orana on the way over. As to the other, you… know I can help.”

“How do you… indeed. I have… felt better.”

Amelle waved one hand, wiggling her fingers. “It’s yours if you want it.”

A silent debate raged across Fenris’ features in the form of furrowed brow and compressed lips, and Amelle found herself almost regretting the light-hearted offer. He was still _Fenris_ , after all, and though he’d accepted her help before, he was hardly going to start thinking of magic as something to be spoken of or thrown about lightly. Just as she was parting her lips to apologize for her levity, he nodded once. Decisively. 

“I would be… it has been a long morning. All evidence indicates the rest of the day may continue on in the same fashion.” Fenris’ expression lightened, and he took several steps toward Amelle, bowing his head slightly so she did not have to reach for his temples. Amelle caught herself staring and blinked to clear her mind. Warmth that had nothing whatsoever to do with gathering magic and everything to do with the _trust_ Fenris was showing spread through her. Swallowing hard, she took his head between her hands and let her power wash through him.

After a moment, a faint smile of relief overspread his features, but it was replaced almost instantly by yet another frown. “Do you… blame me, then? For… allowing him to… roam?”

Amelle sighed, dropping her hands and shaking her head. “None of us will be able to keep Sebastian from getting up and making a meal if he wants it. Honestly, I would have brought something over earlier, but I… rather lost track of the time down here.” She waved at the half-potted plants. “Kiara will likely tell me to drug him into oblivion, but he’s still got to eat and keep his strength up.  So, if he’s determined to do these things one way or another, then we can at least make things a bit easier on him. None of us can watch him constantly, and I don’t think he’d thank us for it if we  _did._ If he’s going to heal, he’s going to do it on his own terms, no matter how much my sister yells at him. I mean, she could shoot him, but that would just make more work for me. So. No, I don’t blame you. Sebastian’s choices are his own. He’s not your… responsibility.”

Something about the final word stuck in her throat, and she found herself swallowing anxiously as if to dislodge it. Fenris regarded her steadily, and somehow his attention made her distress even worse. Glancing away, she packed her supplies in the empty market basket Fenris still held. “Perhaps it is only paleness after all, but there’s no saying what horrors Kiara will imagine if I don’t go have a look.” She arched an eyebrow. “And besides, it appears I have to have _yet another_ word with my patient about the meaning of the word _rest._ ”

When they entered the mansion, Amelle’s eyes darted around the foyer, and what she saw startled her. She noticed the patch job Sebastian had started at once. More than that, the entire space seemed… cleaner, somehow. It was odd. And highly disorienting, like entering a stranger’s home.

“Weren’t there… more corpses in here?”

Fenris looked around, and gave a one shouldered shrug. “It’s possible.”

Startled swiftly became alarmed. “He _moved_ the corpses? In his condition?”

Dryly, Fenris replied, “I can only assume so, since the alternative is that they walked out of their own accord.”

“Right, because we’ve never seen _that_ happen before. Still…” She waved, taking in the altered state of the room, “this is far too much _work_ for him to have done in his condition.”

“I did attempt to reason with him…”

Amelle’s lips twisted in an unpleasant little smile. “They have more in common than they know, my sister and Starkhaven’s heir.”

Fenris snorted lightly. “Indeed.”

“Where did you put him?”

“East wing, second floor. There… seemed to be the least damage there. Though if Sebastian has his way…”

Amelle rolled her eyes, and took a few steps toward the staircase. Before she’d gone very far, however, she heard her sister’s voice from above, and Kiara was speaking so loudly every single _one_ of her words was clear as a bell. “ _You_ moved the corpses? Sebastian, have you lost your—no. No. Do not answer that question, because it is _obvious_ that any sane man would _never_ have attempted to handle dead weight—carrying Maker knows what contagion—less than a month after sustaining a wound that very nearly made him a corpse in his own right!”

Amelle glanced over her shoulder at Fenris. His eyebrows crept toward his hairline and she shook her head. “I’d best rescue him before she does more damage than even I can fix.”

“Do you require anything?”

“Other than a sedative for Kiara? Fresh water, if you would.”

Fenris nodded sharply and turned away as Amelle took the steps two at a time. Even if she hadn’t known the layout of Fenris’ mansion, she could have found Sebastian’s room easily enough just by following the ever-more-strident sound of her sister’s voice.

Amelle knocked before she entered, but didn’t wait before walking in. Kiara was pacing from one end of the room to the other, her color high and her hands clenching and unclenching into fists. Sebastian, Amelle noted, had been wise enough to sit, but his color was terrible, and she regretted the lazy walk from the Hawke estate at once. Sebastian watched Kiara pace, wearing a hangdog expression, and it was Kiara who noticed Amelle first.

Without ceasing her pacing, Kiara jabbed her finger in Sebastian’s direction, and shouted, “ _He moved the corpses!_ ”

“So I gathered. And I think probably the entire neighborhood gathered it, too.”

If Kiara even heard the note of humor in Amelle’s voice, she ignored it, continuing, “And he refuses to take his shirt off for me!”

In spite of everything, Amelle couldn’t help the smile that tilted the corners of her lips. Kiara stopped mid-pace, overcome by a laugh that bordered on the hysterical. Sebastian blushed furiously.

Shooting a vaguely concerned look at her sister, Amelle said gently, “You’ll take your shirt off for me, won’t you, Sebastian?”

“I would… prefer…” Sebastian glanced around, desperate, as though he wanted nothing more than for the floor to open and swallow him whole.

Adopting her most businesslike demeanor, Amelle shook her head and settled her basket of healing supplies on the end of the bed. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, as you well know. I have to take a look, Sebastian. You… you should not be the color you are.”

“What took you so long?” Kiara asked. “I sent Fenris ages ago. I’ve been—”

“Hawke,” Sebastian pleaded. “It is nothing.”

Amelle knew it wasn’t nothing. People rarely turned the color of old dishwater over mere nothings. She turned to order Kiara from the room but found her sister resolute, glare firmly in place. And, oh, Amelle knew _that_ glare. The last time she’d seen it there’d been an arrow pointing at her—

Amelle forced these thoughts away, finding the still, calm place where her magic breathed within her. Now was not the time for any wounds but the one Sebastian suffered. Her own could wait.

Kiara said, “I’m not leaving. He won’t tell me the truth about it, so I need to see for myself.”

With a heavy sigh, Sebastian shifted until his back was to Kiara. Very slowly, he attempted to remove his shirt, but Amelle could see at once that his left arm was uncooperative. Striding to his side, she shook her head and removed the shirt herself. She could feel the heat of his fever even through the fabric, and his color seemed even worse up close. Inhaling deeply, she calmed her mind, cleared it of thought and worry, and prepared herself for the worst.

Blood stained the bandages wrapped around his chest, and Amelle cursed under her breath. More than three weeks since the original wound—he should _not_ still bleed. Worse was the smell. She could tell at once the wound had grown infected _again_. 

Behind them, Kiara had at last grown utterly silent, and when Amelle shot a glance her way, she saw the hardened expression she recognized from countless battlefields. Amelle knew the look well. Kiara was compartmentalizing, pushing emotions, thoughts, worries down and away to be dealt with later. In a very measured, very artificially calm voice, Kiara said, “Amelle?”

“You were right to send for me.”

Kiara closed her eyes.

Amelle turned back to her reluctant patient. “Sit still, Sebastian. This is… this is going to be unpleasant.”

“Corpses,” Kiara spat. “Bloody _corpses. Idiot!_ ”

Sebastian mumbled, “Maybe… corpses… not such a good idea. Just wanted to… to help…”

Amelle glared at her sister. While Sebastian’s back was turned they shared a rapid exchange of gestures: Amelle made a little shooing motion with her fingers; Kiara shook her head, scowling; Amelle shooed harder, lifting her eyebrows pointedly. Kiara shook her head, even _more_ pointedly, and crossed her arms over her chest, and Amelle was forced to shrug. She rolled her eyes and then gestured toward the basket of supplies.

“If you’re going to stay, you’re going to help, Kiara. Cut fresh bandages, long enough to wrap around him twice.”

Trusting her sister to her task, Amelle began very carefully to ease the dressing free. Sebastian winced, and Amelle murmured reassuringly, but when the bandages finally came away entirely she couldn’t help the breath that hissed through her clenched teeth. It mightn’t have been as bad as it once had been, but it was ugly and it was angry. She felt magic rising to her fingertips at the sight of it, desperate to help, to bring succor.

“ _Definitely_ infected. Blast. Kiara, there’s some topical potion there—if you can warm it up in the embers, that would be a help. Sebastian, you need to lie back.”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely—”

“ _Sebastian_ ,” Kiara snapped. “Do as she says. Now.”

Amelle laid gentle fingertips on his unwounded right shoulder, and bent her head until he was forced to meet her gaze. “Please,” she said softly. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, and if you lie still I can make sure the spell goes where it needs to go. Sitting up is… more of a challenge. Please. Trust me.”

His color was still high, though she put it down to the infection more than his injured modesty. Once he’d settled back against the pillows, she perched on the edge of the bed. After cracking her knuckles in preparation, she closed her eyes and placed her hands lightly over the wound. The blue-white light poured into him as she focused, coaxing the torn flesh to knit itself back together even as she drew out the infection from the blood and surrounding tissues. The hotcold thrum grew stronger, somehow both hotter and colder, until she could feel sweat trickling down her face even as she shivered. Her brow ached with the force of her concentration. Her hands trembled. Still she held. Still she asked for _more_ , because the blighted flesh _resisted_ her.

Ages passed. By the end, strands of hair clung sweatily to her forehead, her mana was all but drained, and a bloody headache pounding towards the front of her head with a vengeance. As the last of the light faded from her hands, she slumped forward, resting her elbows on her knees, panting hard.

“ _There_ ,” she whispered. “There.”

Kiara’s voice was almost as soft. “It’s… mended, then?”

When Amelle looked up, she was startled by the openness of Kiara’s expression—after the last few days, it seemed shocking to see her sister so unguarded.

“Again, yes,” Amelle replied. “Is the… is the topical potion warmed up?”

Kiara nodded. “I can do this part, Mely.”

Somehow even the term of endearment _hurt_. 

_You’re the one with the death wish, Mely. Wouldn’t it be better to see it coming?_

“Kiara…”

But Kiara only shook her head. “Go get some air. You look like you could use it.”

And because she couldn’t disagree with Kiara’s assessment, Amelle went.


	25. Chapter 25

Sebastian wasn’t certain if he felt better or worse as Amelle’s healing magic faded away. Oh, his _wound_ wasn’t bothering him as much, but he felt drained beyond exhaustion. Though he wanted to, he could not even find the voice to thank Amelle as she lifted her hands from his chest. He heard the sisters speaking to one another, but could make no sense of their words.

Strange images flashed through his mind, so hazy and indistinct he was almost tempted to explain them away as dreams. He remembered hearing Fenris return from his evening at The Hanged Man. Sleep had been elusive, and he’d thought it a good idea to rise and begin some of the repairs the house so desperately required. For hours he’d dragged decomposed corpses from open rooms and hallways, storing them in the kitchen—it was coolest there, with its never-lit ovens and long-abandoned hearth—for later disposal. He winced even now, thinking of it. But at the time it had seemed imperative. It had seemed the least he could do.

_Poor Fenris, living amongst the dead for so long._

They were all living amongst the dead, now. Shades of people they’d known, people they’d lost, hovered in every corner, and no mere dusting could erase them. All the repairs in the world could not bring them back. They were caught between worlds, lingering on in every word spoken and in every silence where no words were _enough_.

He saw the dead on the rare occasions he allowed himself to meet Hawke’s gaze; the ghosts of those she felt she’d failed.

He wondered if she saw the dead in his eyes, too.

And this morning, for whatever reason, it had seemed so terribly important to remove the constant reminders decaying in Fenris’ rooms.

Amelle rose before he found his voice, and her concerned, weary expression— _he_ had done that, _again_ —was replaced by Hawke’s harder to read visage. He closed his eyes at once, and turned his face away, not because he wanted to dismiss her, but because he could not bear her compassion. She said nothing, and after a moment he felt her fingertips gently massaging the warmed potion—Amelle had mentioned a potion, he remembered that—into the skin around the wound. The pain was no longer sharp and insistent, but even with her light touch, the ache went deep. Sebastian shuddered under her touch and squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut. His lips moved, silently reciting verses of the Chant—prayers for grace, for hope; prayers for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said, her voice as gentle as her hands. He remembered her shouting at him in the market—foolish to have attempted such an excursion; he could see that now—her eyes blazing with fear and worry and other things he could not put name to. How different she sounded now. “Am I hurting you?”

He shook his head, a tight, terse motion. _Find the words_ , he thought desperately, urgently. _She deserves them. She deserves better than this. She deserves better than your silence._

But the only words that came were words of the Chant, and so he whispered them fervently under his breath. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.”

Hawke added the next line, “I shall endure,” and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees, to beg her forgiveness. Instead, he opened his eyes, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It pained him to see her so troubled. He wanted… he wanted to _ease_ her worry, not add to it, but he didn’t know how. Her expression, even now, was so much more guarded than it had been _before_. She looked at him as though she didn’t know him, didn’t understand him, and he felt a sinking pain in his breast that had nothing whatsoever to do with the errant sword of a desperate templar.

This time she was the first to glance away. She set the empty potion bottle down on the bedside table and reached for the prepared dressing. He felt her hands trembling and heard the faint catch in her breath as she inhaled.

 _I have done this,_ he thought. _I have wrought this._

“What I did… it was unforgivable.” His voice sounded somehow alien to his own ears, and the words were still not the right ones. As soon as they were spoken he longed to take them back, especially because they elicited a startled look from Hawke, and they stole the color from her cheeks.

After too long a pause, she replied, “Shouldn’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Hawke…”

She swallowed audibly, and still did not allow herself to meet his eyes. Her hands continued their work, winding the gauze carefully, expertly, with great attention to his comfort. “At the very least,” she said, “you might consult your own faith. Forgiveness rates highly enough there.”

He didn’t know what to answer to this, because of course she was right. He wanted to tell her he preferred her anger to her compassion, but those words were wrong, too. They were too much about _him_. Too much about what _he_ wanted, what _he_ deserved. She finished wrapping the bandage in silence before averting her eyes and handing him his shirt.

He sat up gingerly, expecting pain, but Amelle’s healing was good; he felt not even a twinge. He accepted the shirt, but did not move at once to dress himself; he felt his moment slipping away, and was afraid once it was gone it would never come again. There was a mend in the shirt’s collar; he hadn’t noticed it before. He wondered whose were the stitches. For that matter, he wondered who’d supplied the shirt. He was taller and broader than Fenris; it could not have been the elf. It seemed strange that he hadn’t wondered earlier.

“Do you know where he is?”

Hawke didn’t bother asking who he meant. “Gone.”

“But alive.”

Her voice took on a harder edge, almost defensive. “Thrice I spared his life. It will not happen again. But yes, as far as I know, he is alive.” She patted at the spot where her quiver usually lay. “I carry an arrow with his name on it. He knows that now. I… do not expect to ever see him again.”

Before he could speak, she added, “You blame me.”

He’d have physically recoiled if he wasn’t already propped up against the headboard of the bed with nowhere to move. His eyes snapped up to meet hers and he shook his head weakly, holding the shirt to his chest. “No, Hawke. I was distraught. Angry. _Heartbroken_.”

“You think I _wasn’t_? You think I’m _not_?”

Again he shook his head, all the wrong words racing through his brain. He swallowed them, again and again, looking for the right ones. “Killing him then would have martyred him. That was why you didn’t do it.”

A flash of something like triumph burned across her face, just as quickly replaced by the heaviness of distress. “I believe martyrdom may even have been his desire all along. I can make no sense of his actions, otherwise.”

“He… wanted to become a… a symbol.”

Hawke rose and began to pace again, though her steps were not so frantic. Thoughtfully, she said, “We went to the Templar Hall often enough. If… if he’d truly been looking to harm those who were harming the mages, why did he not start his massacre with Meredith? With the templars? Why the chantry? Why… why the _innocents_ there?” She pounded one fist into her thigh before continuing, “I made no secret of my respect for the Grand Cleric. I feel… I can’t help feeling he may have chosen her because of it. To _ensure_ his death at my hands.” Hawke faced him—truly faced him, clear-eyed and straight-shouldered—and said, “And I _wanted_ to kill him. Part of me still wants to kill him. As I said the other night, part of me is sorry I did not. In the end he was no different than so many others who met their ends on my arrows. He was worse. But I could not martyr him.”

“And now there will be war.”

Hawke’s eyes widened as though he’d slapped her.

“You do plan to return to Starkhaven, then? To bring your forces down on Kirkwall, on the mages? _All_ of them?”

Sebastian lifted his hand but did not quite bring it to his wounded chest. “No,” he said. “No. I was mad with grief. I meant—the Divine—not me, not Starkhaven. Hawke… Hawke, I could _never_ —I would _never_ have—”

“Would never have what?” she snapped. “Posted a notice on the Chanter’s Board looking for someone to help you exact your revenge?”

He bowed his head, point taken.

“It’s not me you have to apologize to, Sebastian. It never was.”

“You’re wrong, Hawke.”

Her head snapped up and she arched an eyebrow at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Sebastian looked once again at the shirt in his hands, linen soft with wear and holes so expertly mended, and then answered very slowly, very evenly, “You are wrong. You are but one person of many I must apologize to. But—”

“Sebastian—”

Clenching his fingers in the fabric he growled, “For Andraste’s sake, Hawke, would you let me _speak_?”

Her mouth snapped shut in surprise and she nodded once, curtly.

“I am aware that many of those to whom I owe apologies are beyond hearing, beyond caring. But of the living, Hawke, _you_ are one to whom I must—”

She started to speak—he saw her lips twitch—and then she closed her eyes and swallowed her words.

He continued softly, “I betrayed you. I ought to have stood with you. I must live with my regret, but I would have you know how keenly I feel it, and how much I… I would change, if such things could be changed.”

She stared at him, unflinching, her expression impossibly hard. “Vengeance is powerful. How am I to know you will not heed its call, if the opportunity arises?”

He could hear the loss of trust in her voice, and it took all his willpower not to look away. He could only hope she was looking for truth in his face; it was all he could offer. “No one is entirely immune. Anders slaughtered every man, woman and child in the chantry and aye, at that moment I would have done the same to the mages—to all the mages—but I… did not. And I will not.”

“How noble of you. How magnanimous. You will no longer hold every mage accountable for the actions of _one_. I suppose Amelle can breathe a sigh of relief.”

He flinched. “I would never have harmed her.”

“Just everyone else. Good to know where your line is drawn.”

“I spoke rashly. I accept that you may punish me for it all the rest of my days. All I can do is offer my apology, Hawke; my sincerest apology. To you. To our companions. To your sister.”

Kiara straightened her shoulders, and when she spoke her voice was carefully neutral, but she would not meet his eyes. “And after you’ve said your apologies? What will you do then?”

He frowned.

“You’ve been torn between your options as long as I’ve known you, Sebastian,” she continued, gazing a little past him, at a spot on the wall just above his left shoulder. “Will you stay or will you go? Will you find another chantry to affiliate yourself with?” She swallowed, and her voice took on a strange quality, one whose tenor he could not quite make out. “Will you return… home?”

_Is that what you want me to do? Or is that what you fear?_

He did not know how to reply, so he asked, “Do you know what _you_ will do?”

Shaking her head, she pushed a hand through her hair. Her fingers lingered, pressing her brow as though it caused her pain—headaches again, he knew. He recognized the signs. She pinched the bridge of her nose and replied with more honesty than his own deflected question deserved, “I have yet to decide how best I may use my… skills. Notoriety. I don’t know. My connection to the events here—my connection to Anders—will be known. I am afraid others—Amelle, especially—may be dragged into danger with me. I am not certain if staying in Kirkwall will help, or if it will only cause more harm.” Her eyes narrowed in a pain he understood all too well, and it had nothing to do with headaches. “I… I do not wish to cause more harm. I would disappear entirely if I thought it would help, but I am afraid there are those who would use my name if I am not here to speak for myself. I have been… too much in the public eye.”

The words _I would disappear entirely_ stunned him momentarily, and so his reply came after too long a pause. “You… for so many years, you listened to my endless indecision. Again and again you were patient. You advised me well. You… cared about what I _wanted_.” His throat felt tight, but still he forced words through it. “I am ashamed, Hawke. I have never bothered asking what it is _you_ want.”

She grimaced, her lips turned down in an ugly little twist. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” he replied.

She blinked, as though she had not expected him to reply to a question she thought rhetorical. Then she said, “I didn’t want this, you know. Power. Politics. _Champion_. I was never interested in it. I wanted a home. I wanted my family to be safe. Simple things. Quiet things. And one by one those things have been taken from me. Because of struggles for power. Because of politics. Hiding my head in the sand won’t bring those things back. The things set in motion—the things I helped set in motion, whether I knew it or not—someone must be an advocate.”

“You would… accept that role, though it is not what you want?”

She tilted her head, and color rose in her cheeks. For one moment she looked so utterly baffled, he almost wanted to take his words back. Then she shook her head slightly and said, with no small amount of bitterness, “Someone has to do it.” She winced, as if hearing her own venom. With a helpless gesture she said, “I may not have made Anders’ decisions, but I didn’t stop him, either. I… I protected him. For too long, even when the holes in his stories were bigger than the stories themselves.” She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples once again. “You are not the only one who feels amends must be made, or apologies spoken.” 

Sebastian swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. His heart raced, but for once it had nothing to do with his injury. Humbled by the rawness of her emotion, Sebastian swallowed and at last carefully slid the shirt over his head, wrapping the fabric close. Swallowing did little to moisten his suddenly-parched throat. Clenching his hands around his knees, he said gravely, “I have… I have always respected you, Hawke. Always. But never more than I do at this moment. Truly. You… asked me what I will do, and I did not answer.”

“I noticed,” she replied.

He inclined his head. “Would it help you to have the prince of Starkhaven as an ally? I will… I would return to that duty, if it aids you. If nothing else, as prince I would be better able to offer you protection that meant something. For you, and for Amelle. For all those who might fall under suspicion because of Anders. I cannot promise it will be easy, but I—I would try. And this time I would not let myself be dissuaded by nobility too cowardly to stand with me. I am, after all, the last of my family. Blood speaks. I am the rightful heir.”

Whatever response he’d been expecting, it was not the one he received. Hawke gasped, and then put one hand to her mouth as though she wished to push the sound back inside. The other she pressed to her side. She went the color of milk and her eyes widened until he could see the whites all around her pale irises. She stumbled a few steps until she looped an arm around one of the bedposts to keep herself upright. Indeed, her response was so startling—so _terrifying_ —he was up and at her side before he could tell himself it might not be the wisest course of action, what with the recent dose of healing magic still making his brain hum and his limbs tremble.

Hawke jerked away from his hand, tossing her head, her eyes squeezed shut.

“What did I say?” he asked urgently. “Hawke, whatever is the matter?”

“I… can’t. Not—you’re not well. It’s not safe. It’s too soon. You’ll only—I can’t, Sebastian. I _can’t_.”

He put his hands on her shoulders before she could pull away again, but still she turned her head, unwilling to look at him. It was baffling. He was of half a mind to call— _loudly_ —for Amelle when Kiara groaned and said, “But no, I… it’s wrong of me. To keep it from you. Promise me you’ll wait until you’re well, Sebastian. Please promise me.”

“Wait for what?” he asked. And then, “Kept _what_ from me, Hawke?”

He felt the shudder ripple through her, and he stood so close he could not help see the pain in eyes that welled with tears. “The day after the memorial,” she whispered, her hand sneaking back to her side. “I had a letter.”

“About what? Anders? It doesn’t matter, Hawke. Please. Sit. You are unwell. Let me fetch your sister.”

“No! No. Just… no. Not Anders. It may mean nothing. It may… I’m sorry, Sebastian, I should have told you. I _know_ I should have told you. I’ve been carrying it around in my pocket for days, but I couldn’t make myself come. And now here you are, so earnest and so broken, and there may be nothing at all for you to return to. Or there might be everything, I suppose, but not what you expect.”

Tears ran freely down her face now, and these were more disconcerting even than her words, or the mercurial shifts in her emotions. “Kiara,” he said evenly, and the use of her given name brought her eyes—her wide, frightened, weeping eyes—to meet his. “This letter. It concerns me?”

She hunched forward as much as his hands on her shoulders would allow, biting her bottom lip between her teeth. “It… it concerns Starkhaven,” she whispered. “And it… and I think it concerns you.”

#

Amelle closed the door quietly, took three steps, and looked up to see Fenris standing before her, carrying a basin of water. She blinked.

“The… kitchen was full of corpses,” he said. “I thought it best to go to the well. Forgive my delay.”

She’d have smiled if she wasn’t so bone weary. “I don’t need it. I thought… I suppose I thought it wasn’t going to be so bad. But it was more than a patch job.” She put a hand to her head and stumbled past Fenris to sit on the top stair. She had no intention of sharing just how badly off Sebastian had been— _again_ —but she knew all too well; she would not be so dizzy, so drained, if the infection _hadn’t_ been bad.

Behind her, she heard Fenris lower his burden. The water sloshed. A few moments later he sank next to her, hands on his knees. He’d removed his clawed gauntlets, she noticed, and the tattoos running the lengths of his fingers were delicate, glowing ever so slightly in the dim light.

“Amelle. Are you unwell? Can I… is there anything I may do?”

She chuckled a little, but didn’t look up. In a few moments enough of her mana would return, and she’d be able to heal some of the fatigue plaguing her, but until then… “I’m not the patient.”

“Perhaps, but the question seems appropriate nonetheless.”

“I’m fine. I will be fine. In a moment. I just need to sit.”

“And Sebastian…?”

“He’ll live. Whether he likes it or not. Moving corpses. Patching walls. It’s madness.”

Fenris was silent, and when she cast a slantwise glance in his direction, she found she could not tell if he was angry or sad. Perhaps it was both. She understood _that_ dichotomy all too well, after all.

“I do not understand,” Fenris said at last. “He was… he seemed well enough this morning. Pale, as I said. Nothing to—” Fenris swept his hand in an arc, taking in her weariness.

She grimaced. “He aggravated the old wound. I think he was probably… downplaying the pain. Masking it. Pretending.” Fenris’ eyes narrowed, and he looked ashamed of himself, but Amelle added, “It’s not your fault, Fenris. He’s not your responsibility.”

“And you believe he still… questions his place?”

“That’s a pleasant way of asking if I think he’s borderline suicidal.”

Fenris flipped his hands over, staring down into his empty palms. “He seems… his condition was so much poorer, then. Surely, he—”

She snorted lightly. “Maker, Fenris. I’ve said it before: you’ve a talent for understatement. He may not have been in a pool of his own blood when I healed him just now, but the threat remains. Maybe I… I don’t know. I’ve never healed someone who was… who was as close to death as Sebastian was.”

“But you _did_ —”

“Fenris,” she said evenly, turning to face him and leaning her spine against the cool stone wall in the process. “Anyone else… anyone else would have seen a dead man lying there in that alley. His heart was not beating; his lungs held no breath. I could… sense, I suppose, that his spirit was clinging stubbornly, so I suspect at least _part_ of him didn’t want to die, but it was a very near thing. I have no idea what kind of repercussions that kind of brush with death has on a person. None whatsoever.”

Something dangerously close to awe—she supposed awe was better than animosity, but still, it was nothing if not _foreign_ —slid over his features. “You are… you are able to do that?”

Amelle made a face. “I managed it once. Because we weren’t too late. And because… because it was _Sebastian_ and I… _refused_ to give up. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, and I still don’t know how effective I was. No one should take so long to heal with the amount of power I’ve applied, near-mortal wound or not.”

“It will heal. I have… you are proficient at your craft. It _will_ heal.”

Amelle smiled slightly at his word choice. She had the feeling _proficient_ coming from Fenris was akin to a glowing recommendation sung from the rooftops from anyone else. “I would not have thought to hear you speak so about anyone using magic for _any_ purpose.”

Fenris shrugged uncomfortably, his armor creaking. “You have given him a second chance. I… I hope he takes full advantage of it.”

It didn’t escape her notice that he did not _quite_ respond to her words. She supposed admitting _proficiency_ was also still worlds away from _trust_. It was something, though. “ _Maker_ , so do I. I think it’s going to take time, though. The guilt he carries is a heavier burden even than the wound itself.”

Fenris said nothing, but raised his eyebrows expectantly and she explained, “I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’d venture a guess that his guilt is hurting him just as much as patching holes or dragging corpses or taking a morning stroll around the market did. The body is a funny thing. If he doesn’t feel he deserves to have been saved…”

“He will be his own end,” Fenris supplied gravely.

Amelle sighed. “Precisely. So… so let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I rather suspect your sister will not _allow_ it to come to that.”

Amelle bit her bottom lip. _Of course. And what Kiara wants, Kiara gets._ Very softly she said, “I’d rather someone’s life not come down to a battle of wills, even when one of the wills is as determined as my sister’s.”

Fenris nodded, and they sat in silence a while. When Amelle felt steady enough, she allowed a breath of rejuvenation magic to feed her flagging resources. She was then forced to shift her power into a healing spell for the headache that had started to pound forward after healing Sebastian— _you’re pushing yourself too hard, rabbit; no mage’s reserves are unlimited_ —but afterward she felt almost human again, and she decided it was worth it. She just needed a full night’s—or full _week’s_ —sleep.

She also needed to sort things out with Kiara, but the sleep seemed a more attainable goal.

Finally, Fenris said, “Speaking of clashing wills, there is a great deal less… shouting than I expected.”

This startled a chuckle from her, and the sound echoed eerily in the quiet corridor. “Oh, nothing’s worse than Kiara when she’s quiet.” Fenris inclined his head as though he understood this all too well—and he did at that, Amelle supposed. “I imagine Sebastian is _wishing_ he were dead right now.”

“Should we… intervene?”

Amelle gave him a wry look. “I think I’ve done _quite_ enough, but I take your point. Best rescue him again before she does damage I can’t so easily undo.”

_Like with her words._

She was still a little unsteady when she rose—definitely in need of sleep, _definitely_ —so she grabbed hold of the banister. A moment later she felt Fenris’ unarmored fingertips at her elbow. She sent a grateful smile over her shoulder, but his expression was inscrutable and somehow reserved, and her smile faded. She imagined he simply didn’t want her to tumble headfirst down the staircase to add to his diminishing collection of corpses. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders, pulled her arm away from his tentative grip and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her dress before crossing once again to Sebastian’s door.

After a quick knock, she peered in. Kiara was leaning against one of the bedposts, Sebastian’s hands on her shoulders.

“Oh, good,” Amelle said with a lightness she did not quite feel. “No _more_ bloodshed. When it got quiet we started to worry.”

And then Kiara turned. And _worry_ was too insignificant a word for what Amelle felt.

Behind her, Fenris said, “Ceasing your concern may be premature, Amelle.”

Amelle sank down into a chair, folding her hands in her lap. Fenris moved to stand behind her; she felt oddly comforted by the solid _presence_ of him. Sebastian was pale again, though it was a different sort of pale and it did not immediately cause Amelle to think of illness.

It was… worse, somehow. His eyes were haunted, the blue far too bright over the dark shadows beneath.

“When can I travel, Amelle?” Sebastian asked, his voice eerily calm. She felt a shiver run the length of her spine. Fenris’ fingers closed tightly over the back of her chair. She looked from Kiara to Sebastian and back again.

“You’re not serious. What do you—?”

“ _When can I travel?_ ”

Wide-eyed, their current animosity forgotten, Amelle gazed searchingly at her sister. It was… Kiara’s face was composed now, but Amelle knew her sister’s complexion well enough to recognize Kiara had been crying, and not gently.

“Answer him.”

Flustered, Amelle said, “I—don’t—I’ve never healed an injury as significant as yours, Sebastian, and if today’s relapse is any… you survived against all odds. The spells, the potions, they can _help_ , but time is the only—”

“When?”

For an instant Amelle saw not the chantry brother, not Choir Boy—Varric and his nicknames—but the prince of Starkhaven. And he… he _frightened_ her.

“Another week,” she answered reluctantly. “At _least_. I’d be happier with a fortnight, and even then there’s no guarantee—”

“A week,” Sebastian growled, eyes flashing with barely-controlled impatience.

“ _Much_ happier with a fortnight.”

Sounding almost defeated, Kiara pleaded, “Sebastian. Don’t. We can send another letter, wait for a proper reply. You can’t go dashing across the continent on the weight of a rumor. Not in your condition. Don’t be… don’t be _foolish._ ”

Sebastian removed his hands from Kiara’s shoulders and clenched them into fists at his side. Amelle was almost certain he was physically restraining himself from hitting something. Maybe even Kiara. “My brother Connall has returned from the dead and you want me to _wait_?”

Amelle’s jaw dropped, but Kiara’s swift look _begged_ her not to ask.

“What good will it do to run in blind? Half dead? What difference can another fortnight make? If it _is_ your brother, he will still be there in two weeks. And if it _isn’t_ … it could be a trap. Think about the timing!” Kiara’s voice rose with every sentence, increasingly desperate.

“She’s… right, Sebastian,” Amelle said reluctantly, ducking her head when Sebastian’s glare found her again.

“On all counts,” Fenris added, without a tremor of doubt in his voice. Amelle was grateful for that, too. “You would be wise to listen.”

Sebastian scoffed, “All very easy for you to say, Fenris, Amelle. Hawke.”

Fenris’ voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Do not think for a moment I underestimate the importance of family.”

“Sebastian,” Amelle said, using the same tone she’d use with a skittish animal, “if it _is_ your brother, he will understand your delay. You are hurt. Badly hurt. If it’s _not_ your brother—if it is a trap of some sort—and you were to rush in, in your condition?” Amelle shook her head. “Please… please think this through.”

“A week,” he repeated, speaking the word as though it tasted foul in his mouth.

“At _least_ a week before you can physically travel!” she amended. “You never said anything about… _confrontations_.”

Again she flinched when the full force of his stare met hers. “And if you were in my place?” Sebastian glanced between the sisters. “If _either_ of you were in my place, would you be content to sit and wait, not knowing the truth? Not knowing if the brother you thought dead yet lived?”

“I daresay I could wait long enough to send a letter and wait for a reply,” Kiara snapped, though the retort was weak, and Amelle could see her sister’s certitude wavering. “I would… I would wait until I knew for certain.”

Amelle glanced away from Sebastian’s piercing gaze, staring into her palms. There was still soil beneath her fingernails, leftover from her planting. “No, you wouldn’t,” Amelle said softly, remembering sand beneath her cheek and Grace dead beside her, remembering the wild look in Kiara's eyes and the blood spattered across her face. Behind her, Fenris huffed a quiet groan of displeasure, and she heard Kiara gasp. “And neither would I.”

The silence that followed her admission was sudden and eerie. She wondered if they were _all_ remembering that day on the Wounded Coast. Kiara still wouldn't speak of it, but Amelle knew _damned_ well restraint—and even common sense—had not been high on Kiara's list of priorities on that particular occasion. Once she'd learned what Thrask and Grace had done... Kiara had not even waited for Aveline and the guard. Amelle had little doubt Kiara would have hared off entirely on her own, if she'd not had companions with her who _refused_ to let her do so. And Maker only knew how that might have turned out.

The only sound was breathing—Sebastian’s inhales had a little hitch on the end, and Amelle rose from her chair, crossing the room to settle her hand on his forearm, even though she was not entirely recovered from her earlier efforts. Her hands glowed briefly, and his breath eased just enough to sound normal again. He gave her a grateful look, but it disappeared the moment she whispered, “At least a week, Sebastian. You’ll never know the truth if you die en route.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris offered tentatively, “one of us might go in your stead?”

“No,” Sebastian growled.

“Yes,” Kiara replied, brightening just a little. “That might work.” Her expression turned self-deprecating. “It’s already been established that perhaps a small break from Kirkwall might not be the worst thing for me right now.”

“ _No_ ,” Sebastian repeated. “This is nothing to do with you.”

Kiara stiffened and shot him a warning glance. “That’s funny,” she said in a voice that was distinctly not amused. “You wouldn’t know anything about it if not for me; I think that involves me. My contacts. My information. Be _reasonable_ , Sebastian.”

He began to protest, stopped mid-syllable, and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Hawke. Elthina scolded me on more than one occasion for allowing myself to be blown about like a weathervane; perhaps this is only another example that would prove her assessment accurate.”

Kiara narrowed her eyes, and Amelle felt herself echoing her sister’s distrustful expression. It was… too calculated, too swift a change in tone. But instead of arguing with him or calling him on it, Kiara looked away and nodded at Amelle. “Will you check the dressing? I want to be certain it’s correct.”

Amelle did not mention the dozens and dozens of perfectly adequate bandages Kiara had tied before.

“Fenris?” Kiara said. “A word?”

Without a backward glance, Kiara strode from the room. Fenris followed at a more sedate pace, shaking his head slightly. When the door closed behind them, Sebastian released a sigh. “She means well,” he said, more to himself than to Amelle. “But she’s infuriating.”

“Welcome to my world,” Amelle retorted, gesturing for him to lift his shirt again. She checked the bandages, and he remained still while she worked, but of course there was nothing to change—they were tied perfectly, with exact care.

She shrugged and turned to head for the door herself, but Sebastian’s voice stopped her. “Amelle, I…”

When she looked over her shoulder at him he cleared his throat and ducked his head, a different person entirely from the angry prince of only moments before.

“Yes?” she asked, a little hesitantly, half-expecting a mercurial shift back to ire. It did not come.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Just give it a week. Or two. You’re a stubborn patient, but you get one free relapse. Any more after this one and we’ll have to have words. Unpleasant ones. I may even glare.”

“That… isn’t what I meant.”

“I’m fine, Sebastian. Just a little tired—it’s not all down to you, you know. What I’ve done today should hold, provided you don’t get it in your head to start patching walls or moving any more corpses about. I’d even recommend avoiding—”

“ _Amelle_.”

The insistence in his voice brought her fully around to face him, and she cocked her head. “Yes?”

“Please allow me to… I _do_ owe you an apology. After what Anders did and… I know what I said, and it wasn’t only your sister I was… please, let me apologize.”

Amelle let out a soft sigh and rocked back slightly on her heels. Then she looked down at her hands, her lips pursed in thought.

Sebastian took her silence as permission to continue. “I will understand if you choose not to forgive me. My words were said in anger and—”

Amelle shook her head. “You weren’t the only one who was angry, Sebastian. To be frank, _angry_ doesn’t begin to cover what I felt. What I feel. He… he betrayed all of us. Oh, Kiara shoulders the weight of it because that’s _what she does_ , but I daresay I feel it as keenly. He proved the point everyone else was trying to make: mages are dangerous. The power we wield is dangerous. After some of the things I’ve seen since arriving in Kirkwall…”

Amelle swallowed hard and cast a quick glance at the door to be certain Kiara and Fenris were still deep in conference. She could hear the soft exchange of their voices without, but could not make out their words.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I am ashamed to be a mage at all. I… wonder if I will falter. If I will turn out like they did. Like he did.”

“…You don’t say his name.”

She was startled by her own vehemence when she snapped, “I don’t _want_ to say his name. He deserves no such attention, from me or anyone. I want him _forgotten_. He is the worst of what we are, and yet he had the gall to speak for us. For me. Some days… some days I think I’d be content to give up my magic entirely, if it didn’t mean becoming Tranquil to do so.”

“I, for one, am glad of your skills,” Sebastian said, touching the bandage at his breast briefly. “We would not be having this conversation, otherwise.”

She was reminded suddenly, _keenly_ , of the conversation she and Fenris had had upon the stairs.  “Yes. Well. There is that, I suppose.” Then she crossed the length of the room again and laid a hand on the back of Sebastian’s bowed head. He twitched under her touch but did not pull away. “For what it’s worth, Sebastian? I do forgive you. But it is not my forgiveness you truly require, is it?”

He shook his head.

“And it’s not Kiara’s either,” Amelle added.

“No,” he said. “It is my own. And I do not know if I can grant it. Even now.”

“You can try,” she replied gently. “That’s all any of us can do, really. Try.”

He nodded beneath her hand, but she could feel the reluctance in him, deep and dangerous as poison.

#

Kiara paced, waiting for Fenris to follow her out and close the door, fighting the urge to put her fist into the wall. She knew well enough the wall would come out the victor of any battle she attempted to instigate, but the desire still remained. 

It was something about the way Sebastian’s eyes had lit up that had her so distressed. She’d known at once that with such a possibility in the world there would be no reasoning with him. It was why… it was a large part why she’d kept the information _from_ him. She couldn’t pretend not to _understand_. If it _was_ his brother who now sat on the throne of Starkhaven, she would be _glad_ for him, truly, but his hope had flared so brightly, and… there were too many questions, and too many flaws in the narrative.

Brothers didn’t come back from the dead. It was too bloody convenient.

After Anders, Kiara had become exceptionally skeptical of stories with obvious holes in them. She trusted her source well enough—Shira and Tad were old friends of her mother’s—but Shira was only able to relay the little information she _had_ , and she wasn’t privy to the inner workings of Starkhaven’s court. So they were only rumors. It was only hearsay.

Rumors and hearsay were going to get Sebastian Vael killed.

She didn’t hear Fenris approach—she never heard Fenris approach—but she felt the faint eddy of movement in the air as he drew near. Without looking at him, she said softly, “He’s going to try and sneak out. Perhaps not tonight, perhaps not tomorrow, but certainly before the week is up.”

“Yes,” Fenris replied evenly. “I thought so as well.”

Kiara took a deep, steadying breath. “I am going to… go with him.”

“Of course,” Fenris said at once, as though the possibility of anything else had never occurred to him.

But this was the hard part. Kiara turned, and whatever he saw on her face creased his brow in confusion, his green eyes sharp under dark brows. “I’d like you to stay.”

She saw him stiffen and she knew him well enough to recognize the spark of anger in his eyes as close kin to _wounded_. The tattoos on his ungauntleted hands flashed silver-bright as he clenched his fists. “May I ask why?”

“It isn’t what you think, Fenris.” Kiara pulled her hands through her hair. Her headache was now so blinding even her _eyes_ hurt. “The situation in Starkhaven may be dangerous—”

Curtly, Fenris interjected, “And you doubt my usefulness in potentially dangerous situations?”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The gesture did nothing to ease the pain. “ _Maker_ , Fenris, you know that’s not true.” She picked carefully through the words buzzing in her skull, trying for the right ones. “I don’t feel good about this. Any of it. It all feels… off. Wrong, somehow. But I doubt I can get to the bottom of it from _here_.”

“Amelle and I were not present for the explanation, Hawke. It is something to do with Starkhaven, and something to do with one of Sebastian’s… brothers?”

Kiara bit her lip, and at least the new pain distracted her somewhat from the other. “I think it’s more likely someone seeks to pull the wool over the eyes of a city already in mourning and disarray, but yes. I received word that a new prince sits on Starkhaven’s throne, and that the prince claims to be Connall Vael. Sebastian’s dead _brother_ Connall Vael.”

Fenris frowned thoughtfully. “It seems unlikely that anyone so… important would have been allowed to escape the Flint mercenaries without…”

“Without _someone_ knowing about it? Without _some_ rumor reaching Sebastian in the intervening years? Yes. I know. But you can imagine how…”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “I can imagine. Sebastian hopes, and you think it is a trap.”

She sighed. “No one will be happier if I’m proven wrong, but yes, that is what I suspect. I wasn’t going to tell him. Not yet. But then he caught me off-guard and I… well. You saw.”

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest, gazing down at a basin of water inexplicably sitting in the middle of the hallway. Then again, most aspects of Fenris’ mansion’s appearance were inexplicable. “We might all go, Hawke. Apart from Aveline, there is… little tethering us to Kirkwall now. It might even be _best_ if we go.”

“I… considered that. But… Amelle has the… she has the clinic, now. It makes her happy, and it is a good outlet for her skills. It’s safer than some things she might choose, in any case. And although Kirkwall still has its dangers, at least they’re dangers we _know_.” She inhaled and exhaled, unable to escape Fenris’ calculating expression. “I… do not intend to bring her with me, when I go.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, plainly assessing her. “This has nothing to do with your argument on the day of the memorial?”

Kiara winced, but did not attempt to lie; Fenris would spot any falsehood and take her to task for it, anyway. “Amelle’s dearest wish is to be out from under my shadow, Fenris. She said as much. This is me granting that wish.”

“She will not thank you for it. Especially as you intend to leave a… watchdog.”

Kiara waved dismissively. “Oh, I intend to leave several. But that’s not interfering in her _life_ , Fenris. It’s just common sense. And part of being an older sister. I… I expect she will be angry with me at first, but… perhaps the distance will do us some good.” Scuffing her booted toes against the stones, she added softly, “I… had not realized how much she chafed. I am not making this choice to injure her, though I doubt she’ll see my actions in as kindly a light as I intend them.”

She couldn’t quite parse the expression he wore. Thoughtful, yes, but something more than that. Troubled. Wary. A little unhappy. “You are asking me to keep this from her. She will not thank _me_ , either.”

Kiara inclined her head to accept his point. “Ahh, but she likes you, Fenris. You’ll be forgiven much, much more quickly than I will.” With a weary smile she added, “I notice you’re not denying my request outright. Does that mean you’ll consider doing it?”

Fenris was silent. After a long pause, he said, “I would be happier if you discussed it with her, but I… I believe I understand why you will not. Your sister feels responsibility keenly, and she would consider it her duty to go with you. You wish to… relieve her of the obligation.”

“I want her to be happy, Fenris. And I want her to be safe. I want her to… to smile the way she smiled the night she delivered that baby, all the time. She deserves her own life, and I fear she cannot have one as long as she’s the Champion’s sister.”

Too late she heard the meaning in her words. Fenris did, too. “She will always be your sister, Hawke.”

“That isn’t what I—I know. I just think it is better this way. You’ve trusted my judgment before. I suppose I’m asking you to trust it again.”

He gave her a long, considering look. “Very well.”

“You’ll do it?”

“I will. But I will not—as you say—interfere with her life. I will watch, and I will guard. If she sends me away, I will go. And if she does not wish my presence, I will not force her to accept it.”

Combined with her headache, the sudden rush of gratitude was nearly blinding. She smiled broadly, but pinched the bridge of her nose at the same time. When she bullied the pain back—mostly by applying her teeth to her bottom lip again as a distraction—she found Fenris watching her evenly, and with no small amount of concern.

“Let Amelle see to your headache.”

But Kiara shook her head, ignoring the pain even this slight motion evoked. “No time. Things to do. Places to go. Travel to arrange.” She reached out, grasping Fenris’ bare hand and clasping it tightly between both of hers. “I know you will keep her safe, Fenris. I _know_ you will. I… I cannot thank you enough.”

Fenris’ lips twisted in a wry smile. “Pain makes you maudlin, Hawke.”

She twitched one shoulder in a little shrug. “What doesn’t make me maudlin?”

He snorted lightly. She was halfway down the steps when she heard him call out, “Hawke. Wait.”

Turning her head, she canted an eyebrow and he added, “I have… I have heard Isabela say she would like to see Starkhaven. Perhaps she might… aid with the travel plans.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Fenris,” she replied, smiling faintly.


	26. Chapter 26

**LOTHERING: 9:23 DRAGON**

 

Kiara and Amelle strolled back from the swimming pond, laughing, enjoying the sunshine. Carver wasn’t with them, for a change. In the manner of obnoxious eleven-year-old boys who had no desire to spend sunny afternoons with their sisters, he’d grumpily declared he had other plans, _better_ plans, before disappearing off to the village. Even so, Amelle was _happy_ ; so happy it was hard for her to keep from sending sparks dancing around her fingertips. So happy Kiara didn’t _want_ to stop her. The sparks were beautiful.

The sun was beating down hard on her neck, but Kiara’s hair was still damp and cool, sending soothing rivulets of moisture down her spine, when she heard the telltale clank of armor. She didn’t think; their father’s warnings about armor were absolute—at the first sound, hide. Kiara grabbed Amelle, one arm around her slight body, the other holding a hand tight over Amelle’s mouth. Kiara made certain to keep her sister’s hands pressed between their bodies even when panic made the sparks jump into life as actual flame. Kiara didn’t cry out, even though the tender flesh of her belly had taken the brunt of Amelle’s fire. She was grateful for her recent growth spurt because it was easy to keep hold of her sister, even as Amelle panicked. Kiara rolled them into the underbrush, pinning Amelle beneath her, hoping no sparks would set their hiding place alight.

“Templar,” Kiara whispered in Amelle’s ear.

Amelle quieted at once, and the magic winked out, leaving pain and the faint smell of burning in its place. The armor clanked above them, slow and steady; Kiara couldn’t fathom what would have brought any templar so far from his usual patrol route. She hardly dared breathe, and she felt Amelle just as still beneath her. 

“Why are we out here, Kern? Because some kid said he thought he saw magic? It was probably just sunlight on the water.”

The other templar sighed. “You know we have to take it seriously when someone _reports_.”

“And we’re supposed to believe he got close enough to see magic but not close enough to see who was using it?”

Beneath her, Amelle trembled. Tears ran from the corners of her wide eyes silently, disappearing into her still-damp hair. Kiara dared not remove the hand still clamped over her sister’s mouth. Her stomach burned with the kind of pain she’d never imagined it was possible to feel and still survive. Falls from trees and scraped knees and even a broken arm had not prepared her. But she did not weep, and she did not waver; she kept her own eyes focused on Amelle’s, and tried to project security, safety, strength. Amelle blinked, and Kiara rested her forehead on her sister’s.

It was then, her body covering Amelle’s, terror and adrenaline making her oblivious and brave, that Kiara Hawke decided her sister was going to be protected, no matter what. If she’d had a bow Kiara could have picked off the templars bumbling through the woods, like so many armored rabbits. She was already a decent shot when it came to finding dinner—but she could be better; she would be faster and more clever, and if they both made it out of this alive—and Amelle not shipped off to the Circle Tower—she would devote her whole life to not seeing Amelle’s eyes so wide and horrified ever, ever again.

Kiara found herself thinking prayers, snatches of the Chant. _Maker. Andraste. Please. Not Mely. Not Mely. Look how scared she is. Look how scared. She’s just a kid._

But Amelle was also brave. While the templars blundered about, debating points of Chantry law and musing about what the lay-sisters might make for dinner—apparently mutton was on heavy rotation—she was silent. Her hands remained still and cool, and even her breathing slowed. They were part of the underbrush, tiny spotted fawns hiding in plain sight while the wolves circled.

Kiara lost track of time. It seemed days since she’d flung them off the path and into the narrow ravine beyond, save for the fact that the sun was still high in the sky.

Finally the first templar griped, “Come on, Kern. No one’ll doubt we looked. The Maker himself couldn’t find an apostate in these woods. If there’s a mage nearby, they’ll turn up. They always do. But I think that boy was pulling our leg, probably so he could get up to some mischief of his own.”

Even after she heard the heavily armored men crash away through the forest, evidently breaking every branch as they went, Kiara remained still for a very long time. She counted silently to one thousand, and then tried to remember as many Kings and Queens of Ferelden as she could. The sun was lowering by the time Amelle pressed a kiss into the palm still clamped over her mouth, and Kiara finally flopped off her sister and rolled onto her back.

The pain that had started so intense had, by now, faded to a dull, persistent throb. Moving sharpened it again, making her feel as though a fist of white-hot fire had once more been physically punched through her gut.

Having been pinned beneath Kiara’s weight so long, it took Amelle several tries to regain even her hands and knees. When she did, she crawled the short distance to Kiara’s side. Her face was in shadow, backlit by the sun, so Kiara heard the gasp without seeing Amelle’s expression. The gasp told her all she needed to know about the state of her stomach.

“Kiri,” Amelle whispered, “what did I do?”

“Not… purpose.” Kiara’s own voice sounded strange, distant and raspy as though she were hearing herself speak from a great distance away. “You okay?”

“Shh. Shh. I’m fine. You’re going to be… we can fix this. Somehow we can fix this.”

“M’fine.”

“You’re not. I… I burned you. Bad.”

Amelle sat back hard, leaves crumpling beneath her.

“Can you…?”

“Kiri, I don’t think I _can_. It’s really bad. It’s really, really bad.”

Kiara sighed, but even the sigh hurt. “Get Papa. I’ll wait.” She tried to smile because Amelle looked so scared, but it didn’t feel right on her face. Nothing felt right, actually. When she tried to lift her head to see what Amelle was making such a fuss over, she found she couldn’t move her neck properly. She managed an inch before giving up and letting her cheek fall to the cool, sweet-smelling loam.

“Kiara…”

“Go, Mely. Hurry.”

Amelle touched her fingertips to Kiara’s brow, and she found herself amazed that human flesh could feel so cool and soothing—especially given the fire she’d seen those same hands produce earlier. “Kiri, listen to me. I know it’s hard, but you have to try and stay awake. Papa said. I’ll run, okay? I’ll run the whole way.”

Kiara tried to nod and failed. Then she tried to speak and failed at that, too. At last she settled on a blink—a very decisive blink—before gazing past Amelle toward the dying sunlight streaming through the leaves of the trees. Before she rose, Amelle pressed a kiss to Kiara’s forehead. Then she darted away, and even listening carefully Kiara couldn’t hear Amelle’s footsteps disturbing the underbrush.

_Good girl_ , she thought. _Run swift and silent, and hide from the prowling wolves._

For a little while, Kiara managed to do as her sister had bidden. She counted birdsongs, and tried to match voices to the species she knew. As the light began to fade, so too did the songs. Then she imagined shooting arrows through the leaves, as if each was an individual bull’s-eye. Some time during this exercise, she began to imagine voices in the rustle of the leaves, and specters in the long shadows cast by the trees.

When he first bent over her, his eyes—so like her own—peering into her face, Kiara rather believed her own father to be one of these ghostly apparitions. When he spoke, however, she roused herself enough to see he was solid flesh and blood, and that he was worried. “My foolish girl,” he whispered. “How impossibly brave you are.”

It was beyond Kiara to reply, but she heard Amelle say anxiously, “Her stomach, Papa. I told you it’s her stomach.”

“I see that, rabbit. You did well to come and find me.”

“Papa… Papa, I didn’t mean to do it. I was just surprised and—”

“Hush now, sweetling. I need to concentrate.”

Kiara heard Amelle’s rapid breath even though she couldn’t see her sister in the dim twilight. She could see her father, though, because his hands were glowing the bright silvery-blue Kiara knew from her scraped knees and broken arm. “Don’t worry, my brave, cunning kit,” he said softly. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Kiara wanted to tell him she loved him—loved all of them—but speaking was still too much. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, and her mouth opened wide in a silent cry as her father’s hotcold healing magic focused on the terrible burning in her stomach. It was too much. Instead of the tingle she remembered, her entire body thrummed with the power her father wielded. Above her, lit by the eerie glow, his face was concerned and terrifying. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a thin trickle of it trailed down one cheekbone to disappear in his beard. Kiara yearned to brush it away, but he seemed indifferent to the irritation of it.

Just when Kiara thought she could take no more—the pain was too great and the hotcold was boiling her blood and freezing her bones at the same moment—it faded. The glow disappeared, leaving them all cloaked in the sudden darkness of the fully-fallen night. “Papa,” she croaked, “you came.”

Her father gathered her up, rocking her gently in the circle of his strong arms. Kiara pressed her face to his chest and could feel the pounding of his heart against her cheek. “My precious girl,” he breathed into her hair. “My sweet, brave, precious girl.”

“Sorry, Papa.”

“None of that. You did exactly as you ought. You are safe and your sister is safe and that is all that matters.”

Embarrassingly, Kiara felt herself still crying, even though the worst was over. “Do we have to leave now, Papa?”

“Soon, dearheart. Your mother will be beside herself with worry.”

“No,” she said. “Do we have to leave Lothering?”

Pressed so close to him, Kiara could not help feeling the way her father tensed with sudden surprise. “I don’t know yet.”

Amelle said, “No, Papa, please. We like it here. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

“If the templars are already looking…”

“They thought it was a prank,” Kiara insisted. “Some boy told them.”

“Some… boy,” their father said, his voice low and dangerous. “And where was Carver today?”

Amelle gasped. “Papa, he wouldn’t!”

Kiara said nothing. Carver… struggled a good deal, she knew. And he had a tendency not to think through the consequences of his actions. He loved his twin sister, certainly, but love didn’t completely banish resentment. And between magic and Amelle’s newfound talent on the farm—no one could deny she had a knack for gardening—neither of which Carver shared… resentment had been running high.

“Maybe he thought it was a joke,” Kiara offered weakly. “Maybe he thought they’d never take him seriously.”

“He _wouldn’t_ ,” Amelle repeated more insistently. “He _knows_. He likes it here, too.”

“We’ll ask when we get home,” their father said, and though Kiara could tell he was tempering his anger for Amelle’s sake, he had by no means ruled out the possibility of Carver’s involvement.

Even though it was awkward and she was too heavy, her father carried her the entire way home. She couldn’t see in the dark, but her fingertips were able to feel the strangeness of the skin on her belly—scars, then. She dozed, soothed by her father’s even gait and the sound of Amelle padding along beside them.

Kiara woke when the door opened and light flooded out into the darkness, accompanied by her mother’s cry.

“She’s fine, Leandra. She’s fine. It was… she’s fine now. She has a new scar, but she’s fine.”

“Malcolm, you look—”

“I’m fine, too. Only tired. We’re all fine.”

Kiara blinked rapidly until her eyes grew accustomed to the light. Her father settled her in a chair and she immediately glanced around the kitchen.

Carver’s expression told all.

“Carver…” Kiara whispered. Amelle just _looked_ at him, pale and stricken.

Her brother ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. “It was just a joke. A prank. I didn’t even… some of the other boys thought of it. Kern’s always giving them a hard time and—”

“That’s your excuse?” their father said. “Some of the other boys thought of it, and you went along with it? _Knowing_ that there were actually mages for the templars to find?”

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s obvious. Go, Carver. Spend the rest of the evening in contemplation. Tomorrow you’ll go to the templars and apologize. If they believe you, perhaps we can stay in Lothering. If not, we’ll be gone again before the sun sets. I won’t have your sisters—your mother—brought to danger because you would sacrifice them for a _laugh._ ”

Pained, Carver took a step toward them. “It wasn’t _like_ that. It was just—everyone else—”

Their father loomed over Carver, arms folded over his chest. “You take a look at your sister’s stomach and tell me what it _was_ , Carver.”

“That wasn’t even the templars. That was Amelle.”

“ _Carver!_ ” their mother snapped. “Your room, now.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to protest further. Then he took one glance at the thundercloud faces of his parents and he left. The sound of his door slamming echoed throughout the small house.

“Andraste give me strength, Leandra.”

Their mother sighed. “Boys at that age—”

“Are going to get their sisters captured or worse.”

Amelle still hadn’t moved, except to wrap her arms around herself in an inadequate hug. When their mother tried to embrace her, she stepped away, knocking the table with the small of her back.

“What if,” Kiara said slowly, “what if… maybe Carver could… volunteer with the templars. Learn to swordfight. Run errands for them. That kind of thing. As an apology, it could be; he doesn’t have to join the Chantry or anything. Then we… we could keep hiding in plain sight. And maybe Carver would have something better to do with his time than pull pranks.”

Something in her father’s shoulders shifted at this, and he shook his head slightly before ruffling her hair. “Perhaps, Kiara. It is a thoughtful suggestion.”

“It’s better than thoughtful,” Amelle said quietly. “I think it will work. Please, Papa, can we try at least?”

“Very well.” His smile was sad. “But if it doesn’t…”

“We have to be ready to run.”

Their mother sighed. “We’re always ready to run.”

That time, however, they did not have to.

#

**KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON**

 

Though he wasn’t looking for her, Cullen came across Solona Amell in the library. It wasn’t entirely a surprise—Solona spent a great deal of time in the library. On this occasion, however, she wasn’t perusing the shelves or curled up in a chair reading something entertaining; she was tearing her hair out over an assignment, looking pinched and drained and _beyond_ irritated. Indeed, she looked unutterably miserable until she glanced up and saw him standing on the other side of the table.

He blushed, embarrassed at having been caught staring, but if she noticed, she brought no attention to his discomfort. Instead, she clapped her hands together and cried, “Thank the Maker!”

It was possibly the _least_ likely reaction he could have imagined, so he just… gaped. Like a fish. Out of water. Which, in a way, he was.

“Are you on duty?” she asked.

“N-no,” he replied, flinching at the stutter. “Just finished.”

She grinned. “Do you believe the Maker answers prayers?” she asked, and then laughed. “Of course you do. You’d be a pretty bad templar if you didn’t. Look, I know this’ll sound mad, but believe it or not? You, Ser Cullen, are an answer to prayer.”

His brow furrowed skeptically, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finding her eager, open stare more than uncomfortable. Almost against his will, he replied, “How… so?”

She pointed at the papers and tomes and manuscripts spread out in a vast fan across the table. Several of the piles looked dangerously close to teetering. “Homework,” she said. “So much homework.”

Cullen scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and then shifted his helm to the crook of his other arm. Ducking his bare head slightly, he stammered, “I-I’m afraid I won’t be much help t-to you, apprentice.”

She scowled. “Solona, please.” A hint of her previous grin transformed the scowl into something sweetly sly. “You are off duty, after all. And you’re wrong. You are the _only_ one who can help me with this particular batch of questions.”

He began to protest again, but she glanced to her paper and read aloud, “Please describe the reign of Divine Joyous II, relative to the place of mages.”

“Ahh,” he said, comprehension dawning.

“You don’t have to _give_ me the answers,” she amended quickly. “That wouldn’t be fair. But if I’ve got to comb through the history of every Divine since Justinia I looking for clues, I’ll be here until my bones turn to dust.”

He almost smiled, but… but smiling was too dangerous. Instead he rolled his shoulders and said, “You might want to start looking in the late Towers Age.”

It was her turn for understanding, and she grabbed one of the nearby tomes, flipped through the pages and scribbled something on her paper, quill scratching furiously against the parchment. After a full minute of watching her write, Cullen said, “If… if that’s all, apprentice?”

“Solona,” she reminded him, without looking up from her work. “And you’re _kidding_. Wynne—sorry, Senior Enchanter Wynne—had her knickers in a twist when she gave us this assignment.” She did glance up here, and a shadow crossed her face. “Unless… sorry. It’s terribly rude of me to assume you don’t mind standing around playing index of Chantry history for me. I didn’t even ask. You might have all kinds of exciting off-duty templar activities lined up for your entertainment.”

He did smile at this. He couldn’t help himself. She looked so ashamed and so glum and so hopeful, all at the same time. “No… templar activities. Exciting or otherwise.”

She looked thoughtful, fluttering the feathered end of her pen before her lips. Cullen reminded himself not to look at her mouth too closely, and blushed again.

“What are they?”

“The changes Divine Joyous II made to the rights of mages?”

She giggled. “No, silly. Off-duty templar activities.”

He blinked. Something about the way she’d called him _silly_ seemed to have made every rational thought jump straight out of his head. After another long moment, he realized she was looking at him with amused concern, and he replied, “Um. Practicing, mainly. You know, swordplay and the like. And praying.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That sounds awfully… _on_ duty.”

He shrugged slightly, the gesture hardly raising the heavy plate pauldrons at his shoulders. “Sometimes we… talk some.”

“Gossip about us mages, I suppose.”

He flushed, his armor suddenly unbearably hot and unbearably heavy. “That’s not—”

She grinned again, pale grey-green eyes sparkling. “It’s okay. We mages gossip about you templars, too.”

He was desperate to ask what they said—probably nothing all that flattering, really—but instead he remarked, “Also I, uh, I… like to read.”

She tilted her head. “I suppose that explains why I see you in the library so often.”

He blinked again. Oh, he’d… noticed her _plenty_ , but he’d hardly even expected her to know his _name_ , let alone his… habits. Before he could think up a response, she lifted her paper and waved it at him.

“Check my work while I finish this bit about Joyous II?”

He took the parchment and glanced at her answers. “You’ve got the Steel and Storm Ages mixed up in your second answer,” he said, at length. “The rest looks…”

“Barely adequate?”

“I was going to say _complete_.”

She smiled, pushing out a chair with her foot. “Have a seat, Ser Cullen. Tell me what you know about all those Hortensias, won’t you?”

He hesitated for a moment, glancing around as though he expected the Knight-Commander himself to leap out from behind a bookcase and chastise him for fraternizing. Then he sat, and was rewarded by Solona’s brightest smile. “Jowan’s going to be so jealous,” she remarked, propping her chin in her hand. “You’re so much better than all these dusty tomes. I like reading, too, but… nine hundred years of Chantry history is…”

“Awfully dry?” Cullen asked.

“The Exalted Marches were exciting enough, I suppose, but yes. Awfully dry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Did Divine Ambrosia I _really_ keep goats in her bedroom antechamber to ward off evil spirits?”

Cullen laughed, the sound escaping before he could swallow it. Solona looked startled, and then immensely pleased with herself. “I’m afraid my Chantry education didn’t expound on… goats.”

As he leaned over her parchment, he caught the faintest scent of vanilla and roses and—

—The knock on the door was deafening. Cullen sat upright at once, reflexes honed to instant readiness by years of training and preparation. He was still half asleep, still half-caught in the dream—the memory, really—he’d been dreaming. Vanilla and roses lingered on the air, and he was momentarily haunted by the sound of a sweet laugh and the word _silly_. Then he shook his head, and it all vanished.

Cullen knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door and saw the recruit anxiously waiting without. The young man delivered his summons and saluted, leaving Cullen to the silence of his little room once again. The feeling of wrongness grew as Cullen slipped into his uniform and belted his sword around his waist. It wasn’t that Meredith never sent for him—as her Knight-Captain she was forever dispatching him on errands, especially ones she didn’t want to handle herself. It wasn’t that the recruit she’d sent looked pale and terrified, because recruits always looked thus when Meredith was through with them. It wasn’t even that he was meant to be off duty… Meredith showed little concern for minor things like his adequate rest and comfort, especially when she had one of her unpleasant assignments for him.

It was the dream, he realized. He hated that it felt wrong because it _wasn’t_ one of the torturous nightmares left behind by Uldred and his pet desire demons. It was a memory, and a sweet one at that. One he treasured. He’d spent that whole afternoon elbow to elbow with Solona Amell, filling the gaps in her knowledge of Chantry history. It was the afternoon he remembered how to laugh, and the afternoon when he stopped calling her _apprentice_ and started using her name. It was a precious memory, and somehow Meredith was going to taint it. He was certain of it.

But she was his Knight-Commander. He couldn’t deny her.

#

Even though it was against protocol, Cullen went alone to the Hawke Estate. He walked slowly, feeling as though each step was _stealing_ something he might never get back. He wasn’t entirely certain what it was being stolen, but he knew every step wounded him. He heard Solona Amell’s laughter ringing in his head and he hesitated a very long time before raising his hand to knock. The sound of his metal gauntlets hitting wood was too loud; he half expected all of Hightown to stop what they were doing and shout at him to keep the noise down. No one said anything. The sun beat down hotly on his armor, but that discomfort was familiar.

It was nothing to the discomfort of standing at the door of someone he respected, knowing he was going to cause immeasurable pain.

_It has come to my attention that perhaps the youngest Hawke girl ought to be brought in for… questioning, Knight-Captain._

Meredith Stannard had a way with words, he had to grant her that. Somehow she’d managed to say the word _questioning_ without having it sound threatening. Cullen knew the truth, of course. _Questioning_ meant Amelle Hawke was to be brought to the Gallows. And kept there. Indefinitely. It meant her days as an apostate were over, and her days as a Circle mage about to begin.

He had been expecting a servant of some sort, but it was Amelle Hawke herself who opened the door. Her short hair was rumpled, and dark shadows smudged the pale skin beneath her eyes. Something in the structure of her face—the cheekbones, perhaps—put him in mind of Solona. The whole bloody lot of them reminded him of Solona. He swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. Her eyes widened when she saw him, anxiously darting from head to toe. If she’d had color to lose, he thought she would have lost it then, but she was already so pale. Still, he saw her hand tremble as it reached out to grasp the doorframe—and block his entrance, he noted.

“No,” Amelle said softly. “Please.”

Embarrassingly, he had to try twice to speak before the words would come. “F-forgive me. I have been—forgive me. I come on Knight-Commander Meredith’s business.”

“Please,” the young woman repeated, her eyes suddenly bright with tears he knew she would not shed in his presence. “I know I shouldn’t have… but… Please, ser. She would have died.”

He inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “Knight-Commander Meredith has requested I bring you to the Gallows. For questioning.”

He didn’t think the girl even realized she was shaking her head. The movement made the disheveled strands of her hair wave back and forth. He focused on the hair so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against his children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond._

Cullen did not realize he’d mumbled the words aloud until Amelle recoiled, the tears in her eyes replaced by horror, and by anger. “I’m no maleficar, Knight-Captain. I’m—I’m a _healer_.”

He bowed his head. “Forgive me. I—”

“No,” she said, her voice stronger, her cheeks just a little pink. “You keep asking me to forgive you. Stop.”

“Who is it, Mely?” He recognized Hawke’s voice, of course, but she sounded… weaker. He supposed it was only natural. After… everything. Still, there was a trace of her usual humor when she added loudly, “Tell them the Champion would rather die than have visitors today.”

“Will you come peacefully, Amelle Hawke?” Cullen asked.

“No,” she repeated. “She can’t—she—after everything that happened, she’s still not _well_. I need to be here for her. Don’t you understand? I _need_ to be here.”

Like the coward he felt, he repeated, “Knight-Commander Meredith has requested I bring you to the Gallows for questioning.”

“Why _now_?” Amelle cried, her voice rising to a slightly-strangled pitch.

He’d wondered the same thing himself. Meredith had to have known about Hawke’s apostate companions—her apostate sister—for _years_. It seemed… there was something wrong about naming the woman Champion for her service to Kirkwall and then ripping the last of her family away. He was loath to think ill of his commanding officer but it seemed… cruel, somehow. Calculated. Too calculated.

_She’s an apostate, Cullen. You know better than anyone the price of leniency. This is your duty. Your sworn duty. You have seen the cost of questioning duty. You have seen the damage one mad mage can precipitate._

The woman standing before him now hardly looked about to turn into a raging abomination. But then, they never did.

_Duty, Cullen. Duty._

Kiara Hawke’s voice came from within, louder and less amused, “Amelle? Who is it?”

Shooting him a warning look, she turned her head and called out, “It’s fine, Kiara. Just… don’t get up. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Mistress Hawke,” Cullen warned. He watched her fingers clench on the doorframe, and he took a step forward, already focusing his will to dispel any magic she might attempt. She scowled at him and raised her hand, but before she could so much as think of casting a hostile _thought_ his way, he released the cleanse. Her scowl turned even darker, and, he thought, seemed laced with something like _offense_.

“I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t a smite,” she snapped. “Maker, but you’re jumpy.”

And Cullen felt… _ashamed_ of himself, just for a moment.

Because Amelle was facing him, and he was looking into the interior of the house, Cullen saw Hawke before Amelle realized her sister had not heeded her order. She looked wretched, which was to be expected, given what she’d been through. Apparently dueling the Arishok with a bow had been a long, exhausting, _bloody_ affair, and though she’d come out the victor, it had not been a battle without cost. Or so the stories said. And there were already stories. Dozens of them.

Hawke was a hero in all of them.

So was Amelle, in the ones that mentioned her.

Hawke was carrying that bow even now, though, and it was drawn, an arrow trained on him. She was clever enough not to aim at his armor—it would be his eye, when she loosed, or perhaps his throat; without his helm, both were bare to her. He did not think she would miss. If the stories were even _half_ true, she rarely did.

“Knight-Captain,” she said affably enough, as though she wasn’t holding a weapon on him. “Wasn’t aware I’d invited you around for tea. Nice to see you dressed for the occasion. Won’t you come in?”

Amelle hissed a curse under her breath and turned. “Kiara, you blighted _idiot._ Put that thing down right now.”

“I’d love to, Mely, but our guest seems a mite hostile. Knight-Captain?”

If he didn’t return to Templar Hall, he wondered if Meredith would bother sending templars after him. He wondered, a little idly, where the Hawke sisters would hide his body. Then he inclined his head and entered the house, careful not to touch Amelle as he passed—he didn’t want to risk Hawke’s… wrath.

With a desperate, pleading look her sister ignored utterly, Amelle said, “You weren’t _there_ , Knight-Captain. You didn’t see that… you didn’t see what he _did_ to her. She needs me. She might still… she _needs_ me.”

“There was a point when he lifted me over his head _on_ the blade of his sword,” Hawke remarked mildly, as though speaking of the weather or a particularly fine vintage of wine. “I lost track of how many healing potions I drank, and Amelle still had to physically _put_ my guts back _into_ my body before—”

“Hawke,” Cullen interrupted, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. “The Knight-Commander _saw_ your sister heal you.”

“Funny she didn’t mention it _then_. No, no, it was all ‘ _it appears Kirkwall has a new Champion’_ and nothing whatsoever about ‘ _now drag her sister to the Gallows._ ’”

He had thought the same thing himself, though he did not mention it now.

“Kiara, please. Put the bow down. And sit. You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Can’t, Mely. I know he can have you helpless and senseless in less time than it takes to ask for one sugar instead of two, but my arrow is faster still.”

Cullen raised his hands in surrender, and he saw Amelle roll her eyes. “I won’t resort to that, Hawke. Put the bow down. I don’t want your death on my head.”

“Sure you do. You’re willing to take my sister away, aren’t you?” She arched an eyebrow. “You think that won’t kill me? It’s probably what bloody Meredith is counting on.”

“I’m sure you—”

“Over my dead body.” The arrowhead trembled, and Cullen could see how much effort it was taking Hawke to even keep the thing drawn. Her eyes were feverish, but her skin was grey and visibly clammy. “You should have brought more men. You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever.”

“Don’t,” Amelle pleaded. “Kiri, please. This isn’t worth _dying_ for.”

“No one’s dying,” Cullen said firmly. And then, with a mild shrug, he added, “Unless it’s me. All right, Hawke? I give you my word.”

“Sword,” she said calmly.

Very slowly, he reached down and unbuckled his sword-belt. Without so much as reaching for the hilt in case Hawke took the gesture as threatening, he grasped the sheath, knelt, and laid the weapon on the ground at her feet. Then he raised his hands again and returned to his earlier posture. Hawke allowed the tension to ease on her string, but did not drop her weapon entirely. Though her arm—and her bow—hung loosely at her side, he did not doubt she could still have an arrow through his eye before he could draw his steel.

Amelle fetched a chair, and placed it directly behind her sister. Then she glared until Hawke sighed and sank down into it. The apostate’s hands fluttered over her sister’s midsection, a troubled frown spreading across her features. “And we’re practically back to square one. Bloody fantastic. I need to get a potion. Or ten.” She turned her frown on him and asked, “Can I run upstairs or are you afraid I’ll jump out a window?”

“Go,” he said. “I know you won’t run.”

She nodded, darting away.

Hawke’s eyes never left him, and he had the strangest feeling she was peeling back layers, looking into the heart of him, into all the secret places he kept so perfectly hidden. Her gaze unnerved him, but there was no _wrongness_ in it. There wasn’t even any anger. She was surprised, he thought, and perhaps a little disappointed.

_Duty, Cullen._

“Why _did_ you come alone?” she asked. “You’ve seen me fight.”

He nodded. “I have.”

“You thought I’d still be… indisposed?”

“No. I did not. I came because the Knight-Commander ordered me to come. It is possible she wished me to bring more templars _with_ me, but her orders weren’t explicit to that effect.”

The disappointment turned thoughtful. “She’s testing me.”

Cullen said nothing.

Hawke huffed a strained laugh. “She’s pushing to see if I’ll just roll over.” She shook her head wonderingly. “She wants to see if I’ve figured out how much power I have. How much power she _gave_ me. Oh, that must chafe.”

Cullen kept his expression bland and blank.

“She’s a little bit _afraid_ of me, isn’t she? Dumar is dead, the city’s in shambles, order has gone out the window, and she wants to know if I’ll break if she just shakes me hard enough.”

If he were to admit it—which he absolutely _never_ would, where anyone might hear him—Hawke’s speculation lined up quite neatly with Cullen’s own. And still he said nothing.

“I don’t hate the Templar Order, Knight-Captain.”

“You have done us service in the past.”

She leaned back in her chair, the fingertips of her right hand beating a repetitive pattern against her thigh. “Nor do I indiscriminately support the mages because my sister is mage. Neither does she, incidentally. Maker, if you heard some of the arguments she and Anders get into! It’s blanket statements and extremes that make me uncomfortable.” She shivered, and he hoped it was not due to some aspect of her injury that he could not see. When she looked up at him again, her gaze was open and steady. “I want you to know—I want you to _believe_ —that if I thought Amelle was dabbling in blood magic, I would stand aside and let you take her, especially after what—after—”

She turned her face away, and he watched the muscles of her throat work as she attempted to rein in her emotion.

“My condolences on the loss of your mother, Hawke.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Well. We all failed her, didn’t we? It’s really bastards like that who need to be rounded up, isn’t it? Not nice little apostates like my sister.”

“All mages have the capacity—”

She jabbed the tip of her bow in his direction, silencing him. “I _know_. But it’s not just mages, Knight-Captain. All _people_ have the capacity for evil; they just aren’t as obvious about it.”

“Most people can’t command the kind of power your sister commands.”

“It’s too bad, really. If more people _could_ , there would be fewer children dying in Lowtown. There would be less disease. Mothers wouldn’t have to die in childbirth quite so often. That would be a real tragedy all around, wouldn’t it?” She sighed, and something about the breath caused her to wince and gasp. “Then again, her powers are making your duty more complicated just now, aren’t they? We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she’d not been there to put the pieces of me back together again.”

“You did Kirkwall a great service—”

She snorted. “Everything went terribly wrong and I was forced to kill someone I respected because once again no one would contemplate entering a rational discussion. Maybe Kirkwall believes I did it a service, but nothing about what I did feels _great_.” Raising a hand, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “Please, Knight-Captain. Don’t ask me to kill another person I respect. It’s been a bitch of a week already.”

Cullen inclined his head. “I’ve no wish to meet my end today, Hawke. Not on this errand.”

Her eyebrows quirked in surprise. “What will you tell her?”

“That you were unwilling to part with your sister, and that I believe it would be unwise to make an enemy of the Champion of Kirkwall. It seems likely the city would side with you if lines were drawn in the sand just now.”

“She won’t thank you for that.”

Cullen grimaced. “It is not my duty to tell her what she wants to hear. It is my duty to tell her the truth.”

_Your duty is to bring apostate mages to the safety of the Circle, Cullen. Your duty is to guard against abominations. Your duty—_

He gestured toward his sword with his chin, and when she nodded, he bent and belted it around his waist once again. “The truth is your sister is a mage, and yes, she is a threat. All mages are threats. But there are far greater threats in Kirkwall, and without your aid I am not certain we will be successful in defeating them.” He offered his arm, and after a heartbeat, Hawke extended her own and they clasped forearms. “I hope you never have cause to question your sister, Hawke. I truly do. But at the very least, I do believe your eyes are open.”

“Me too. Otherwise this is a wretched dream.”

He didn’t quite salute her, but he did offer a brief bow. Before he reached the door, he turned and said, “She will not attempt this particular tactic again, perhaps, but I cannot guarantee she will let this lie.”

“I’ll try not to get myself impaled by a raging Qunari again. And Amelle will be… careful.”

“See that she is. See that you both are.” He paused. “I believe you might yet do a great deal of good. I would like to see you alive to have the opportunity.”

“Oh, hush. You’ll make me blush.”

He was saved having to respond by Amelle rushing in, her arms filled with potion bottles. “This will do until Anders can—oh. Are you… leaving, Knight-Captain?”

“I am.”

“And am I—?”

“Good day, Mistress Hawke. Look to your sister. I believe her wound is giving her some trouble.”

“Snitch,” Hawke growled. “See if I invite you for tea again.” Then, after a moment, she added softly, “You be careful, too, Knight-Captain.”

Closing the door, he found himself smiling. The wrongness was nearly gone now, and the echo of Solona Amell’s laughter in his head was once again sweet and gentle instead of judgmental.

_I couldn’t save you,_ he thought. _Them, maybe._

_#_

Cullen was not on duty the day Solona Amell died. While she was sacrificing her life in a vain attempt to buy the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander enough time to bring down the blood mage, Jowan, Cullen was in his quarters, thumbing through a book Solona had leant him. He remembered he was looking forward to talking to her about it. Even now, he could remember the feel of that book in his hands: the ragged edges of the well-worn pages, the smooth leather of the cover, the heft and weight of it. It had smelled of old paper and vanilla and roses, not unlike Solona herself.

 By the time the first rumors reached him, it was already too late. It was the three dead templars he heard about first; the young mage girl was almost an afterthought when Ser Moran brought him the intelligence. And Cullen had felt _guilty_ that his tears were not only for his fallen comrades. _Silly_.

And the blood mage had still escaped. Time and time again, Cullen played through the scenario. He listened and watched and questioned, until he’d gathered all the information he could. That Jowan was so powerful had taken everyone by surprise, but Cullen still imagined he would have been _ready,_ if only he’d _been_ there. And if _he’d_ been ready, Solona wouldn’t have had to—

“Knight-Captain,” the Knight-Commander intoned, “I trust you were successful?”

He saluted sharply. “I fear not, Knight-Commander.”

A brief spasm of anger twisted Meredith’s face before a mask of false indifference slammed down over it. “Report.”

“Although the Champion wishes you to know she bears the Templar Order no ill will, she politely refuses to see her sister removed to the Gallows at this time.”

He knew the Knight-Commander’s face well enough to recognize the narrowing of her eyes and the whitening of her lips—on another, the expression would have been equivalent to blinding rage. Cullen remained at attention, hoping his expression gave nothing away.

“You disobeyed me, Knight-Captain.”

“I will accept my punishment, Knight-Commander. Respectfully, Kirkwall has seen bloodshed enough this past week. I did not wish to add to it.”

“Are you questioning my authority, Cullen? Do we need to have words about the chain of command?”

Meredith’s eyes were bloodshot; she looked as ragged as a templar after a week of lyrium withdrawal.

“No, Knight-Commander.”

_Yes._

For a moment, he thought she was going to throw something at him. Her eyes darted to her desk, as though looking for an appropriate object. Instead, she only jabbed her finger at the doorway and spat, “Out of my sight. I want you on the Wounded Coast patrol. Indefinitely. Are we understood?”

“Of course, Knight-Commander.”

“I am exceedingly disappointed in you, Cullen.”

_Likewise._

Another sharp salute, and he left.

All things considered, it was not the worst punishment she could have handed him. Oh, the Wounded Coast was dangerous, but Cullen was no green recruit; he was used to danger. The distance might even do him some good. He would listen and watch and question, and he would gather all the information he could.

And by the Maker, if ever a time came when he needed to act quickly, act _rightly_ , he would be ready.


	27. Chapter 27

If Cullen had learned anything from dealing with not one but _two_ epic, world-gone-mad scenarios during his career as a templar, it was that once the dead were honored and the hotheads reprimanded, those who were left were required to help the traumatized and rebuild the broken.

And apparently even _acting_ Knight-Commanders were required to do enough paperwork to make an eternity in the Void seem preferable to life behind a desk.

With a sigh, Cullen reprimanded himself. Paperwork was necessary. Records existed to help stop mistakes from being repeated. He knew it. He simply didn’t want to be the one to _write_ them.

The last time he’d _been_ one of the traumatized, of course. No one made you fill out forms if you were busy alternating screaming about blood mages and subversives and weeping for the Maker to end your life and free you from earthly torment once and for all. No one made you write reports when your waking hours and your sleeping ones were an endless hell of not believing the reality presented by your own eyes. Even now he occasionally woke from dreams so realistic he half-expected to still be trapped within that glowing cage, tortured by his own worst nightmares, his own deepest desires, demons whispering in his ears.

His memories of that time were strange: some parts vivid, others almost faded entirely. And if that Cullen seemed a different man, the Cullen he’d been _before_ the Circle Tower fell was a stranger entirely.

The poor boy. Cullen almost wished he could warn that young, idealistic iteration of himself. _For the love of the Maker, run off with the Amell girl_ , he wanted to say, though it smacked of blasphemy on more than one level. _Be happy, you poor sod._

Happiness, like dreamless sleep or a world without paperwork, was a foreign concept. Over the years, he’d simply come to accept it; he’d chosen his life in the Chantry with the Templar Order with his eyes open, after all. Happiness was not a priority when one was concerned with the life and death matters of protecting people from mages and mages from themselves. Duty he understood. Faith he understood. Loyalty and bravery and dedication, all of these were as familiar to him as his own blade, his shield, his armor.

Not for the first time, he wondered if things mightn’t be a little better, a little pleasanter, a little less _dire_ if happiness was a concept taken more into consideration. Meredith would have chastised him for softness, he knew, and perhaps it _was_ soft of him to think it. But the Maker knew _something_ needed to change. Here he was, acting Knight-Commander of an Order whose charges were almost all dead, in a city blasted by horror beyond imagining, and the only thing he could think was _if only everyone had just listened._ Hawke had tried, he knew. He had to respect her for it. Certainly in the last couple of years she’d been the _only_ one who’d tried.

It was, unfortunately, a pity she’d failed. Or that Orsino and Meredith had failed to heed her, rather. He wondered, a little, what place Kirkwall’s Champion would find for herself in this new world. He had seen her once or twice, which he thought prudent, and she had, it seemed, taken to heart the pleas he and the guard-captain had sent her way. He… regretted the necessity, but Kirkwall was damaged in more ways than just the physical.

He knew about _that_ , too. If someone had left him alone in a room with a mage in the days and weeks after his Circle Tower ordeal… he’d have done irreconcilable harm. It was not a thought he was proud of, but he could not deny its truth. The memory of his own prejudice stunned him even now, even knowing he’d learned to be more balanced and fair in the intervening years. Even if it meant hurting her feelings to get her to protect herself, he would do it, because he did not want to see Kiara Hawke punished for crimes she’d not committed the way he knew he’d have punished _any_ mage he’d been presented with seven years ago.

There would be new characters in his nightmares now, he knew: Meredith, eyes glowing red; Gate Guardians and slave statues, ponderously heaving to life; his own fallen brothers and sisters in arms. Once again, he was the survivor left standing while a sea of his comrades fell. 

He would see the corpses he’d helped recover, the men and women and children.

_The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying? They’re crying for me. Ser, can’t you hear them?_

_Yes, Tamma,_ he wanted to say. _Yes, I can._  

Knowing a mage had caused that damage pulled at the old strings, tempting him to a return to his blind rage and blanket prejudice. But he knew better now than to blame all for the deeds of one. He had only to think of the Hawke sisters—the Champion, blood-drenched and desperate, screaming reason no one heeded, and Amelle with her healing hands and quiet smiles, who’d walked the field of battle and saved at least a dozen of the fallen templars from certain death—to remember he and his were not the only ones suffering from one mage’s ultimate act of horror.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of squabbling recruits pushing at each other. Like so much of the rest of the city, the Gallows and the Templar Hall were in the process of being mended. For the first weeks, he and his fellows had spent the majority of their time offering aid to those attempting to find survivors, and then collect remains, around the demolished chantry. The recruits looked shamefaced as he chastised them, and went back to work. He supposed it was indicative of the underlying restlessness in the city that he had to break up any number of these small altercations in a day.

When templars had no mages to guard, what were they meant to do? What role were they meant to play? 

Or, more distressingly, how mad would they run?

Cullen pushed a hand wearily through his hair and set himself back on the path toward Meredith’s— _his_ —office, and his desk, and his paperwork. It certainly wouldn’t finish itself.

His office, he found, was not empty. For a moment, Cullen started. Hadn’t he just been _thinking_ of Kiara Hawke? The old terror— _is this real? Is this an illusion? Begone, demon, begone!_ —raised its ugly head just long enough for him to freeze in the doorway. She was sitting in his chair, behind his desk, casually examining whatever papers he’d left about. Before he could ask her business— _are you real, Hawke?_ —she looked up and smiled. He knew the smile. It was the bright, sweet, winning smile that told him she was going to ask a favor. It was also the smile that reminded him most of her lost, sweet cousin, though of course he would never mention such a thing.

“Maker!” she cried, “There you are! I’ve been waiting ages!”

Cullen scratched his head. “Did we have an appointment, Hawke?”

Planting her elbows on his desk, she leaned forward and put her chin in her hands. “We do now. I… thought it best if we avoided a paper trail on this one.”

He sighed. “You have a knack for saying the exact right thing to fill me with dread.”

She snorted a laugh. “You know me. Always willing to spread the anxiety equally amongst all my acquaintance.”

Closing the door securely—and with a brief glance into the hall to be certain their conversation had not already been overheard—Cullen crossed the room and leaned against the wall. It seemed odd to sit opposite his own chair, but Hawke showed no signs of vacating it, so the wall it was. He crossed his arms over his chest, armor clanking. “You shouldn’t be here, you know. I am only _acting_ Knight-Commander. My protection extends only so far. And the templars…”

“Are holding a serious grudge. Along with the rest of the city. Which is why you cautioned me to lie low. I do understand. In fact, that’s… part of the reason I’m here. I’m… going away for a bit.”

Under his breath, and with just a trace of humor, Cullen breathed, “Maker be praised.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the shadow of genuine distress that lingered momentarily on her features, and it was enough to make him regret the thoughtless attempt at wit. “You’ll miss me within the week. Who else do you know desperate or stupid enough to patrol the entire city for you? Slavers at the docks, fanatics in Hightown, lowlifes in Lowtown… need I go on? I didn’t even mention the Carta and Coterie.”

Cullen almost smiled. Smiling whilst on duty was a little like happiness—not the done thing. It was a hard habit to break. “Yes, Hawke, you’re very helpful. You’re also a headache. And with the chantry…”

The transformation wrought by the word was sudden and disturbing. Color drained from her face, and her eyes lost some of their shine. Sitting back in the chair, she put her arms around herself and bowed her head. “I am sorry, Cullen.”

Gently, he said, “I know you are, Hawke. It’s why you’re allowed to break into my office and ask me for favors.”

A hint of her former good-humor appeared in the ghost of a raised eyebrow. “I beg your pardon. I broke _nothing_ ; the door was open. And who said anything about—?”

Cullen raised both eyebrows, and affected the stern tone he usually saved for misbehaving recruits. “What is it?”

Cullen had never seen Hawke so… discomposed — and so _suddenly_. She jerked ungracefully to her feet and paced a few steps, hands fidgeting and gaze downcast, everything about her demeanor a far cry from the winning smile she’d been beaming at him only moments before. Just as he was beginning to doubt she’d speak at all, she blurted, “I’m… not taking my sister. When I go. I would… I was hoping… I would appreciate it if you looked in on her from time to time. Just _you_ , mind. I… don’t know how many of the surviving templars still think Meredith had the right end of the stick as far as invoking the Rite, but I know you didn’t. So. I… will you? Please?”

And this request was very nearly strange enough to make him doubt reality all over again. After turning her words over several times, he said, “You are… asking me to… babysit your sister? Your grown sister? Your grown, known-apostate sister?”

Hawke bit down on her thumbnail, caught herself, and shook her hand. Her expression was still troubled, and he’d seen that same expression on her face before, usually when her sister was in some danger. Once, he’d _caused_ that expression. It was concern, certainly, and fear, but mostly it was love—and the love, he supposed, was why he’d… neglected to collect Amelle Hawke for the Gallows, even when Meredith hinted it was what she’d like to see happen.

Meredith would have reprimanded him for softness there, too, if he hadn’t fabricated some story about needing to keep the Champion on their side and absconding with her sister seeming to be the _wrong_ way of going about that.

“C-couldn’t you consider her the… acting First Enchanter? You know, without the Circle or Harrowings or mages being made Tranquil? She’s… she’s my _sister_ , Cullen. And right now? You… you are the closest thing Kirkwall has to a voice of law. I’d… I suppose before I go, I’d like to know in this at least we’re on the same side. Perhaps it’s foolishness, but I… I _trust_ you. I just… I just want her to be _safe_. For once.”

The outright plea in her voice stunned him somewhat, and he… a part of him warmed to think the Champion of Kirkwall thought him trustworthy. A different, older part wondered if Kiara Hawke would speak the same words if she’d known the Cullen who’d survived the fall of Kinloch Hold, the Cullen who’d anxiously pleaded for the deaths of all the Circle, for fear of lurking blood mages still alive, still plotting. The old fears still haunted him, and the old voices still whispered, but he ignored them and extended his hand. “Very well. I will… look in. From time to time. And I will offer what protection I can.”

Instead of simply clasping forearms with him, Hawke grabbed his proffered hand with both of hers before pushing herself onto her toes and pressing a grateful kiss to his cheek. He felt himself flush, even though it was simply a gesture of extreme gratitude; Hawke was often effusive. In a way it made him hopeful; if she could recover, perhaps so too could Kirkwall. “Thank you, Knight-Commander.”

With a wry half-smile—surely half a smile could be permitted whilst on duty—he replied, long-suffering, “Oh, save your thanks until I think of an appropriate favor you can do me in return, Hawke.”

There was nothing halfway about her answering smile. Before she could leave—carefully hooded and as inconspicuous as any hooded figure leaving the Knight-Commander’s office _could_ be—he called out, “Be safe, Champion. May the Maker guard you and keep you. Kirkwall will await your return.”

She glanced over her shoulder and inclined her head in appreciation. “Thank you, Cullen. You will be in my prayers as well.”

#

In a strange twist of fate, it proved more difficult to enter Viscount’s Keep than it had been for her to slip into Templar Hall. And though she’d been careful not to be seen by the templars—she was still unsure how many blamed her for… everything, in spite of Cullen’s assurances on her behalf, and she wasn’t particularly keen to find out—she hadn’t expected to find the City Guard quite so… _hostile_.

Two guards she vaguely recognized—relatively new recruits, then—lowered their halberds, blocking her entrance. Kiara stopped, rocking back on her heels a little, hooking her thumbs in her belt. “Problem, gentlemen?” she asked, even as the pounding in her head begged her to simply knock their skulls together and leave the mess for someone else to clean up.

“No one enters the Keep,” the taller one said. Kiara had to give the lad some credit—his voice only broke a little on the final syllable.

“Hmm. It appears we _do_ rather have a problem, then. You see, I need to speak with Guard-Captain Aveline, and… I’m going to guess she _is_ inside.”

The shorter guardsman shifted his stance slightly, causing his halberd to scrape against the other in a jarring shriek of metal on metal. It took every ounce of Kiara’s willpower not to hit the man, or, at the very least, not to put both hands to her throbbing head in protest. “Guard-Captain Aveline is busy.”

“Isn’t she always,” Kiara opined. “Still, I expect she’ll see me. Unless, of course, she left orders I was to be barred? Explicit orders?”

“N-no one enters the Keep,” Tall repeated. “Those are the guard-captain’s orders.”

“Very well. One of you lads want to run along and fetch her for me?”

The guards exchanged a horrified glance. “The guard-captain is busy,” Short repeated.

Kiara huffed an annoyed laugh. “No one will fault you for forgetting your lines, boys.” She held her hands wide, balancing them like the plates of a scale. “I go to Aveline,” she said, raising her right hand slightly. “Aveline comes to me,” she added, dragging the left much higher and sending the right plummeting. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“N-n-no one enters the—”

“Keep,” Kiara interjected. “I believe we’ve covered that, yes. And Aveline is busy.”

“She… she _is_ the Champion, isn’t she?” Short whispered.

“Yes, she _is_ ,” Kiara replied. “And she, like your guard-captain, is very busy. And growing increasingly annoyed. Not to mention tired, hungry, and frankly? More than a little bit cranky.”

The guards exchanged another glance, this one more desperate, and more strained. “We have our orders, Champion,” Tall pleaded.

Very slowly, Kiara crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at the guards. “There are two ways this can go,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “There’s the hard way and the easy way. Both ways end up with me going in to speak with Aveline. Do you fellows want to guess which way ends with both your skulls unbroken?”

“The… easy way?” Tall asked.

“It was a rhetorical question,” Kiara observed. “But yes. Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise to explain to Aveline what a good job you did. She knows me. She won’t fault you for choosing to keep your heads intact. If nothing else, it’ll save her time rejiggering the duty rosters.”

Short, wisely, said, “The Captain… does hate having to… rejigger the duty rosters.”

“She does at that,” Kiara said. “So, we’re decided then? The easy way?”

A third time the guards exchanged a glance. This time, however, Kiara knew she’d won, and so she was unsurprised when they uncrossed their halberds to let her pass. Chin up, shoulders back, she maintained her mild smirk until she’d passed the guards and entered the keep. The blasé smile faded as soon as the doors closed behind her, and she felt her expression harden into something like concern.

The Keep was quiet. Unsurprising, given the current lack of leadership in the city. She supposed Seneschal Bran was holed up in his office, scowling at documents, but she had no desire to see him, so she immediately headed toward the barracks, and at quick enough a pace that someone would have to be genuinely determined to catch and stop her. The few guards she passed—too few, really—acknowledged her with brief nods for the most part. A couple looked like they would speak, but whatever they saw on her face silenced them.

Aveline’s office door was closed, but light seeped out from beneath. Kiara knocked once before pulling the door open. Aveline didn’t look up. She scribbled something on the paper she was looking at and snapped, “Report.”

“Something wrong, Aveline?” Kiara asked.

Aveline did glance up at this, dropping her pen and sighing as she massaged her temples with her ink-stained fingertips. Her freckles stood out on skin even paler than usual, and dark smudges like bruises marred the skin beneath her tired eyes. “Hawke.”

If anyone had _ever_ sounded less pleased to see her, Kiara wasn’t sure who or when.

“Your men at the door had to be bullied before they’d let me in. You angry with me for something I don’t know about?”

“They’re not letting anyone in. It’s nothing to do with you.”

Kiara tilted her head. “What _is_ it to do with, then?”

A flash of anger brightened Aveline’s eyes, and brought a flush of color to her freckled cheeks. “What do you _think_ , Hawke? Perhaps your little band of heroes made it out of Meredith’s madness alive, but the same can’t be said of the Guard. My resources are stretched thin, and they’re still not enough. So, yes, I am _trying_ to keep some control over the situation before it boils over, and that means I can’t be bothered by every citizen who thinks they have a bloody grievance that needs airing.”

Clapping her hands to the desk, Aveline pushed herself upright. Before Kiara could muster a response, Aveline shook her head and said, “Forgive me, Hawke. It’s not _you_. I’m not angry with _you_. I just feel as though people are looking to me for guidance and I don’t have the first damned idea what to tell them.”

“The city needs a Viscount.”

“Fish need water and birds need air. Of course the city needs a Viscount. You volunteering for the job?”

Kiara winced. “Hardly. I did _listen_ when you and the acting Knight-Commander asked me to keep a low profile, Aveline.”

Aveline sighed and paced to the fireplace, her armor clanking. When she spoke, her voice was gentler, and Kiara felt some of the tension ease. “I can’t do it.”

“Be Viscount?”

“Maker, no! I can’t do _that,_ either. But I meant I can’t do whatever it is you’re here to ask me to do.”

“Oh, Aveline. So little faith.”

Aveline snorted. “My faith is fine, Hawke. But every time you walk into my office with _that look_ on your face? All I see are the weeks and weeks of paperwork ahead of me.”

“No paperwork. I promise.”

Aveline turned, leaning one shoulder against the hearth. Curiosity warred with good judgement across her face. Finally, with another sigh, curiosity won. “Tell me.”

“I’m… leaving Kirkwall. Temporarily.”

“The Wounded Coast again?”

Kiara smiled wryly. “Thankfully, no. I’ve got to go to Starkhaven.”

Aveline was shaking her head before Kiara even finished speaking. “I’m the guard-captain of _Kirkwall_ , Hawke. Starkhaven’s so far out of my jurisdiction—”

“Oh, I don’t want you to come.”

Aveline frowned, and whatever anger her face had worn a moment before was replaced by hurt. “You don’t?”

“I… worded that poorly, sorry. I mean I know you _can’t_ come, with your responsibilities here. The thing is, I… Amelle’s staying in Kirkwall. And I—”

“You worry about her. And you would like me to keep an eye on her. As I did when you went into the Deep Roads, lo these many years ago. You don’t even have to ask, Hawke.”

“Thank you, Aveline.”

A faint smile pulled at Aveline’s lips and deepened the creases at the corners of her eyes. “You must be joking. This is likely the easiest thing you’ve ever asked of me. Unless… will I have to deal with the pirate’s constant attempts to get your sister into the trouble I’m looking to prevent? Again?”

She laughed. “Maker, I hope not. I want to take a boat.”

“Maker be praised. You are the bearer of good news today. For a change. And with you out of the city—”

Kiara groaned. “Yes. I know. Your life will be ever so much easier. Andraste’s _arse_. You and Cullen ought to go for drinks sometime.”

Aveline sniffed; there was little love lost between the City Guard and the templars, but she rather hoped they might find some common ground—even _if_ that common ground happened to include her.

“I sincerely doubt the acting Knight-Commander and I would have much to discuss.”

On a chuckle, Kiara remarked, “You’d be surprised.” Then, with a little more seriousness, she added, “Just… with everything that’s happened… keep your eyes open, Aveline. With such a vacuum, everyone in Kirkwall will be jostling for power. You’ll especially want to increase your patrols around the—”

Aveline raised her eyebrows and gave Kiara a sharp look. “You’re not presuming to tell me how to do my job, are you, Hawke?”

Kiara blushed, and snapped her jaw shut.

“I didn’t think so. Now, if that’s all? I’ve got duty rosters to arrange, and half a dozen guardsmen to chastise—you wouldn’t believe the trouble some of them think they can get up to just because I’m _busy_. They’re like bloody children. Stupid ones. With swords. And half the time they take me for an idiot.”

“More fools they,” Kiara said, with a laugh.

“Put the fear of the Maker in those boys guarding the front doors on your way out, won’t you? Oh, I won’t actually _punish_ them, but it’s best they realize I am serious about not being disturbed. By anyone other than you, of course.”

Kiara snorted. “I’ll make sure they know I’m on the guest list. The _only_ person on the guest list.”

“Good luck then, Hawke. Drinks when you return?”

Kiara saluted and grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Give my regards to Donnic.”

Aveline nodded, already heading back to her desk and the mounds of paperwork there. Kiara saw her rub once more at her forehead with an idle hand before retrieving her pen and setting back to work. Kiara’s own head throbbed in sympathy. She almost wished she _had_ let Amelle deal with it, but—no. It wouldn’t do to be too reliant, after all. Her days of headache cures on demand were nearly at an end.

#

When Kiara pushed open the door to The Hanged Man midway through the afternoon, she was surprised to find not Isabela in her usual place by the bar, but Varric holding court at one of the grimy tables, speaking with several dwarves she vaguely recognized as members of the Dwarven Merchants Guild. He nodded at her and ended his meeting, rising to cross the common room.

“Hawke,” he greeted affably, clapping her on the back. She winced as his gesture aggravated the headache that showed no sign of _ever abating_. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it, too, actually,” she replied, with a grin. Waving in the general direction of the dwarves still drinking their ale, she remarked, “Something wrong with your palatial suite? I thought you hated mingling with the plebs. Unless you’re attempting to win their money at cards.”

“Exterminators,” he said, after slightly too long a pause. 

She snorted. “That’s a fine story. What kind of ambience would The Hanged Man have without its army of rats and roaches?” She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively. “ _Varric_ , are you hiding a _girl_ up there? Won’t Bianca get jealous?”

He patted the butt of his crossbow fondly. “Bianca’s place in my heart is sacrosanct. And you should leave the rumormongering to the experts.”

She chuckled, even as she took another quick glance around the taproom. “Don’t tell me Isabela’s still _sleeping_.”

He shrugged, and then hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Late night.”

“Aren’t they always?”

Raising an eyebrow, Varric said, “And how often _do_ you see our Rivaini awake before nightfall? Except, of course, when she’s following you around on the hunt for exciting somethings. And profit.”

Kiara sighed. “Figures. Now I have to brave the lion’s den.”

Varric made a face. “You’re not intending to… wake the beast, are you?”

“Needs must, Varric. Needs must.” Someone shouted an order for ale, and the sound of cursing followed the crash of broken glass. “Hey, Varric? You and Isabela ever think it’s… odd that you’ve been living in a shady tavern for more than half a decade?”

He spread his hands wide in an appreciative, encompassing gesture. “Leave _this_? For what? A mausoleum in Hightown? Who would _entertain_ me at all hours of the day and night? How would I get my ale on demand?”

Smiling, she took a step toward the staircase, but Varric put a hand on her forearm and stopped her. “I’ll run the gauntlet for you. Sit down. Have a drink. You look like you could use one. Or five.”

“Your tab?”

“Cheapskate.”

“You love me.”

He grinned, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. “You wish. Now sit.” He spoke to one of the barmaids as he traversed the taproom, and a few moments later Kiara had a cool mug of something almost drinkable in hand. She huffed a laugh. She must look awful indeed if Varric was willing to shell out for the good stuff. She’d have to repay him later. Still, it was worth it. The alcohol _almost_ tricked her into thinking her headache was easing up.

Two drinks later, Isabela flung herself into the chair opposite Kiara, leaning forward on her elbows and setting her chin in her hands. The pirate looked even more rumpled and annoyed than usual. “This had better be good.”

“Where’s Varric?”

“I killed him. For waking me up.”

Kiara smirked. “No less than he deserved, I’m sure.”

“You’re next. Talk.”

Turning her head, Isabela shouted an order across the room, and one of the barmaids rushed over a moment later with a bottle and two glasses. Kiara raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t need the glasses,” Isabela growled, taking a healthy—beyond healthy, really—swig. “Do need breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Whatever. _Not_ stew.” Then she faced Kiara again and said, “ _Maker_ , but I’m bored. Aren’t you?”

“Funny you should say that.”

Isabela’s eyebrows twitched. “Slavers to kill, profit to be had?”

“No, actually—”

“Blood mages to hunt down, profit to be had?”

“Isabela—”

“Oh, I know, warehouses to raid, profit to be had!”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “You must have lost miserably last night. Feeling a little light in the purse?”

After another swig of her liquor, Isabela shrugged. “Happens to the best of us. So. Which is it?”

“None of the above. You want to go on a trip?”

“Please don’t say the Wounded Coast.”

“Uh, not the Wounded Coast.”

Isabela made a disgusted face, wrinkling her nose and all but sticking out her tongue. “Sundermount? The Bone Pit?”

“Little farther afield.”

Raising a speculative eyebrow, Isabela leaned forward. “Interest piqued. Do tell.”

“Starkhaven. Probably sooner rather than later.”

Isabela grinned and crowed a little laugh, slapping one palm on the table. “Better and better.”

Wincing, Kiara said, “There’s… a problem.”

Isabela’s smile turned sly, and just a little suggestive. “Ooh. I do _love_ it when you talk dirty to me, Hawke. Tell Captain Bela all your troubles.”

Kiara coughed slightly, and she was a little sad she had no more alcohol on hand. Aggrieved, she pushed the empty mug away. “We may, uh, require your particular skill set.”

“Someone to duel? Or someone to seduce?”

“Neither. We may need to… borrow a boat. And then we may need you to drive it.”

“Ship,” Isabela supplied at once. “And sail.”

“What?”

“It’s called a _ship_. And one _sails_ a ship. One does not _drive_ it.”

Kiara narrowed her eyes, but Isabela was entirely serious, her copper gaze steady and unblinking. “Are we actually discussing semantics?”

Isabela rolled her eyes, indignant. “If you want a _boat_ , Hawke, I can deliver a boat. Any fool can provide a boat. Boats have _oars_. Ships have _sails_. And cabins. And _power_. Trust me: you want a ship. And you _definitely_ want me captaining it for you.”

“All right,” Kiara drawled, “I want a ship. Or, rather, I _need_ a ship.”

Isabela leaned back in her chair, drinking deeply from the bottle once again, looking immensely—frighteningly, really—pleased with herself. “That happens to be less of a problem than you think it is, my dear.”

“Has anyone ever told you how genuinely terrifying it is when you smile like that, Isabela?”

Isabela grinned. “No one alive to spread the tale.”

“Are you going to tell me _why_ the boa—ship isn’t going to be a problem? I’m not, contrary to your popular belief, actually _made_ of money.”

“If you’ve enough to pay a crew, I can get you a ship.” On Kiara’s expectant look, Isabela continued, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about my dear friend, Castillon. He expired _so unexpectedly_ , leaving behind quite the most charming little vessel. Swift as a swallow.”

Kiara tapped her lips with the tip of her index finger. “I thought you said it was uncouth and crude to take the ship of a man you killed.”

“Well, he’ll never get to tell anyone how he was bested so handily, and I won’t get to gloat, of course, which is annoying, but the fact remains that you need a ship, and there happens to be one just sitting in the harbor that no one’s _using_ at the moment. And beggars can’t be choosers. As they say.”

“And you can find crew?”

Isabela gave an exaggerated leer. “Oh, I can _always_ find crew.”

“Discreet?”

“Unfailingly.”

“Fast?”

“You’re starting to wound me, Hawke. Also, maybe piss me off just a little. You said sooner rather than later. How soon, exactly?”

Kiara swallowed hard. “Um. As soon as tomorrow to be on the safe side. Probably not later than a day or two after on the outside.”

Draining the rest of her drink, Isabela slammed the bottle down and jumped to her feet. “A challenge. Excellent. I do love a challenge. Coin?”

Kiara tossed her purse to Isabela, who caught it handily and made it somehow disappear. She hadn’t the slightest idea how a woman so scantily clad managed to keep so very many things hidden about her person. “You know where to find me if you need more.”

Isabela waggled her eyebrows.

“ _Coin_ , Isabela. Coin.” Kiara followed Isabela’s example and rose, but before she’d crossed half a dozen steps toward the door, she stopped. “I mean it about being discreet.”

“Discreet about what?” Varric asked, coming down the stairs.

Kiara grimaced. “Isabela’ll tell you. Keep it to yourself. You can come if you want to.”

Isabela chuckled. “Hear that, Fuzzy? You can _come_. If you want to.”

“You have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy, Rivaini.”

“I make _you_ laugh. What does that say about you?”

“Really?” Varric scoffed. “That’s your comeback? You’re getting rusty. Or maybe soft. In your old age.”

They exchanged a look and laughed, but Kiara just sighed and waved her goodbyes, already fantasizing about a hot bath and a long sleep. She was likely to get neither, but the fantasy, at least, was enough. For now.


	28. Chapter 28

**KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON**

 

It was beyond late when Sebastian returned from the Wounded Coast, but he wasn’t tired. Oh, he was weary, and his muscles ached in the way muscles could only ache after fierce combat, but he was too exhilarated to be _tired_. He could stand before a practice butt, shooting quiver after quiver after quiver, and he’d never be able to recapture the thrill of actual battle, the heat in the blood, the roar in the ears, the fierce joy of living and fighting and _surviving._

The Chantry stood atop its mountain of stone steps, silent and oddly forbidding. It was long past the hour when the great front doors would be open, so Sebastian hesitated only a moment before deciding to forgo the knocking that would see the doors opened—and half the chantry roused from rest. Instead, he went around the side, slipping silent as a shadow through the gardens. The moon was full and bright overhead, and the path familiar enough he needed no other light.

Night-blooming jasmine mingled with astringent elfroot and the sweeter perfume of Andraste’s Grace, and Sebastian paused to inhale deeply. Hunkering down, he plucked a sprig of the moon-pale flower, raising it to his nose. It was a Fereldan bloom, he knew, rare in the Marches. Its scent was subtler than the overwhelming jasmine, but all the lovelier for it.

_I wonder if Hawke would like…_

Stung by the thought, the flower dropped from Sebastian’s cold fingers. _No_ , he told himself firmly, glancing up at the moon as though it could help. Or perhaps for fear it might judge. _You’re helping her. You’re repaying the debt you owe for her aid, nothing more. You are doing good work. But thoughts of flowers are thoughts for a different man. Enough._

Sebastian left his shame and his fancy in the garden and retreated to his cell. The hallways were empty, though he was well aware the chantry—especially a chantry as large as Kirkwall’s—never slept, not entirely. In the kitchens, initiates would already be baking the morning’s bread. In the chapel, one of the Mothers would be leading a few stalwarts in the Chant; the nave was never permitted to fall entirely silent. A few templars would be patrolling, cursing the luck that had given them night duty. Down in the archives, many elders read all day and night, oblivious to the rise and set of sun and moon, lost in their histories and scrolls and tomes.

And he was awake, of course, taking the lesser-used paths to his room, suddenly all too conscious of the blood on his armor and the bow on his back. Part of the world around him, yet separate from it, too. There were no others in the chantry quite like him. The thought made him both uncomfortable and somehow sad.

His cell was small and sparsely decorated, but the familiarity of the single bed, the candle on the bedside table, and the weathered wardrobe that had likely started its long life in a noble’s household soothed him. Where the smallness had once felt constricting, now he felt comforted; this room was far too small to contain fanciful thoughts or extraneous belongings. Much as he’d resented it in the beginning, it was home to him now, and there was always succor to be found in returning home.

After unstringing his bow and checking it for any weaknesses, Sebastian divested himself of his nearly-empty quiver and began stripping himself of his bloodied armor. It was part of the cleverness of the design—and likely the cost—that he required no squire to aid him. A prince in a palace might have any number of squires or pages to help with such things, but a brother of the Chantry had only himself. _You are still a Vael_ , his father had said the day he presented the armor. _You will at least look the part. You can do that much for us, after everything else you’ve done._ And so the clasps and buckles were easily enough handled by one. He removed the breastplate first, checking it for scratches and nicks, but the white enamel was unsullied under the smears of blood. Not his own, thankfully, and not that of his companions. One slaver had come too close, and Sebastian had been forced to end the man with a blade instead of an arrow.

 _If you’re going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye,_ his father—a swordsman—had told him after he’d proven, yet again, how pitifully _useless_ he was with a blade. If it hadn’t been a blunted practice sword, Sebastian would have found himself thirteen years old and minus his left foot. _A shaft at a hundred paces is the next best thing to craven. A real prince, nay, a real_ man _should—_

 _That’s enough_ , Sebastian’s grandfather had said, his voice cold and measured and impossible to argue with. _You would not say those words to me, Lachlan, and I will not hear them said to the lad. Don’t listen to him, Sebastian. The bow is the wise man’s weapon. You can defend your city without opening its gates. Your father would do well to remember such things._

But Lachlan Vael had never truly forgiven his youngest son for having no talent for the blade. Even now, years later, with his father dead by treachery and mercenary hands—and how that pain still ached—the wound left by those words still stung. Admonishing himself for hanging on to the trappings of his past, even in the form of sore old memories, Sebastian recited verses about forgiveness and compassion and the Maker’s love for all His children while he removed bracers and greaves and polished them all to their white-glow shine.

The belt came next. He frowned at the blood-stained face of Andraste. She seemed mournful, and he remembered the mage’s japes about having the bride of the Maker’s face between his legs. He’d dismissed the words at first. The mage’s humor was often cruel, Sebastian noted. He hardly knew the man, but already he suspected no love would be lost between them. He supposed Hawke had a soft spot for mages, considering her sister, but Anders was nothing like Amelle, and he often wondered just why Hawke allowed him to stay, to be part of her strange little group of misfits. Sebastian could see the hate seething behind the blond mage’s eyes, and whatever the spirit was that inhabited his body, it was too angry to be called Justice.

Now, however, he wondered if the mage hadn’t had a point. _Father’s japes were often amusing only to himself._ Perhaps this, too, was one of those unpleasant jests. After embarrassing himself and the Vael name with every barmaid this side of the Minanter—also Lachlan Vael’s words—perhaps it had seemed a jest too great to pass up.

 _My father had this commissioned when I took my vows as a brother_ , he’d told the mage proudly. And he _had_ been proud. Always, always his wretched pride came back to haunt him. But even as he gently washed the sticky blood from Andraste’s face, he imagined his father saying to the armorer _this is the last lady my wastrel son will have between his legs, Maker be praised. At least there’ll be no bastards fathered on this one, to make Angus’ life a trial._

“Begone, dark thoughts,” Sebastian said aloud into his tiny room. His voice echoed oddly in the small space. “He said nothing of the kind.”

As he shrugged out of the heavy mail coat, Sebastian realized all the elation of the battle had gone from him entirely, leaving only weariness and a touch of horror that he’d let himself get so caught up. And sorrow. Always sorrow. It held hands with regret and whispered melancholy things, just beyond his hearing.

He supposed he ought to have been surprised when, just as he was preparing to crawl into his bed and douse the candle, a soft knock interrupted him. He thought about not answering. He thought about pretending to be asleep.

Then he realized he was no longer a sullen adolescent boy, and he rose to answer.

Grand Cleric Elthina stood in the hallway, still in her full regalia, but with her grey hair loose about her shoulders. Her smile was fond and sad at the same time, and he knew she’d thought the door would not open. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “How can I be of service? Is there trouble?”

“You tell me, child,” she replied. “Walk with me?”

It was not a command. The Grand Cleric rarely commanded anyone, though she would have been well within her rights to do so. Had he said, _no I am too weary_ she would have inclined her head and left him to his rest. Sebastian toyed with saying just such a thing, but almost as quickly discarded the idea. “A moment, Your Grace,” he said at last, retreating within to retrieve one of his seldom-worn robes from the wardrobe. He shivered slightly as he drew the folds of fabric down over his head. The clothing smelled stale, and for a moment he wished he’d not dropped the sprig of Andraste’s Grace back in the garden.

In a way, his wish was granted. Once he was decently attired, he followed Elthina as she retraced the steps he’d walked earlier. When they reached the garden entrance, he darted ahead and held the door open for her. Again she smiled her fond, sad smile, and again he shivered, oddly uneasy.

Still silent, Elthina ghosted through the garden, her grey hair silvering in the moonlight. She chose the bench nearest the large patch of Andraste’s Grace and sat. After a moment, she patted the seat next to her. Even with her face in darkness, he knew she was imploring him to follow. He did so, but with trepidation. The scent of Andraste’s Grace was near to overpowering, and he shamefully remembered the thoughts he’d entertained earlier. _Let all repeat the Chant of Light. Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us._

“You were missed at evensong,” Elthina said lightly. Already itching with anxious thoughts about why the Grand Cleric might be seeking him out so late, Sebastian’s gut twisted with sudden guilt.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. We were—I was—”

“You mistake me, Sebastian. My intention was neither to chide nor condemn. Only to inform. You were with Kiara Hawke?”

Her tone held no accusation, but still he felt himself bristle. When he spoke, his voice was tight with barely-controlled anger, “You know I was, Your Grace. If you’ve something to say—”

“Again, you mistake me, child. I cannot deny this conversation has been a long time in coming, but it does not have to be one filled with recriminations. You imagine I am angry with you, or disappointed, or upset.”

“Are you not? You disapprove, Your Grace.”

“Do I?” she asked. “It seems you would have this conversation without my input at all, Sebastian, but I am not sure the words you would put in my mouth are the right ones.”

All kinds of words bubbled up at this, tumbling over each other in their desire to be spoken, but none of them were altogether _suitable_ , so Sebastian held his tongue. Not without difficulty.

“I believe you expect disappointment from me because you are disappointed in yourself. Be wary of such judgements, child.”

He closed his eyes and searched for something to bolster him, to lift his flagging spirits. Instead, he remembered the light going out of the dying slaver’s eyes. _Our cause is righteous!_ he’d cried. _Maker give us strength!_

_If you’re going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye._

He didn’t know if he was disappointed with himself for enjoying the fight, or for taking the life, or for wishing he might be asked along on another of Hawke’s missions soon, but he knew the Grand Cleric was right: he _was_ disappointed in himself. _This is not the work of a brother of the faith. It is not even the work of a templar. The Maker’s work is in the Chantry, not following a red-haired rogue into madness._

And yet, he could not remember the last time he’d felt so blessedly _alive_.

He heard the Grand Cleric’s back creak as she bent to pluck a stem of the Andraste’s Grace growing all around the legs of the bench. Elthina raised the flower to her nose and smiled as she sniffed it. “Andraste’s Grace,” she said quietly. “A big name for such a little flower. They say it grows like a weed in Ferelden.”

“I have heard the same, Your Grace.”

“You always were one for courtesy, child. Even when you were creeping out of the Chantry in the dark of night to go on one of your… adventures, you were always polite about it.”

“Those days are over.”

“Are they?” she asked in the same level, infuriating tone. “Tell me, Sebastian, when does it end?”

“Your Grace?”

“First it was the mercenaries who killed your family. Then it was the Harrimans, who _hired_ the mercenaries who killed your family. You have had your revenge. The book on your family’s untimely end has been closed. Yet still you were missed at evensong, and you return to the Maker’s house in the dead of night, covered in blood.”

“I… I owe her a debt. I promised…”

Even in the darkness, there was no mistaking the sharpness in Elthina’s gaze. “You have promised any number of people any number of things these past years, Sebastian.”

“She helped me when no one else would.”

“And the Maker? Has He not helped you? Did you not trust He would see justice done?” On Sebastian’s sullen silence, she continued, “You were impatient, child. I know it. I cannot say I approved of that, certainly, though I have since been reminded it is not my place to either judge or condemn. Sometimes I forget you are so young.”

“I am hardly—”

“To a woman so old she can no longer remember what color her hair wore before it took to grey entirely, you are very young, Prince Sebastian Vael.”

 _Brother Sebastian_ , he wanted to correct her. But then he remembered the feeling of fighting the slavers on the Coast, every nerve singing with the pure joy of being _alive_ , the arrow pulled to his cheek and its song as it arced away from him to hit its target squarely, the way Hawke smiled at him afterward and laughed and told him he was welcome at The Hanged Man, drinks were on her, but he—

—He could not correct Elthina, and he knew she noticed.

“My windows overlook the gardens,” she said, and he frowned at the strange non-sequitur. A moment later her meaning became clear. “Doubtless you wonder why I chose to have this conversation with you tonight, as well you might. I saw you come through the garden. You were humming. You stopped beneath the jasmine and I saw you smile in the moonlight. You looked happier in that moment than I have seen you look in years, Sebastian, and it broke my heart a little, because I know now you no longer belong here.”

His breath caught in his chest, and he felt cold—suddenly, wretchedly, impossibly cold—from his head to his heels. Then his heart began racing and he caught at the edge of the seat, clenching the wood so tightly between his palms that he was certain splinters would be left behind. “Grand Cleric—Elthina— _Your Grace_ , no. _This_ is my home. I… regret, you know I regret—”

She settled one small, thin hand over his. Her skin was papery fine and smooth and soft, and the feel of it against his made him want to cry. For some reason he was reminded of his grandfather, smiling his sad smile and saying _the Maker ordained a place for each of us. We have only to serve._

“But you do _not_ regret, Sebastian. In your heart of hearts, you are glad you set aside your vows in order to avenge your family.”

“I… Andraste forgive me, Grand Cleric, I cannot deny it.”

“I know, child. I know. You have pleaded with me, begged me to allow you to return to the ranks of the initiates, but… Sebastian, it pains me to say so, but I will not allow it. Not now. Likely not ever.”

He felt tears well in his eyes, but before he could raise his voice in protest, she continued gently, “You will always have a home here. You will always be welcome. Your room will be yours as long as you care to use it. It will always warm my heart to hear your voice lifted in the Chant.”

“But you will not call me Brother.”

Elthina nodded, squeezing his hand. “Those days are gone. That boy left and a new one returned.”

Sebastian hunched forward, feeling somehow as though the Grand Cleric’s words had wormed their way within him. His stomach ached with them, and he wanted nothing more than to put his fingers in his ears and scream, as if screaming might drown them out.

“What… what can I do to prove my sincerity, Your Grace? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she sighed. “I want nothing from you but your honesty.”

“But I _am_ honest with you, Your Grace. You have heard all my sorrows and all my joys and all my torment. I have hidden _nothing_ from you, I swear it.”

“Ahh, but it is not for me I desire honesty, Sebastian. I want you to be honest with yourself.”

Sebastian swallowed past the knot of emotion in his throat, and once again did not trust himself to speak. Elthina patted his hand gently and rose, settling the tiny white flower in her place upon the bench. “What I said so long ago still holds true, Sebastian. People serve the Maker in many ways. You don’t need to take vows to do his work. And you don’t need to live in misery because you foreswore the ones you took and broke; the Maker works mysteriously. As we see evidence daily.”

“Forgive me, Grand Cleric. I—please. Forgive me.”

“It is not my forgiveness you require. Just as it is not honesty for my sake I wish to see. Let the Maker guide you.”

“I swear I will be—I will do as I—I will make you proud, Grand Cleric.”

Elthina bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “My dear boy. My dear, brave, bold, weathervane boy. _Listen_ to yourself.”

Then she turned, and began her walk back to the chantry. Sebastian watched her go. Reaching over, he retrieved the sprig of Andraste’s Grace, but he did not raise it to his nose to admire the scent. “Grant me a little of your grace, blessed Andraste,” he whispered. “Grant me a little of your strength. This is but a test, I know. Blessed Andraste, help me weather it.”

But it was not Andraste’s smooth, serene face he saw when he closed his eyes. It was Hawke’s, impish and laughing.

#

Several days later, Sebastian was wandering about the chapel replacing burnt out candle ends with fresh tapers when Hawke found him. She was dressed in leathers, her bright hair pulled back and gleaming in the firelight. She grinned when she saw him, and he felt his stomach twist uncomfortably at the sight. _This is but a test. Oh, sweet Andraste, give me strength._

“Just the man I was looking for,” she said lightly. “Tall, dark and devilish with a bow. Fancy some target practice? On slavers?”

“Not this time,” he replied, a little too cool, a little too sharp.

Her eyes widened, and he couldn’t miss the sting. She even tilted her face a little, as though his words had reached out and slapped her. “Oh,” she replied, her cheeks too pink and her bluster gone.

He swallowed hard, ignoring her discomfiture though it pained him to know he was the source of it. “I have shirked my duties here too often of late. I cannot always be coming and going on little errands. There is the Maker’s work to be done.”

“Oh,” she repeated again, trying and failing to hide her disappointment. “I—I’m sorry. I understand. I won’t—sorry, Sebastian.”

As Hawke walked away, Sebastian glanced up and saw Elthina’s eyes on him. What he saw on her face wounded him, but not half so much as he knew he’d just wounded Kiara Hawke. In spite of all her pleas, the Grand Cleric knew as well as he did that what she’d just witnessed was the farthest thing in the world from honest.

Again his stomach twisted, but he ignored it, turning back to light the candles.

_There is the Maker’s work to be done._

#

Though he was loath to admit it, Sebastian was bored.

He had given up petitioning the Grand Cleric for a return to his former duties—leading the Chant, hearing confession, guiding the novices toward initiation—because every time he asked, the pain on her face as she said no grew stronger and sadder. When he realized words were insufficient to the task of proving his sincerity, he began to focus on deeds. He volunteered for the lowliest tasks, cooking and cleaning and scrubbing mud-stained floors—things he’d secretly always considered beneath him—and he performed them ably, without complaint. He spent more hours working with the poor and the needy than he ever had before, walking the streets of Darktown, offering food and prayer and aid where he could. He even put aside his white armor, draping the armor stand with a sheet. His bow and quiver he pushed to the back of his wardrobe, behind freshly-procured robes. They were robes of the affirmed but not the initiated; given Elthina’s intractability, he’d felt to wear the robes of Brother Sebastian would have been an insult. The initiated took vows and did not break them. He no longer deserved to be seen as one of them. He did not need Elthina’s sad eyes to tell him that much.

It had been weeks—almost months— _fifty-eight days_ —since the last time he’d spoken to Hawke. _I—I’m sorry. I understand. I won’t—sorry, Sebastian._ He’d thought he’d seen her bright hair at services once or twice, but he’d left before he could recognize her—or before she could recognize him. _It’s better this way._ After a time, he no longer saw that familiar hair, and he wasn’t entirely certain if it was disappointment or relief he felt more strongly.

He heard tales of her exploits from time to time; even those sworn to do the Maker’s work still found time for idle gossip. The templars talked of more unrest at the Gallows. More and more people—chantry-folk and congregants alike—spoke of the Arishok in hushed voices, and too often Hawke was mentioned there, too. On one of his visits, Knight-Captain Cullen lit a candle for one of his brethren, a man named Emeric, and asked Sebastian to add his name to the memorial wall. When Sebastian asked how the man perished, Cullen went strange and silent. “You mustn’t have been with Hawke that day. You should count your blessings,” was Cullen’s only response, before bending his head in prayer and marked dismissal.

Sebastian sometimes wondered if anyone would bother telling him if something happened to Hawke, or if he would have to find out from gossips and strangers. The thought raised all kinds of doubts, all kinds of conflicting, maddening emotions, and Sebastian spent the better part of a week afterward in silent meditation, pleading for Andraste to intercede and remove such distractions.

_You are here to do the Maker’s work. Not Kiara Hawke’s._

It was his voice in his head, however. Not Andraste’s.

Occasionally Sebastian saw Fenris in the chapel proper, kneeling in one of the back pews, but he couldn’t bring himself to approach the elf; he always made himself scarce as soon as he saw the shock of white hair bent in prayer. It was craven of him, he knew, but he knew he could not open the door. The desire to return to Hawke’s side, to her band of adventurers, was too strong, and he’d worked too hard to prove his worth to Elthina.

_You can’t have both. You always were greedy. Greedy, and proud, and selfish; all the reasons your parents couldn’t abide to keep you at court. No wonder the Grand Cleric won’t have you back. Words and deeds mean nothing when she knows the secrets of your heart._

And in his heart, Sebastian was bored.

Late one rainy evening—he knew it was raining because everyone who’d entered the chantry for hours had dragged mud and filth in on their boots, and the floors were wretchedly dirty because of it—as Sebastian was scrubbing floors in the nave, he felt the peculiar sensation of being watched. All the hairs on his arms stood, and a prickle at the nape of his neck had him suddenly wishing for his white armor and his bow. At first when he looked up to see whose eyes were doing the watching, he saw nothing. The nave was as empty as it had been before he started working. The prickle, however, did not disappear, and when he looked closer, he saw a cloaked figure standing in the long shadow cast by one of the pillars. He almost thought he recognized the cloak, though it had no particular distinguishing features. 

_Hawke._

Whomever it was startled when he looked up, and shifted behind the pillar. _Not Hawke. She would never have jumped like that._ Rising, Sebastian’s hands itched for a bow—even a knife—but instead he held the scrub-brush like a cudgel. “Who are you?” he said, his voice echoing in the empty nave. Beyond, in the chapel, he could hear the faint strains of the Chant, but it was late, and the Mother was singing only to Andraste and the Maker—there were no congregants present.

“I have only to shout and this room will be flooded with templars,” Sebastian lied. “Who are you, and why do you come in secrecy?”

The figure stepped out from behind the pillar. It was still cloaked, hood pulled up to hide the features beneath, but Sebastian was certain from the narrow shoulders it was either a woman or an elf. _Fenris?_ He discarded the thought; Fenris would never hide his face here, and his swordcraft had given him broader shoulders than many of his less warlike fellows.

The hood looked all about before pale hands emerged to push back the heavy, rain-soaked fabric.

Sebastian blinked, and lowered his scrub-brush. “Amelle?”

Hawke’s sister put a finger to her lips. She looked… she looked _horrible_ , Sebastian had to admit. Her face was blotchy from what could only be tears—a great many tears—and her hands trembled as she lowered them again. The circles under her eyes were so dark he had to look twice to make certain they were not bruises, but the rest of her face was deathly pale.

“Oh, Maker,” he breathed, going suddenly cold. His stomach twisted so painfully he nearly bent over. Only willpower kept him firmly upright. “It’s your sister.”

The girl’s green eyes widened. “No, no, it’s not Kiara. Well, it _is_. But it’s not what you think. I’m sorry—I didn’t think how it might look to you. No, Sebastian, Kiara is… she’s alive.”

“Is she ill? Is she wounded? Amelle—”

She hushed him gently. “Please, Sebastian. I—shouldn’t be found here. Not alone. It’s too dangerous. But I…” she drifted off, gazing past him, toward the glowing chapel and the great golden statue of Andraste at the far end. Her lips quavered and, very suddenly, she began to cry.

They were not gentle tears, or quiet ones. They were great, heavy, _wracking_ sobs, and—everything else forgotten—Sebastian dropped his scrub-brush in a clatter and crossed to the weeping mage in three long strides, tucking her into an embrace and muffling her tears against his shoulder. When the sobs began to subside, he said, “Amelle, please. Tell me.”

He felt her swallow hard, her breath still hitching on every inhale. He waited patiently as she struggled to calm herself. No one had appeared to ask about the noise, though, and he thanked the Maker for small mercies. Finally she gave a little shudder in his arms and pushed back against his hands, so she could stand before him. She didn’t look up to meet his eyes, but she reached out and touched the damp spot she’d left on his robe. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gone oddly hollow. “Did you… I don’t suppose you heard about our mother?”

He’d met Lady Amell only a handful of times, and then briefly, but he knew her to be kind and loving and fiercely proud of her daughters. “I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, “I… haven’t. Has something happened? Do you need help?”

Amelle took a shuddering breath before saying, “She was murdered. S-several days ago.”

“ _Maker_. Amelle, I—”

Amelle’s eyes flashed up to meet his, and there was something sharp and icy and so very wounded in their depths. “I don’t think the Maker had much to do with it.” Then her face fell again, taking the moment of anger and defiance with it. “I don’t… I don’t… I’ve tried _everything_. I don’t know what else to do.”

He wanted to speak, but he knew no platitudes or condolences would console the kind of raw grief he saw on her pretty, tear-stained face. “I am so sorry, Amelle,” he said at last, feeling the insufficiency of his words even as he spoke them. “I know… I know how meager it sounds, but I will pray for her.”

Scrubbing the sleeve of her dress over her cheeks, Amelle sniffled again and shook her head. “It’s not… it’s not Mother, Sebastian. Wherever she… she’s gone, now. I know that. It hurts, _Maker_ , it hurts, but it’s not… it’s Kiara.”

In a flash, he remembered the first mad days after he’d heard about his own family. Even now, great swathes of time were gone from his memory, lost to seething rage and grief so deep he’d half-thought he’d die of it himself. Shaking his head to rid himself of the persistent images, he said gently, “Grief doesn’t look the same on every face. She’s grieving. As you are. ”

But Amelle was already shaking her head, her mussed up hair glinting in the candlelight. “No. Not as I am. It’s… different. It’s bad. I’ve never seen her like this before, not ever. Not even _close._ Not when Papa died. Not even with Carver. She won’t eat, she doesn’t sleep, she won’t bathe. She sits in her room and stares at a fire she builds so high and so hot I’m half-afraid she’ll burn the house down. She doesn’t cry. Why doesn’t she cry? I… she lets me sit with her, and sometimes she’ll speak, but… it’s not enough. Everyone… I thought she might talk to Aveline, but Aveline said Kiara only nodded and turned away. Half the time… it’s like she’s not even there. Her eyes are empty. She let Fenris sit with her for an evening, but once he’d gone she locked her bedroom door and didn’t come out for almost a day. I… I _know_ grief, I do. But this…”

Amelle wrapped her arms tight around herself, but even then he could see her shivering. “I don’t know what to do,” she repeated. “But I feel like I’m losing her, too, and I can’t… I can’t _bear_ it, Sebastian.”

 _Why me?_ he nearly asked. _Hawke hasn’t spoken to me—_ I _haven’t spoken to_ Hawke _—in fifty-eight days._

But then, looking at her face, he knew: she had tried everyone else. He was the last resort, turned to because she was already near-hopeless. She thought he would fail as all the others had failed, but she couldn’t give up without _trying_.

He knew how that felt. It had once led to broken vows and a notice on a Chanter’s Board.

Sebastian reached out and touched Amelle’s shoulder lightly. She still jumped, uneasy and on edge. “I don’t know if I can help in any way, Amelle, but I will come. Let me grab my cloak.”

In his room, his quiet little room with its quiet little life, he shucked the robe and dressed in simple tunic and trousers. He glanced at the draped armor-stand, but ignored it; there was no time, and he was not going facing that kind of battle with Hawke this time. He did pull his bow and quiver from the wardrobe, however, before sweeping a cloak over the lot. It felt good, almost _right_ , to have his weapon to hand once more. He didn’t linger on the thought.

Amelle was once again standing in the shadow of the pillar when he returned. “No one came,” she said. “It’s… it’s so quiet here at night. But there’s still singing. It’s so… it’s peaceful, isn’t it?”

 _Peaceful, aye,_ he thought, but still the secrets of his heart betrayed him. _And_ too _quiet. Dull. It’s not enough._

Elthina had said _I know you no longer belong here_ and he’d fought it, kicking and screaming and unwilling to fail yet _one more time_ to meet the expectations set out for him by his dead family. _I failed at being a prince. If I fail at being a priest, what’s left?_

 _Be a friend_ , whispered a voice in his head. It was soft but insistent, and he found himself glancing backward at the statue of Andraste. He couldn’t see her face, but he thought she was smiling.

“It is peaceful,” he agreed.

“It almost makes me wish…” she trailed off, shaking her head and pulling up her hood once more. “Never mind. We should go.”

He followed at her heels, with the words _be a friend_ echoing in his head.

#

The rain was torrential. The walk from the chantry to the Hawke estate was not an overly long one, but by the time Amelle pushed the heavy door open, they were both sodden. The discomfort of dampness, however, was nothing to the all-pervasive feeling of despair hanging over the house. It was palpable, tainting every breath, like smoke or poison in the air. Everything felt somehow muffled, as though even the crackle of the fire or the whine of the mabari was being heard through water.

“She’s in her room,” Amelle said, after Bodahn had taken their cloaks and fetched them towels to dry their hair. “It’s… it’s the one at the top of the stairs. Not… _not_ the one to the left.”

When he asked if she was coming with him, she shook her head firmly. “Better if she doesn’t feel like we’re ganging up on her. I-I’ll be downstairs, though. I’ll hear you if you call.”

He didn’t want to contemplate what reason he might have to _call_ , but instead of bringing attention to it, he simply nodded.

The feeling of despair only grew heavier as he took the steps upstairs. He found himself blinking more rapidly as if to clear blurry eyes, though of course the feeling was not _physical_. He blinked all the same, and found himself oddly uneasy when the miasma of grief did not abate. 

When he reached the upper level the door to his left was shut tight, but the one straight ahead was open a crack and he could see firelight blazing from within. _Hawke_. Still, he knocked, and waited for the weary, “Oh, come in,” before entering.

Whatever Amelle’s description had prepared him for, it was not as bad as the truth he witnessed with his own eyes. Hawke sat before a fire indeed stoked too high and too hot. Fresh from the cool rain outdoors, he found sweat beading on his brow and his upper lip almost instantly. From the doorway, he could see her profile, and he was alarmed to see her pale skin was still freckled with dark spots that could only be blood. The leather armor she wore was also blood-soaked, though of course the stains were hard and dry and dark. A tray of uneaten food sat on a little table to her right, and even the wine appeared untouched. Only her eyes moved when she looked up to see him lingering at the boundary between her room and the hall.

“Last but not least, the proselytizing prince,” Hawke jibed, her words all the more cruel because he knew at once she wasn’t drunk, as he’d almost expected her to be. Not drunk, but _drained_. After a moment, she bent her head again, as though it took too much effort to keep it lifted.

Sebastian winced at her words, but didn’t retreat. He was haunted by the memory of Amelle’s wide, tear-filled eyes, and the hopelessness in them. “May I enter?”

“Not this time,” Hawke said, repeating his own words so coldly he couldn’t help the shiver that ran the length of his spine, though the room was far, far too hot, and the sweat had grown from beads to trickles. But before he could step back into the hallway, she flicked her fingertips at the chair opposite her. “Forgive my rudeness. Sit. Stay. You’ve come all this way, after all. It wouldn’t do to turn you away out of hand.”

Her meaning was clear, but he did not remark on it. Indeed, he knew he deserved some reprisal for the way he’d dismissed her at their last meeting. Trying not to show his hesitation, Sebastian crossed the room and sat. The chairs were pulled closely enough together that if he moved too quickly his knees would brush hers. This near, he could plainly see the blood on her face and matting her hair— _Maker, it must have been a horrific battle_. _And where was I? Where was I when she was fighting for her life?_ She leaned heavily on her elbows, but her hands hung limp at the wrists; they, too, were still blood-stained.

After several minutes of silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the sound of their breathing—Hawke’s a little ragged, his near-silent—he said, “I am sorry about your mother.”

Nothing changed. Hawke’s expression remained fixed and blank, staring at the ground two feet away from her. Her hands still hung loose; her eyes hardly blinked. He knew then what Amelle had meant when she said _it’s like she’s not even there_. But after another agony of silence, Hawke repeated hollowly, “You are sorry about my mother,” and then she raised her eyes to his. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw fire in their depths; he would rather have her raging than numb. Numb was too close to dead. “ _You_ are sorry about my mother? What in the bloody Void was she to you?”

 _The mother of my friend_ , he almost said. But then he remembered the cool way he’d turned away from her, and the way he’d done his best to avoid her and hers in the time since, and he knew _friend_ was the wrong word. She wouldn’t believe it.

When he made no immediate reply, the heat in her voice grew. “You are sorry about my mother. But what do you _know_ , Sebastian? Nothing. Less than nothing. You know she died? Maybe you know she was murdered? You didn’t see the _monster_ that fucking necromancer made of her. You don’t know _anything_. ‘I will offer my service to you here before I move on’ you promised me, oh, but you left out all the caveats. How was I to know? Where were _you_ when this was happening? Lighting bloody candles? Singing songs to the kind of god who’d allow… who… oh, _Maker_ , Sebastian, _you don’t know_. I close my eyes and I see her. The thick black stitches holding her together, her head a little crooked, her limbs all askew, with someone else’s hands and—and he wanted her for her _face_. If we’re all the Maker’s children, how could He have let something like that happen to one of His _daughters_? She lost her husband and her home and her son and that bastard wanted her for her _face_.”

Heedless of their filth, Hawke raised her bloody hands and hid her own face. She didn’t weep. She sat before him, breathing heavily, looking small and brittle and ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. If he’d never seen her impish and grinning, with a hand on one hip and her bow in the other, he’d never have believed it possible, looking at this woman breathing into her bloody hands. _My brave Hawke. What have they done to you?_

He rose silently, leaving her to her hands. A full ewer of water stood untouched on the sideboard, next to an empty basin, fresh soap, and clean towels. Sebastian brought the lot to the hearth. The room was so warm the tepid water almost felt cool as he poured it into the basin.

When he turned to face her, he found Hawke once again watching him, but the fire had gone, replaced by wariness. _I can work with that, too._

Sebastian soaped his hands. It smelled of cedar and roses and Hawke. Then he turned, and, kneeling at her feet, took one of Hawke’s hands in his. She twitched, almost pulling away, and then her shoulders slumped even more and she bent her head until her chin rested on her chest. He didn’t speak. He scrubbed at every inch of bared skin, rinsed her hand, and scrubbed it again. When he put the first hand back on the arm of the chair, Hawke shuddered and her neck snapped up again. She glared at the clean hand as if it had somehow betrayed her, and curled the still-filthy one close to her heart.

“I do not require coddling,” she snapped at him. “Don’t you understand? It’s my _fault_.”

“It isn’t,” he said, running the soap between his hands once again. When he reached out, she hesitated. Soapy water dripped from his fingers to the floor _drip drip drip_ , oddly loud. Then, almost angrily, she thrust her bloody hand at him and let him begin the process all over again. This time, however, she spoke as he worked, and her words came rushed and stumbling, as though she couldn’t believe what she was saying.

“Mother and I weren’t seeing eye to eye,” she admitted. “We hardly spoke for arguing, these past weeks. She wanted me to give up my ‘adventuring’ in order to step into the role of lady, complete with husband and fat grandbabies and servants and silks. I wasn’t ready to hang up my bow in favor of dance steps and dinner parties, and I told her so. She tried to push me toward this nobleman’s son or that noblewoman’s nephew, always pushing, pushing, _pushing_ and so I made a point of being away as much as possible. I… expecting more drivel about growing up or… finding a nice boy or… I just stopped _listening_. I stopped paying attention. Poor Mely, Mother can’t— _couldn’t_ push her the same way, you know, because of the bloody _magic_ , but she was still caught in between. I was going out more and more so of course Amelle came _with_ me more and more and Mother was here alone and some bastard _took her_ , Sebastian, he _stole her_ and he, and he—it’s my _fault_. I got… I got a tiny taste of glory and I… I didn’t want to _stop._ And _she_ paid the price, Sebastian, not me. _She_ did.”

As he finished toweling dry the second hand, Hawke stopped abruptly, staring at them. Then her hands began to shake. He folded them between his larger hands, surprised, in truth, at how small they seemed.

“You can have regrets, Hawke, but you cannot blame yourself.”

She jerked her hands away from him and shot forward in her seat to push hard against his chest. He fell backward, tailbone aching, but didn’t move, didn’t even blink. 

“ _It’s my fault!_ ”

“It isn’t,” he repeated. On her knees beside him now, she pushed at him again, but it was weaker, and she left her palms flat against his chest, her head bowed between her outstretched arms. When he reached for her hands, she didn’t pull away or protest, and he squeezed them once before settling them back at her sides. She sat heavily on the floor next to him, pulling her knees close to her chest and wrapping her arms tight around them.

He dipped one corner of a towel in the water and lathered it with soap before turning to face her once again, this time cross-legged. When he put one hand under her chin and raised her face, they were almost eye to eye. Slowly, gently, he began to clean the blood from her face, and as he did so, she began to cry.

_She won’t eat, she doesn’t sleep, she won’t bathe. She sits in her room and stares at a fire she builds so high and so hot I’m half-afraid she’ll burn the house down. She doesn’t cry. Why doesn’t she cry?_

Unlike Amelle’s sobs in the chantry, Hawke’s were silent tears. She didn’t heave or shake or shudder, but the tears ran freely, without stopping, dripping from her chin to her bloody jerkin. Sebastian didn’t remark on them, but he caught some with his cloth before they fell, and Hawke leaned into his hand.

“It doesn’t get easier,” he said softly, sweeping the cloth from temple to cheekbone to chin. “People say that, but it’s not quite true. It’s not _easier_. It’s different. We learn to bear it. We adapt. We grow around the pain, but the pain is still there. Some days you hate the Maker with every fiber of your being. Other days you don’t. Some mornings you’ll wake and you’ll forget, and when you remember, when you see the empty chair or unused teacup or go to speak to someone who cannot be found, it will hurt all over again. It will be a fist in your gut _every time_ , but again, you learn to bear it, you adapt, you grow around the pain that’s still always going to be there. It takes less effort each time, but it’s never easier, and you never forget.”

The blood was gone from her face now, but he wrung the cloth out and dabbed at her still-flowing tears.

“But most of all,” Sebastian continued carefully, “you _remember_. You remember the things you loved, you remember the things that brought you joy. You remember that your mother would never blame you the way you’re blaming yourself, and that it would sadden her to see you this way. Because I may have only met her a few times, but she glowed with love for you, and she wouldn’t want this.”

“I know,” Hawke murmured brokenly. “I know that, but I can’t… I can’t stop. The _what ifs_ and _if onlys_. They’re tangled and tangled and tangled. I get lost in them.”

“It’s like a maze,” he agreed, “and every path sings a sweet song, promising redemption, promising hope, promising things that cannot be delivered. It is tempting to get lost there.”

She blinked at him once, twice, and he saw the ghost of the girl he knew fighting to break free, fighting to return. He set the cloth aside, and as he turned his face away, she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear, “You understand.”

He nodded. _Mother and Father and Angus and Connall. Their wives and children and the babies I never met. The guards outside their chambers, the servants within. Where was I? Where was I when the palace of Starkhaven’s halls ran red?_

“It’s like a maze,” he repeated.

He rose, returning the ewer and basin and soap and now-dirtied towels to the sideboard. When he finished, he looked back and saw Hawke still sitting on the floor, but there was a brightness to her face—not happiness, not even close; _life_ , maybe—that hadn’t been there when he entered. She glanced again at her hands, flipping them over to examine the clean nails and scrubbed skin. Then she glanced down at her sullied clothing.

“I need a bath,” she said, grimacing. “Maker’s _breath_ , do I need a bath.”

“I’ll not argue with you there.”

Her eyebrows lifted in a pale imitation of an expression he knew too well, even seen through the vestiges of her weeping. “A gentleman isn’t supposed to say things like that.”

His lips quirked in a brief smile. “Show me a gentleman who wouldn’t, when faced with a lady covered head to heel in days-old blood.”

“I… see your point and forgive you your discourtesy, messere,” she said lightly. Then her brow furrowed again, and the moment of almost-levity was lost. “Thank you, Sebastian. For… I know you must have duties. I—”

“Hawke,” he interrupted. “I must ask your forgiveness for that day. I was unpleasant to you, and it was none of your doing. You didn’t deserve it. I have been… I have been sorry not to see you since. I am—my bow is yours, if you need it. I will not be so dismissive again.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I’m—I thought, since you weren’t wearing your armor and… I suppose I thought you’d—”

“Taken up my brotherhood again? No. Elthina fears, rightly I think, that I am not prepared.”

“So you won’t… mind? If I ask? For your help? Just sometimes?”

If he’d seen another man bring such a lost, sad look to Hawke’s face, he would have punched him. He’d have punched himself if he could do it. Instead he only inclined his head. “I will be honored.”

She didn’t smile—she was still too wounded for smiling—but she reached out and squeezed his hand. “Then the least I can do is offer you something to eat, if you’ll wait until I bathe.” Hesitation colored her expression, and faint color stained her cheeks. “And if you… don’t have somewhere else to be. Duties.”

“No duties,” he replied. “And I’m happy to wait. If you don’t mind my saying, you need food near as much as you need a bath. It will do me some good to see you eating.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Will you send Amelle up? I… I think I’ve frightened her. I didn’t mean to, but I… I…”

“You were lost in the maze. She will understand. She knows the maze, too, Hawke; she only came out of it a different way.”

“Thank you,” she repeated. Then she stood on her toes and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. It was a friend’s kiss, chaste and grateful, but Sebastian felt his heart—his heart full of the secrets Elthina always knew—twist painfully.

 _Be a friend_ , whispered the voice again.

“I’m glad I could help, Hawke, truly,” he replied, knowing then that no matter what else happened, even if he stayed on in the chantry as an affirmed lay-person for the rest of his days, he would never be a brother again. He could never renew those vows in good conscience. Not with Kiara Hawke in the world.


	29. Chapter 29

For three days, Sebastian did nothing, just as Amelle had asked of him. He turned the pages of books without comprehending any of the words within; he cooked simple meals and shared them with Fenris in companionable silence; he allowed Amelle to fret and fuss and pour healing magic into his wound. The wound itself was all but healed—it was hard to put into words, but though he could still feel the ache of it, and though it still protested if he moved his left arm too quickly or too forcefully, he could tell it was not waiting to split wide again. Amelle, at least, seemed pleased.

“You see,” she said, applying yet another poultice. “Rest. It only needs rest. Please, Sebastian.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, fearing she would see his intentions and report them to her sister. Hawke he had not seen since she’d marched him back to Fenris’ from the market and delivered the blow of her news from Starkhaven. He wasn’t certain if he felt more saddened or relieved by her absence. There was a time—

No. It was clear enough to him now that whatever friendship they’d once shared was ended. Perhaps she wished him no specific ill will, perhaps she was even willing to risk letting him go out into the world, but he’d lost her companionship. He knew it. And that knowledge ached far more deeply than the wound in his breast.

“Are you in pain?” Amelle asked, her fingertips glowing faintly blue-silver as they hovered above the bandage.

Sebastian shook his head, cursing his expression for betraying him. “No pain that can be healed, I’m afraid. Only dark thoughts I’ve brought on myself.”

Amelle pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You can—I would—do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “Thank you, but no. This is… this is a pain I deserve to feel, Amelle.”

Amelle frowned, and he felt a last trickle of the now-familiar hotcold thrum of her healing magic. It swept through him from head to toe, chasing away the minor aches and pains along with the major ones. The headache he’d felt brewing disappeared so abruptly he couldn’t help releasing a sigh of relief. 

Changing the subject, she said, “You still look tired. Are you taking the sleeping draughts?”

He didn’t want to lie to her, so he said nothing at all.

“Sebastian, it’ll help. Sleep is the great healer, you know. _Maker_ , between you and Kiara…” Amelle’s expression darkened. “You’re only making things harder for yourself. I don’t tell you these things or give you these potions to _annoy_ you.”

“I know, Amelle,” he said dutifully. “And I do appreciate what you’ve done. I do not—”

She held up a silencing hand. “I will break your nose if you so much as _think_ the word _deserve_ at me. Are we understood?”

“Perfectly,” he said, with a faint smile.

“Good,” she replied, gathering her supplies. “I’ve had enough of that. Take the bloody sleeping draught tonight, will you? And I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Amelle,” he called out, just as she reached the door. “Thank you. For… thank you.”

She waved off his thanks, rolling her eyes slightly and offering him a crooked smile. “Sleep,” she commanded. “That’s how you can thank me.”

He sat at the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the patch of faded carpet between his feet, thinking about Connall. Three days. Three days he’d bided his time, _waiting_ , when he could have been three days closer to embracing his brother once again, or to wringing the neck of the man pretending to _be_ him.

When he raised his head, the first thing he saw was the glittering bottle of potion Amelle had left behind. He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding the vial into the top drawer of his desk along with all the other unopened bottles. Doubtless Amelle would find them there later and send a curse his way, but by then he would be too far away to hear it.

After another silent meal, Sebastian bid Fenris a good night. He wanted to thank his friend too, but so obvious a deviation from their habits would, he feared, be noted and remarked upon. So Sebastian only clapped a congenial hand to Fenris’ shoulder before climbing the stairs to his own chamber.

He hoped Hawke would not hold Fenris responsible when she discovered Sebastian gone.

Sebastian went through the motions of preparing for sleep, knowing Fenris often checked on him before retiring himself. His left side hardly ached at all when he pulled his shirt over his head, and he knew, week or none, he was well enough to travel. It mightn’t be _easy_ , but it was possible. He didn’t allow himself to think too hard on the difficulty of the mountain passes even at full health, to say nothing of spending so long in the saddle after convalescence—and so little practice. He was certain. Starkhaven called. His brother called. The Maker would guide him through any trials.

He tried to write to Hawke, but after six or seven failed attempts—Amelle would find these, too, he realized, if she cared to look in the basket beneath his desk—he gave up.

He waited until full dark, until even the sounds of late-night revelers faded to silence. Fenris came and went, silent as ever, betrayed only by the streak of light the open door sent across the dark room. Even then, Sebastian waited. At last, when he’d heard nothing for at least an hour, Sebastian rose from his bed and dressed in his borrowed clothes. Sliding his arms into his shirt, he missed the comfort of his armor, just for a moment. He shook his head. He would be traveling incognito, and he wore the proof scarred into his skin of just how conspicuous a target his fine white armor had made him.

He felt naked with neither weapon nor armor, but the Starkhaven bow was lost once again. From what he’d gathered from Fenris and Amelle’s veiled comments, recovering a bow with a broken string had not been first and foremost on their minds when they’d stumbled across him. He could hardly blame them. If the scar was anything to go by, he supposed he’d made a pretty distracting sight.

No matter. He would find another, once he was safely out of Kirkwall.

Over the past three days, he had carefully mapped out the creaks and groans in the floor of the mansion, and following this internal map, he was able to slip down the stairs and across the foyer silently. The half-patched hole in the wall taunted him, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Earlier, when Fenris was out, he had greased the hinges of the front door in preparation for his escape, so it made no sound as he slid outside and into the waiting dark—

—And saw Hawke, lounging against a pillar, looking for all the world as though she _always_ spent her nights leaning on obliging Hightown masonry.

They stared at each other. Swallowing hard, he wondered if she could hear how loudly his heart was beating. There was certainly no _other_ sound to distract from it.

At last, Hawke asked, “Did you honestly think I’d let you go alone?”

His mouth opened. And closed. Then he hung his head. “I…”

She sighed heavily. “I suppose I should be glad you waited this long. I’ve actually been ready since the day after I told you about the letter. Come on. We’ve a boat to catch. Ship. Whatever.”

Still baffled, he raised his eyes, but her expression was inscrutable. He could not tell if she was amused or angry or disappointed or some incomprehensible blend of all three. “What are you—?”

Hawke crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow accusingly. “Please tell me you weren’t considering braving the mountain passes in your condition.”

“You know Starkhaven is on the other side of a… mountain range.”

She snorted skeptically. “And _you_ know Starkhaven is reachable by sea. And then river. In a good enough boat. Ship. With a good enough captain.”

“I would need to find a ship. And such a captain.”

“ _We_ ,” she challenged. “And luckily I’ve taken care of both.”

Baffled, he echoed, “You’ve taken care of both.”

She grimaced at him and scrubbed one hand through her long hair. “Honestly, Sebastian. The mountains? What? _On a horse_?”

After another very long pause, he said, “I… think you may be right, Hawke.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “I often am, but about what in particular?”

“The Maker has a sense of humor.”

One corner of her mouth did turn up at this. Then she reached up and pulled a bow from her back. Only then did he notice she was carrying two. And of course he recognized the one she held out to him instantly, its lines and curves as familiar to him as the backs of his own hands.

“Hawke…”

“I had it restrung,” she said, tone carefully matter-of-fact.

“Hawke.”

She continued as though he had not spoken. “Right now it’s for looks. Don’t even _think_ about using it. Amelle would have my bloody head. To say nothing of—”

“ _Kiara._ ”

None of them—save Amelle, of course—used her given name often, and his invocation of it now made her pause mid-sentence, eyes widening. Even in the moonlight, he saw the faint blush marking her cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said, stepping close to take the bow from her. She released it, but didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Yes. Well. Hate to see my companions poorly outfitted. Just try not to… lose it again. Deal?”

He bowed as deeply as his wound would allow. She took a step backward and glanced around, as though expecting to see someone else—someone he might bow to—standing just behind her.

“Come on then,” she said, wiggling her fingers in his direction. “The others are waiting.”

“Others?”

This brought a grin to her face, and banished the last of her perturbation. “You didn’t think _we_ were going _alone_ , did you?”

“I… had rather intended to go alone all along, if you recall.”

She scowled. “Honestly, Sebastian. Who do you think is going to drive the boat?”

#

The trouble with boats, Sebastian realized in short order, was that they were _small_. And the trouble with _small_ was that it made staying out of the way exponentially more difficult. After Isabela laughed off his offer of help—”Oh, Princess, even if I wanted to let you climb the rigging you can’t for a _second_ think Hawke would _permit it._ I have sailors. You’re not one of them. We’re taking a ship to give you time to heal. Go… do that.”—he discovered just how little space a ship had to spare. Especially one made to be light and fast, like Castillon’s. Every inch was accounted for, and even having only necessary crew, he still found himself constantly in the way.

Even when he finally retreated to the cabin he shared with Varric, the poor dwarf was so miserable and so sick, and gazed at him with such pleading eyes, that Sebastian could only do as he bade and leave the poor man to his privacy and his retching. Trying to make himself small, he found a place at the port railing and he watched the coastline speed by.

Even with all the activity, even with the sailors in the rigging and the ship carving its way through the waters of the Waking Sea, even with Isabela shouting orders and the wind in his hair, Sebastian couldn’t help feeling the weight of time pressing on him. Everything seemed too slow, too unsteady, too unusual. From the moment Hawke had looked at him and revealed the change of rulership—again—in Starkhaven, he’d felt a pressing compulsion to go, go _faster_ , and even though he was doing all he could, it never quite seemed enough.

Hawke. He did not know what to think of _her_ at all. One one hand, she’d been such a strange mixture of curt and concerned ever since he woke from the strange place between worlds to find himself very much alive, and very much ashamed of the things he’d said and done just before his brush with the afterlife. On the other, he couldn’t help wondering at her presence. He’d have thought she’d be glad to rid herself of him. He’d half-expected her to wash her hands of him entirely as soon as the opportunity to do so made itself available.

Then again, perhaps she feared… the things he’d promised in the heat of his anger about the chantry’s destruction. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the words to explain. Instead he stayed silent, and she stayed silent, and they danced around each other. Perhaps this, then, was the reason she seemed loath to let him from her sight; she no longer trusted him.

He wondered if he trusted himself, sometimes. The reaction to hearing about his… this man claiming to be his brother had been sudden and visceral and so overwhelming. When he thought now how nearly he’d just run from the house, broken body and all, it galled him.

Hawke was right about that much: a mountain crossing in his condition would certainly have ended in death. It was only that it hadn’t seemed so dire at the time. The longer he remained on deck, the more the fresh salt air cleared his mind, the more he looked back on his recent behavior with dismay and no small amount of abhorrence.

As if called by his thoughts, he heard a soft sigh beside him and looked down to see Hawke herself approaching. She did not look at him at first, choosing instead to lean against the railing and gaze out over the green coastline, as he had been doing.

“The last time I was on a boat,” she said, just quietly enough that he had to strain to hear over the roar of sea and sailors, “we were fleeing Ferelden. I had… no idea we wouldn’t be going back. Mother was inconsolable and I made myself indispensable so the captain would let me help. Turns out I had a knack for scaling masts and taking insane risks.” She sent a sad, slantwise smile his way and shook her head slightly, “I know, I know; it’s shocking to imagine me a risk-taker. It was just… I thought if they’d let me _do_ things, I wouldn’t have to sit below thinking about how I hadn’t saved my baby brother from that ogre. After _everything._ ” Even now her hands gripped the railing tightly enough to whiten the knuckles.

“And… Amelle?” he asked. “Was she climbing the rigging with you?”

Hawke smiled slightly, but not enough to erase the expression of worry and distress that had plagued her since… well, that had persisted as long as he’d been awake. He feared this troubled Hawke was permanent. He did not have words adequate to explain how this saddened him.

“Let’s just say Varric and Amelle seem to have reaction to sea travel in common. You’d think she could do something to heal herself, but… I don’t know if it was the constant movement of the boat or what, but she couldn’t stabilize herself. So mostly she was sick. And then sick again. But… she gave Mother something to worry about.” Hawke sighed again. “Perhaps it was better that way. Seven years ago now. It hardly seems possible. It feels a lifetime. I hardly recognize myself, looking back.”

“I understand all too well.”

Again the pained, anxious shadow fell over her countenance. “I… imagine you do.”

He settled himself next to her, leaning on the railing. Their elbows brushed. “I confess I… am surprised Amelle did not wish to join you. I had rather expected to see her already aboard.”

Hawke turned away sharply, but not before he saw her face burn red. “I didn’t give her the option.”

“ _What_?” Sebastian hadn’t meant the word to emerge so accusatory, but he could tell from the set of Hawke’s shoulders it had struck home.

Hunching forward, she said, “Kirkwall is safe, for now. I… wanted her to be safe, too. There’s… no telling how long it will last. What happened… we all know what happened will have repercussions, and likely of the kind to shake the whole world to its foundations. She… deserves to rest. Before we must run again, hide again. She… she deserves the rest.”

Before he could check himself, he said, “And it has nothing to do with the argument you had?”

Hawke went carefully still. “Nothing whatsoever.”

He wanted to tell her he didn’t believe her. He’d _been_ there, after all, witness to the anger, the accusations made on both sides, the weapons drawn and words spoken. He wanted to tell her he didn’t believe her, but instead he stood straight and laid a hand on her shoulder and said nothing at all. He felt her take a deep breath, and when she raised her face to the spray, he thought some of the droplets on her cheeks were tears.

“Besides,” Hawke said, and he had to hand it to her, he only heard the tears in her voice because he was listening for them, “she did accuse me of smothering her. It’ll… it’ll do us some good to spend some time apart.”

Sebastian frowned. “And you’re… you know it will be at least a month, even if you simply turn around in the harbor.”

She snorted. “It’ll be longer than that, I imagine. I’m not planning on pitching you over the side in Starkhaven and running off again.”

Because part of him had been imagining just that, he said nothing to this, either. She turned thoughtful again, and scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “When we were children, Mother used to tell us to walk away from arguments before things were said or done that could never be unsaid or undone. She told us to go away and think about why we were angry, and not to confront each other until we were ready to speak without shouting. It… didn’t always work. I… wish I’d walked away from _that_ argument when it was happening, but everything seemed so _wrong_ and we… so many people died. So many people died. My emotions—our emotions—were running so _high_ and… we should have walked away. Mother would have told us to go stand in opposite corners.”

Hawke stood straight and gave her entire body a little shake, as though in attempt to cast off some of the heaviness. Whatever it was appeared to meet with some success, when she turned her head, her eyes shone with something entirely different from tears. “Besides, Amelle’s… well looked after.”

Sebastian felt his own lips quiver. “Hawke. You didn’t.”

“I did have to plead my case with Fenris somewhat, otherwise you know he’d be here. Aveline was happy to look in. Cullen, I grant you, was a hard sell, but…”

“You asked the acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall to… look out for your apostate sister?” he asked, incredulous.

“I like Cullen. I think he even likes me, as much as his devotion to duty allows him to like _anyone_. I trust him to keep her out of trouble. And I’m pretty sure he’ll do it without asking her to become the founding member of a brand new Circle.”

“You know Amelle’s going to be _murderous_ when she finds out you’ve hired a bevy of babysitters for her.”

Her smile very nearly crossed the line into smirk. “I know. Smothering indeed, right? I suppose change comes with baby steps.”

“Remind me never to cross you, Hawke,” he replied. His tone was amused, but the words—the words themselves were spoken carelessly. He heard them fall from his lips, and their weightier meaning made his stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the roll of the ship beneath him. Her eyes widened just slightly, and the smile faded.

“Don’t cross me, Sebastian,” she said, immediately enough for it to merely be a jest, but her own voice was so sad any ghost of mirth was stolen from it.

“Hawke, I—”

Again she gave herself a little shake. “Especially when I tell you I came out here to force you you let me look at that wound. Don’t think I don’t see how gingerly you’re carrying yourself. Or that because Amelle’s not here you’ll be allowed to let it fester and kill you. She worked too hard to have you undo all her efforts out of sheer stubbornness.”

He didn’t cross her. Instead, he followed her belowdecks and into her little cabin. Evidently she was not forced to share, and though the room was by necessity small, the distinct lack of vomiting dwarf made it infinitely more comfortable than his own. Waving him toward the bunk, she began rifling through her pack until she removed a store of potion bottles and bandages.

In her most businesslike tone she ordered him to remove his shirt. He hesitated. “Come on, Sebastian,” she said with mock sweetness. “Can’t have you going all shy every time the healer needs to do her work.”

With a sigh, he complied. He could tell by her expression she meant to make some kind of deflective joke, but he saw it die on her lips before she spoke it aloud. Somehow this seemed immeasurably sad to him—if Hawke could no longer jest around him, her discomfort must be great indeed. Lowering her eyes, she stepped toward him… and the sudden list of the ship sent her sprawling. His hands went up instinctually to catch her, but her weight and the awkwardness was too much for his weakened left side and he gasped at the sudden pain.

Hawke righted herself almost instantly, her face concerned as she brushed his hands away from her waist. “Damn it,” she said, a little breathless, a little panicky. “Damn it. _Boats_. Are you—no, hold still. Just… hold still.” 

Her fingers were gentle as they began to unwind the bandage, but still he winced as she skated over the tender skin. She was murmuring to herself under her breath; if she’d been Amelle, he’d have thought she was whispering an incantation, but Hawke’s words were more liberally peppered with equal measures of curses and prayers. “Hawke,” he said, and she stopped, meeting his gaze with wide, terrified eyes. “It was only the suddenness; I’m fine. It’s healing.”

She shook her head, clearly disbelieving, and pulled the last poultice away. The wound looked a thousand times better than it had, certainly, though it was still a little inflamed and the scar was angry. Scar it was, though; the torn edges mended, the flesh whole. She stared at the scar for a long moment before pressing her fingertips to the flesh. He shuddered under her touch, and, embarrassingly, Maker help him, felt his heart begin to race.

She frowned, and her hand darted up to test the pulse at his throat. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

He considered it the greatest feat of his life that he managed to reply without sounding strangled. “I’m fine.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’d tell me if you weren’t.” It wasn’t a question, and the way she spoke revealed how little she believed the truth of it.

As if to prove himself, he forced himself to speak honestly, “It hurts. I—you have just proven to me how much rehabilitation I must do, but it hurts the way a healing thing hurts, not the way a broken thing hurts.” He tried to smile for her, though he wasn’t sure how successfully he managed it. “Once you have your sea legs, I won’t do anything more to aggravate it, I promise.”

“And you’ll… can I apply another poultice? Just to be sure?”

He nodded. “ _And_ I’ll even submit to those wretched healing potions.”

And he did. After she’d finished her ministrations and he’d choked down one of the potions and replaced his shirt, she scuffed her toes along the floorboards—careful now to have hold of something sturdy to prevent tumbling—and she said, “Thank you. For… not arguing about that. It’s just…” she trailed into silence and nibbled anxiously at her bottom lip. She looked about to speak, but said nothing.

“What is it, Hawke?” he urged.

She blinked, startled, and said, “When you worry for so long about… things. It’s hard. To stop. Even when you know you… you _should_ be able to stop.” She inhaled deeply and blew out an exhale heavy with relief. He free hand reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and he was of half a mind to force her to take one of the healing potions, too, for her headache. Before he could speak, however, she continued, “I need to see it to believe it. Because… I worried. For so long. About… things.”

“Hawke…”

“So thank you. That’s all. Now I… I promised Isabela I would help in the galley. I… should do that.”

“May I—would you permit me to help you?”

She froze and blinked at him again before replying, “You want to… help cook?”

“Unless, in your expert healer’s opinion, you believe peeling potatoes is beyond me.”

Finally she smiled a proper, genuine smile. This time he was glad her fingertips were nowhere near his skin to feel the way his pulse stuttered at the sight; he would not so easily have been able to explain it away.

“No,” she said, “I daresay you can manage that much. Don’t start getting any funny ideas about progressing to cracking eggs or plucking chickens, though. Start small.”

She offered him a hand up, and it felt better than the healing potion had when he took it and she didn’t immediately cringe away again.

“Potatoes,” he intoned with mock seriousness. “No more. For now.”


	30. Chapter 30

When morning dawned, Kirkwall found itself short one Champion, one prince, one pirate, and one dwarf.  Fenris knew perfectly well Hawke and the others had set sail hours earlier, and were now well on their way to Starkhaven.  And if the city seemed a little quieter for the absence, the elf knew the difference was largely in his own mind.  

He walked the short distance from the mansion to the Hawke estate as the midmorning sun warmed the stones beneath his feet, wondering how much about her errand Hawke had chosen to share with her sister.  He also wondered just how much he was going to have to _explain_ to her sister, and how furious she was going to be.

The maid seemed surprised to see him, though perhaps because he so seldom remained behind when Hawke went off on one job or another.

“Messere,” she said, peering at him in unmasked confusion.  “Mistress Kiara is—is away from home this morning.  She left when it was still full dark.  I thought you—”

“Hawke required that I remain in Kirkwall,” Fenris replied as he inclined his head.  “I am here to speak with her sister.”

“Oh!  Oh, but Mistress Amelle is still…” Biting her lip, Orana cast a worried look behind her.  “She’s still sleeping, messere.”

“But it is full morning,” he replied, brows drawing together in a mix of confusion and concern.  “I had always been under the impression Amelle preferred an earlier start to her day.”  Indeed, it was more than an _impression._   Amelle attributed it to her spirit healing abilities, but to hear Hawke tell it, her sister was simply a morning person.  Hawke typically added in the same breath that it was nothing short of a miracle Amelle had survived this long.

Orana opened the door wider.  “She does, messere.  Normally.  But I just looked in on her, and she’s still sound asleep.”

“Perhaps she discovered her sister’s plan to leave and saw her off,” Fenris said, but even as he spoke the words, they sounded improbable.  If Amelle discovered Hawke’s plan to sneak out of Kirkwall in the dead of night, the whole of the Free Marches would have heard the row.  Things were still tense between the sisters, and if this move of Hawke’s provoked anything less than an explosive — potentially _literally_ — reaction from her sister, Fenris was going to be greatly surprised.

Orana, however, didn’t seem to think it was such a far-fetched notion.  She tilted her head in that queer, birdlike way she had before opening the door fully and granting him entrance.  “Do you think she might have?” she asked as he stepped inside.  The mabari, Killer, bounded into the room, panting happily and wagging his stubby tail at Fenris — this was enough to satisfy the elf nothing was terribly amiss.  When the dog rolled over and presented its underside for scratching, Fenris was considerably reassured.

He still didn’t think it was probable that Amelle had discovered her sister’s plan, but only said, “I think, if she is still asleep, then we must consider the possibility.”  After a beat, he added, “Regardless, I have need to speak with Amelle when she _does_ wake.”

“Would you like to wait in the library?” 

“If it would not pose any imposition,” he said, crouching down to pet the dog.  Orana made a move as if to escort him, but Fenris held up a hand. “Please, do not trouble yourself.  I know the way.”  Killer’s head lolled to the side as he looked up at Fenris, those great jaws opening wide and revealing impossibly sharp teeth just before the hound’s great pink tongue unfurled and fell out as it panted happily.

Orana nodded, offering a small smile.  “Yes, I… I guess you do.  I could try waking—” 

“No.  I will wait.  It is no trouble.”

“I’ll… I’ll let her know you’re here, once she’s awake, messere,” she said, taking a few steps toward the kitchen.  “Is there… is there anything you’d like while you wait?  There’s some tea, and I’ve just taken bread from the oven.”

He was about to insist such attention was unnecessary when his stomach betrayed him by growling loudly. Even the mabari tilted his head and let out a whine at the undignified sound. Orana ducked her head, almost more embarrassed than he, and said, “I’ll bring breakfast to the library, messere. Really, it’s no trouble. I don’t mind. With Mistress Kiara gone, I’ve made too much.”

This time Fenris didn’t bother protesting. He merely inclined his head. The elf girl dipped into something _far_ too close to a curtsey for his comfort and darted away, leaving Fenris to saunter to the library at a much more leisurely pace. Killer kept him company, staying close to heel and occasionally nudging his head up under Fenris’ hand in search of scratches. Fenris obliged.

It would probably help to have the hound on his side once Amelle woke. Perhaps if Killer stayed close, Amelle would think twice about dropping an enraged firestorm on his head. He hoped.

Availing himself of a familiar tome, Fenris sat in his favorite chair near the fire. Killer sat at his side, large head resting in his lap. He had been working with Hawke some time on his reading, but the intricacies of the study still eluded him. Hawke was unceasingly patient with him, but he often wondered if she despaired of him ever learning properly. Once a week for three years—give or take—he’d sat beside her while she patiently listened to him sounding out words. It had taken him months to properly puzzle out the alphabet, and then months more to figure out how those queer squiggles formed actual words. For all his frustration—and oh, his frustration was great indeed—he would not have traded those evenings, or that knowledge, for anything. He had trouble admitting it even to himself, but he would miss the lessons whilst Hawke was gone. For an instant, he wondered if he might prevail upon Amelle to aid him in her sister’s stead, but something about that thought sat ill with him. Amelle knew he was learning to read, certainly, but for some reason he didn’t want her to know just how hard he _struggled_ with it.

Orana came and went, toting a tray heaped high with food, waving away his thanks with a smile and a blush and another little bob of deference. “Sorry, messere. Still sleeping,” she replied before he could ask. “And… the pup will beg for all he’s worth, but please don’t give him the bacon. Mistress Kiara’s a little concerned about his weight.”

Killer whined—probably affronted at being called _pup_ by an elf who likely weighed less than he did—and gave first Orana and then Fenris a mournful look.

As soon as the maid disappeared again, leaving Fenris to solitude and breakfast, the elf broke off a piece of the forbidden food and slipped it to the mabari. “We’ll walk that off later,” Fenris told the hound seriously. “Twice around the market.”

Killer once again gave his mabari-sized grin, tongue lolling. Fenris threw another morsel of meat, and as the hound leapt for it, Fenris heard a door slam and a woman’s shout—Amelle’s shout, “I’m going to _bloody kill her!_ ”—and footsteps upon the stair.

Fenris had a moment to prepare himself—evidently Hawke had told her sister _very little_ , if anything about her plans, if the shouting and the cursing were any indication—before the library door slammed open to reveal a sleep-tousled, nightgown-clad, _very irate_ Amelle Hawke.  Upon finding him in the library, Amelle startled — eyes widening, her lips parting in surprise — evidently as unprepared to see him as he was to see her in… such a state.  

“Fenris,” she blurted, blinking at him, her mouth working silently — as if she had more questions than she could _ask_ at that moment.  She held up one hand, and in it he saw a crumpled piece of paper.  Amelle closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out again before asking, in _barely_ controlled tones, “When did she leave?”  A thin tendril of smoke slithered up from the hand clutching the paper.

“Before dawn,” Fenris replied honestly.  “I did not know myself when she planned to leave, only that she—”

“Only that she _planned_ to leave.”  And Amelle’s disappointment — disappointment in _him,_ he knew — was so evident, Fenris could not help his grimace.  “You knew she was going to leave.  Everyone knew, and no one _told_ me?”

“It was for your sister to do,” he said, pushing from the seat and standing opposite her.  “She ought to have told you her plans, but she did not.  Possibly she was concerned—”

“She _drugged me_ , Fenris.”

Fenris stared.  Killed cocked his head and made an inquisitive whine, deep in his throat.

“Hawke… drugged you,” he echoed.

“Drugged me,” she said again, her eyes hard.  More smoke slithered up from the paper she held.  “So she could sneak out of the house.  So I wouldn’t _hear her_ sneak out of the house.”  With that, she tipped her head back and _shouted_ at the ceiling, “Andraste’s _ass_ , Kiara, it’s not bloody _stealth_ if you have to _drug me_ to sneak _out of the house._ ”  Then, with a vivid curse, Amelle threw the wadded-up and smoldering note into the fire, then _stamped her foot_ , adding, “Worst rogue _ever_!”

Fenris was still struggling with the fact that Hawke had _drugged_ _her sister_.  True, Hawke’s behavior had been… unusual lately, but such a measure was nothing short of bewildering. “You are… _certain_ she drugged you.”

The look Amelle gave him was more than enough to answer that question.  “She said as much in her _note._ ”  She looked disdainfully at the fire; the paper curled and darkened as flames ate away at it.  “Honestly,” she muttered, bringing her hands up to rub at her temples.  “My _own sister._ ”

It was, Fenris thought, _possible_ that Hawke had resorted to such an extreme measure out of a misguided attempt to avoid yet another row with Amelle.  He didn’t know how likely that was, but he was just about to suggest it as a possibility when Amelle lowered her hands and blew out a deep breath and regarded him, cocking her head to the side and saying, “But if you’re here, that means she left you behind too.  So… I suppose I’m in good company.”  Then, on a sigh, she added, “But I’ll wager she didn’t drug you.”

Frowning, Fenris turned to face the fire.  “You are… at least partially correct.”

Raking her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth down the errant, tousled strands, she came to stand closer to him, nearer the fire.  “Only partially?”

Fenris turned his head to look at Amelle, but at this distance he saw only too well the way the firelight played against the material of her nightgown — the very _thin_ material of her nightgown — revealing shadowy curves beneath.  The wide neckline revealed an expanse of pale skin and the gentle curve of her collarbone down to what he _knew_ was the slope of her breasts.  Fenris — with some effort — met Amelle’s eyes briefly before looking again at the fire.

“Your sister asked that I might… look in on you in her absence.”

He was only realizing _now_ the hidden difficulties in Hawke’s request.

Beside him, Amelle went so suddenly, carefully still, Fenris very nearly took a step backward. The mabari whined deep in his throat and butted his head against Amelle’s thigh. She blinked down at him, and he gave a brief bark, wagging his entire rump.

“Yes, well, you’re hardly absolved of guilt, either,” Amelle told the hound. “She probably left _you_ behind as a babysitter, too.”

Killer hung his head.

Fenris was almost of a mind to echo the gesture himself. In all his thoughts on the subject, he’d never considered Hawke would simply flee without revealing _anything_ of her plans to her sister. He’d _certainly_ never imagined petty trickery and misapplied sleeping draughts might enter the equation. Then he remembered how… how strangely deflective she’d been when she’d asked his help, and how she’d kept her eyes on the floor. Of course she’d never intended to tell Amelle anything at all.

Perhaps he ought to have asked harder questions. Perhaps he ought not to have acceded quite so easily.

“She went to Starkhaven?” Amelle asked at last. Fenris could hear the undercurrent of frustration in her voice, ever so slightly tinged with rage.

“Did she not say in her note?”

Amelle glowered up at him, rolling her eyes. “Let’s say _forthcoming_ and _Kiara_ are two words that cannot be said to go together in any way, shape, or form.”

“I believe she intended to accompany Sebastian, yes.”

“It has _not_ been a fortnight. I told him he needed a fortnight. Maker’s balls, Fenris! What possessed her? Oh, I _understand_ that _he_ didn’t want to wait, but if you’re going to accompany a man who was _mortally wounded_ on a mad errand, don’t you _think_ you should bring the resident healer?”

Fenris was saved answering by another knock on the door. Orana poked her head in. Fenris saw her glance between him and Amelle, taking in the latter’s half-dressed state. “Ah, Mistress Amelle…”

“Oh, what _now_?” Amelle griped. “A platoon of guards at the door, come to ring the estate? A bevy of nursemaids hired to make certain I don’t stub my bloody toe?”

From behind Orana came Aveline’s familiar voice. “I’m not a platoon, and I’m certainly not a nursemaid.”

“The guard-captain is here,” Orana added unnecessarily.

When the maid stepped aside, Aveline entered. She was outfitted in her armor from head to heel, looking as though she fully intended to head out and immediately engage in battle somewhere. Perhaps that wasn’t even so far off the mark—as Fenris understood it, a great deal of responsibility had fallen to Aveline and the guard in the wake of… recent events. Aveline certainly looked as though she bore the weight of the world—or at least of Kirkwall—on her shoulders. Her skin was even paler than usual, and under her freckles, she looked bruised with exhaustion. But her eyes were alert, and they darted from Fenris to Amelle, taking in the scene with disturbing quickness. Her brow arched, doubtless at the nightgown. Fenris only regarded her steadily. After a moment, Aveline snorted and shook her head. “You’re the very last person I expected to see here, Fenris,” she said at last.

Amelle narrowed her eyes. “That you haven’t asked to see Kiara speaks volumes, Aveline. Don’t tell me—”

Aveline’s lips turned up in a weary smile. “I won’t tell you if you don’t ask.”

On an inarticulate growl, Amelle muttered, “I am going to _kill her_.”

Aveline sighed and took a few steps forward.  “Don’t be too hard on Hawke, Amelle.  Kirkwall’s incredibly unstable right now, but it’s a _known_ evil, for whatever that’s worth.  What may look like an overreaction on the surface are just the actions of a worried sister who—”

Amelle broke in flatly, “Who drugged me.”

“She _what?_ ”

Amelle crossed her arms over her chest.  “My sister drugged me so she could sneak out of the house without waking me.”

Aveline shot Fenris a baffled look, but he only raised his shoulders in a shrug.  “It would appear Hawke’s behavior has been…” he wrestled with the words, but Amelle had no difficulty finding language descriptive enough:

“Nuttier than a sodding _fruitcake?_ ”

Aveline grimaced and shifted her weight, armor clanking softly with the movement.  “It’s hard to argue with _that_.”  She tipped her head to the side and regarded Amelle, who was scowling stormily into the fire.  “Her execution left something — okay, _a lot_ — to be desired, but her motives were pure, Amelle.  Angry as you are, she just wants to keep you safe.”

For all that Fenris agreed with Aveline, he also recalled Hawke’s words the night she’d asked him to watch over Amelle — it was true, she wanted Amelle to be safe, but more than that, she didn’t want her sister to chafe, but rather to be _happy_ , as happy as she’d been the night she’d delivered Ianna’s babe, and such happiness stood a better chance of being found in the clinic than on a ship to Starkhaven.  

But despite Fenris’ thoughts on the matter, he could see it wasn’t the right thing to say, especially if Amelle’s darkening scowl was any indication, but the way she wrestled with her response made it plain she didn’t blame Aveline, who at times seemed as much of an elder sister as Hawke was.  She rubbed hard at her forehead and said, “I know, Aveline.  I just wish…”  

Aveline’s grin was a tired one, but genuinely fond, crinkling the corners of her eyes.  “She wouldn’t be such a blighted ass about it?”

“That would be a start.  And then she could maybe _not_ spike my warm milk before bed.”

Aveline nodded.  “Goes without saying.  Regardless of Hawke’s lack of finesse, if you need anything, Amelle, just holler.”

#

The last time Cullen had walked this route, it had been under Meredith Stannard’s order to… _collect_ Amelle Hawke and bring her to the Gallows for _questioning_ , which, of course, was simply another way of saying _apprehend the apostate_.  

Now he was making the very same trip under very different circumstances.  This time he was not seeking Amelle Hawke in order to have her inducted into the Circle of Magi, but rather to… look in on her — a request that still left Cullen utterly baffled.  Not only did it baffle him, but accepting Hawke’s request ran entirely counter to every tenet he’d committed to memory during all his years in the Order.  

_“I would appreciate it if you looked in on her from time to time.”_

He could pretend he had no idea what had possessed him to agree to Hawke’s request, but he’d have been lying to himself.  He knew why he’d said yes.  It had nothing to do with Hawke, and everything to do with other, older debts that hung upon him.

Oh, but there was still the question of _duty_ , and what that meant — no good came from granting lenience to mages, Cullen knew.  But if he were to look in on Amelle Hawke in her sister’s stead, would he not also be fulfilling a templar’s responsibility to protect others from the mage and the mage from herself?  It was, perhaps, a fuzzy interpretation of responsibilities, but not an outright _violation,_ provided one ignored a few… key facts.

Cullen was still trying to work out the particulars in a way that wouldn’t make his conscience twinge too horribly.  It was a work in progress. He certainly hadn’t come to any hard and fast conclusions by the time he reached the Hawke Estate.

Before raising his hand to knock, Cullen glanced around him. Hightown was still putting itself back to rights. Too many blocks of soot-stained white stone still sprouted from places where no stone ought to have been. Many wealthy enough to do so had fled Kirkwall entirely, taking their money and what little they could salvage to less violent climes. More fools they, he thought with some bitterness. If the dull rumblings in his correspondence meant what he dreaded they meant, there might soon be no place in Thedas safe to hide. It was the Blight all over again, but worse.

This time, after all, the enemy didn’t wear the twisted faces of monsters. There was no Archdemon to confront and slay. All the lines were so blurry, he didn’t see how anyone could possibly emerge, bloody sword aloft, to claim the title Hero and set the world to rights again.

He wished it were that blighted simple.

A few of the Hightown folk were beginning to slant confused, concerned looks in his direction, and he realized he’d been standing before the door for some time. On a heavy sigh, he raised his gauntleted fist and brought it down on the heavy wood.

The door opened with rather alarming rapidity, as though the little elf girl on the other side had been _waiting_. By the expression on her face, whatever—or whomever—she’d been waiting for had certainly not been a templar in full plate. Her mouth opened in a terrified ‘o’ and she clung to the door as if desiring nothing more than to slam it shut once again and pretend she’d never heard the knocking.

After a very long moment, Cullen heard Amelle from within. “Now who is it, Orana? By all means, send them in. We’re having quite the party here this morning, aren’t we? Varric, is that you?”

Without finding her voice, or losing her wide-eyed horror, the maid stepped backward, dragging the door open. Cullen gave her a smile he thought was bolstering, but she only squeaked and bowed her head.

Amelle took that moment to sweep into the foyer, and suddenly Cullen was certain his expression exactly matched the one the elf maid was wearing. He felt his jaw drop. Amelle was clad in a billowing nightgown, one strap slipping from her shoulder, and her figure silhouetted in some detail by the firelight behind her. Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Cullen took a half-step backward and ducked his head, fixing his gaze _very steadily_ on the stones beneath his feet.

“Maker’s bloody _breath_ , this _day_ ,” Amelle growled. “Honestly, have you just been _waiting_ for the minute my sister left town?”

“Your timing is… curious, templar,” came another voice, low and warning. Cullen hazarded a glance up, his cheeks still burning. The tattooed elf stood just behind Amelle’s right shoulder; Guard-Captain Aveline stood behind the other.

“I’m—” Cullen began, only to be cut off once again by the mage.

“You’ve got to be _kidding me_. I know we’re not _friends_ or anything, Knight-Commander, but… I am not going to be the founding member of a new Circle. I don’t know what you—”

Cullen raised his hands in silent surrender. _Maker’s breath_ , every time he _came_ to this house he ended up fearing for his life. “Your sister—”

“Isn’t here,” Amelle gritted out. “Nor I think is she like to be for some time.”

“Hawke’s absence is not an invitation for your interference,” Fenris added.

“Actually—” Cullen attempted, only to have the guard-captain take a step forward, hand on the hilt of her sword.

“Best go back where you came from, Knight-Commander,” Aveline warned, her tone menacing.

“Maker’s _balls_!” Cullen spat, the invective temporarily startling everyone into silence. “Hawke’s the one who _sent_ me.”

Silence crashed down all around them as Amelle, the elf — Cullen was nearly certain his name was Fenris but did not think _now_ was the time to _ask_ , and Guard-Captain Aveline _stared_ at him.  Amelle’s mouth hung open now and she swung around, making that blighted nightgown billow even more, and said to the guard-captain, “Drugged me, skipped town, and then _called the templars_ on me?  Still think her motives were pure, Aveline?”

The guard-captain made a pained face, then looked again at Cullen, the steel back in her green eyes.  “What is your business here, Knight-Commander?”

“It’s only _acting_ Knight-Commander, Guard-Captain,” he said as placatingly as he dared.  “And it’s as I said: Hawke sent me.”

“I doubt Hawke would have left town for the sole purpose of committing her sister to the Circle,” she replied.  Cullen shook his head.

“She didn’t send me for that.”  He looked between the elf and guard-captain, both regarding him with suspicion that bordered on outright distrust.  “Hawke simply asked if I might… look in on her sister in her absence.”

Folding her arms over her chest — and Cullen cursed her nightgown once more as she did, forcing his gaze _firmly_ on her eyes — Amelle arched an eyebrow and looked from Cullen, to Fenris, to Aveline.

“You know,” she drawled, “it’s starting to look to _me_ as if my _loving sister_ was worried less about _my safety_ and more concerned with what horrible mischief I might get into in her absence.  You know the old saying about the cat being away…”

Aveline heaved a long-suffering sigh.  “Be reasonable, Amelle.  It’s true enough that Hawke… _overdid_ things a bit—”

“Gee, do you think so?” riposted Amelle with an arch look.

The guard-captain shot her a stern look, but kept speaking.  “But Kirkwall _is_ unstable.”

Amelle pulled a face.  “Given the present company, it would seem Kiara thought _I_ was the unstable one.”

The elf sent Cullen a glower tinged with more than a little suspicion.  “Templar.  Exactly _what_ did Hawke say to you?”

Maker’s _breath_ , Cullen was used to chilly welcomes, but this one fell on the verge of freezing him out entirely.  He sighed and explained as patiently as he could, “She asked me if I would look in on Amelle from time to time.  Just me,” he added, “with the understanding that I would recruit no other templars in this particular task.  She seemed concerned that some of my fellows might have some hidden loyalty to Meredith and her… dictum.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes.  “And you do not.”

This time Cullen was the one who glared.  “I should think recent events would have made _that_ clear enough.”  He could still remember that moment when he’d stood in opposition to Meredith, when he’d stared into the unhinged madness in his superior’s icy blue gaze.  It was not the sort of thing one forgot easily, the sensation of the world spinning out of control, the instant of panic replaced suddenly with an almost eerie calm as he said the words.  _You will have to go through me._

“Fenris,” Amelle said, laying a hand on the elf’s arm.  He startled slightly and turned — and Cullen was more than gratified to see that he wasn’t the only one having difficulty grappling with Amelle Hawke’s state of dishabille.  On a sigh — one that sounded tired and pushed beyond all endurance — she added, “It’s all right.  He’s… he’s right.”

The elf glowered, but subsided.

“She told all of you the same thing, it would seem,” said Amelle, giving them all a cursory glance.  “Guard-Captain, Knight-Commander—”

“ _Acting_ ,” interjected Cullen.  A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. He wondered if she, like he, was remembering a strange, strained conversation in the common room of the Rose. It had been Hawke who kept him from collecting Amelle the first time, perhaps, but the mage had since proven herself equally formidable. True to her word, Amelle had been _very discreet_ ever after, and even Ser Hugh had finally stopped glowering and asking pointedly what had happened to the woman who’d been so… secretive in the days after the chantry’s destruction. And many were healed who mightn’t have survived otherwise. Cullen could hardly be angry about _that_.

Aveline sighed, and Cullen could see at once that for some reason—Amelle’s smile, perhaps—she had decided to trust him. The elf’s countenance did not soften in the slightest; if anything, he looked even more dour.

“Still,” Amelle asked, giving him a narrow-eyed look, “aren’t you awfully busy to be traipsing from the Gallows to Hightown on a whim of my sister’s?”

He huffed a mirthless laugh. “Yes. I absolutely am. Which is partly _why_ I’m here.”

“Paperwork?” Aveline asked, raising her brows.

“Endless.”

“I’m avoiding mine, too.” The guard-captain nodded, and it was the most sympathetic the woman had ever been. As if reading this thought, and catching herself in uncharacteristic commiseration, she retaliated with a scowl. “Look, Knight-Captain—sorry, _acting_ Knight-Commander—Hawke’s faith counts for a lot, but it’s not everything. See you don’t make her regret putting hers in you. I don’t want to have to have words with you.”

“I imagine you don’t,” Cullen retorted dryly. “Kirkwall is rather depending on the two of us at the moment, Guard-Captain. At least you know I’m… tentatively sympathetic.”

Aveline snorted, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. “Maker’s breath, Cullen. ‘Tentatively sympathetic’ indeed. That’s hardly a ringing endorsement.”

“Better than the alternative,” Amelle riposted lightly. “Stark, raving zealot. With or without corrupted lyrium idol-swords.”

Cullen shrugged. “I daresay there are other points between those extremes that might be equally unfortunate for you in particular, Mistress Hawke.”

“I do not like this,” Fenris growled. “He is a _templar_. You are a _mage_. Perhaps this is… yet another example of Hawke’s increasingly—and distressingly—unpredictable behavior.”

“A Tevinter bodyguard, Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain, and the acting Knight-Commander of the Templar Order?” Amelle asked archly. “Oh, no, that sounds _exactly_ like something Kiara would do.”

Fenris did not look convinced. It was strange; Cullen had always heard the elf was vehement in his dislike of mages. He’d heard templars speaking of him as a possible recruit, once upon a time. Cullen had always thought it unlikely—those who sided with Hawke tended to stay intensely loyal to her. Meredith had been known to vent about it at length. _Something_ had to account for the varied backgrounds of Hawke’s companions. Now, with so many looking to him for leadership, he almost wished he’d though to _ask_ her.

Amelle sighed. “Much as I thank you all for your… concern, I believe I am _perfectly_ capable of looking after myself. Come by for tea, or to visit, or to talk of the weather, but _please_ don’t come with the intention of babysitting.”

Aveline chuckled. “I suppose that’s your way of banishing me back to my duty rosters and my paperwork, isn’t it?”

Amelle smiled sweetly. “Unless you’d care for tea?”

Aveline grinned, and clapped the shorter woman lightly on the shoulder. “Between you and me, Amelle? You’re not exactly dressed for visiting.”

A beat of silence passed and Cullen saw dawning comprehension settle on Amelle’s face, followed swiftly by a mortified cringe and a rush of color that crept — unfortunately — from the neckline of her nightgown up to her face, making her cheeks flame with ruddy heat.  One arm crossed protectively over her chest while the other hand clapped over her eyes.

“Kiara,” she muttered through gritted teeth, “I am going to _kill you._ ”

Aveline chuckled as she started to make her way to the door.  “But if you kill her, you’ll never get to pay her back for this.”  She shot Cullen a speculative look before adding, “And the resident acting Knight-Commander might frown on murder done on his watch.”

“The resident acting Knight-Commander might be willing to overlook it in this case,” Cullen replied.  “What of the Kirkwall’s resident guard-captain?”

Aveline made no effort to disguise her smirk. “I think there’s something to be said for turning a blind eye when the situation warrants it.”  She looked back at the elf.  “Coming Fenris?”  

“Indeed.  I—”

“I’m afraid I interrupted Fenris’ breakfast with my frothing and ranting,” Amelle broke in, her fair skin still tinged pink with embarrassment.  She now had both arms crossed protectively over her chest.  

“It’s no troub—” 

“Fenris, for the Maker’s sake, eat the breakfast Orana made for you.  The tea’s probably already cold.”

A smile kicked up at the corner of Aveline’s mouth.  “Orana’s sticky buns?”

“The very same,” replied Amelle.  “Want a couple for the road?”

“If you’re offering, I’m not going to refuse.”

Within minutes, Cullen was back on his way to the Gallows, a slightly sticky, linen-wrapped bundle settled in the crook of his arm.  It was easily one of the _strangest_ morning appointments Cullen had ever experienced, and yet, as he returned to Templar Hall, stopping briefly in the kitchens for a mug of hot, strong tea, before continuing on to the Knight-Commander’s office and sitting behind the Knight-Commander’s desk, it was not the _worst_ morning he’d had in a while.  A steaming cup of tea at his elbow, Cullen unwrapped the bundle to reveal two glazed pastries, still warm and studded generously with nuts, and as he bit into one, warm sugar dissolving instantly on his tongue, he realized it was actually one of the better mornings he’d had in a while.

It was almost enough to make a man optimistic. 


	31. Chapter 31

After the first few days, Kiara found herself settling into a sort of routine. It was a different sort of pattern than anything she’d experienced before—partly because it involved no blood but that of the food she was cooking, and no decision-making except what she might concoct from the stores on board—but she found the quiet… domesticity of it oddly soothing. On the ship, Isabela’s was the opinion that called the shots, Isabela was the one people went to with concerns or problems or questions; Kiara was only a passenger. A helpful passenger, but passenger nonetheless. No one paid her much attention, except to thank her for the meals she provided.

After Kirkwall, after _everything_ , it was oddly refreshing.

Occasionally Varric poked his head into the galley to look in on her, but his seasickness did not ebb and even she could see the smell of food did nothing to soothe it. More often than Varric, however, she was joined by Sebastian. They spoke little, but he was unceasingly helpful, and she began to find herself a little disappointed when she was left to prepare a meal without his help.

Kiara was pondering the evening meal’s ingredients—the vegetables from Kirkwall would have to be used before they went off—when she heard the door creak open behind her. Turning with a smile, the expression froze when she saw it was not Sebastian in the doorway as she’d expected, but one of Isabela’s sailors. She was doing her best to learn all their names, but this one was someone she hadn’t yet spoken with. She thought he was one of the ones who spent most of their time up in the rigging; she saw them less, and knew them little. Like many of the sailors, tattoos crept up the man’s muscled arms, fanciful sea creatures and waves and something that looked like the sails of a ship. His eyes narrowed as he watched her, and she felt the faintest tingle of _danger_ when he moved into the galley completely, shutting the door.

Swallowing hard, Kiara kept her expression carefully neutral and waved toward one of the cabinets, using the motion to edge closer to the end of the table bolted into the floor, and therefore closer to the exit. “Dinner will be a while yet,” she said, feigning mildness, “but there are biscuits if you’re hungry.”

The sailor snorted derisively, and the shiver of _danger_ multiplied ten-fold. “Biscuits, she says. Princess, I’m not hungry for _biscuits_.”

Without moving too quickly, she put a hand out to keep herself steady, as if her sea-legs were failing her. Her fingertips inched toward the handle of the knife she’d been using to chop vegetables. She didn’t dare look away from the intruder; if she glanced toward the blade, he’d know her intention for certain.

There was no mistaking the intention behind his leer, however, and just as her fingers closed around the knife’s handle, the sailor executed one of the moves Kiara had always admired when Isabela managed it—though she found she admired a great deal _less_ when it was aimed _at_ her—flipping through the air and drawing the twin blades at his back. By the time he landed, not a foot away, she had kitchen knife in hand. He ducked when she swiped at him and swept one foot out, sending her to the floor.

Years of survival made her tighten her grip on the knife as she fell, but he still had the upper hand and he blocked her awkward stab with disdainful ease, pulling the blade from her hand with a flick of his own daggers. She heard her knife skitter across the floorboards, but didn’t waste time trying to see where it had gone; it was useless to her now. Instead, she tried to disarm _him_. He was bigger than she was, and stronger, and certainly superior at hand-to-hand combat, but she was _desperate_ , and desperation made her brave.

 The pirate growled as she landed a punch on his jaw. He was forced to drop one of his own knives in order to capture her wrist. Trying to take advantage of his positioning, Kiara kicked out, glancing a blow across the man’s side even as she reached with her free hand toward the fallen dagger. Though she knew the kick had to have hurt him, he hardly flinched, and he dropped his second blade to capture both her hands, holding them above her head in a grip like iron. His lips curled in a sneer as she aimed another kick at him, and before this could land he twisted agilely, pinning her legs between his thighs.

“Look,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice, “don’t do something you’ll regret. Isabela—your _captain_ —she doesn’t look fondly on—” before she could finish her sentence, the sailor spat down at her. The hot spittle slid down her cheek, momentarily stunning her into silence.

“I know your type,” he snarled, his eyes bright with something dark and lustful and more than a little mad. “Swanning about as if you own the place, wiggling your hips, thinking you’re better ’n all of us. Champion of bloody Kirkwall, brought down by a strong man, just like any common slut. The captain’s another one, just like you. Women have no place aboard ship. It’s time you whores learned it. I’ll have her like I’ll have you, kicking and screaming and wiggling like a fish on a hook. See how superior you feel then, you teasing bitch.”

Kiara was strong. She _knew_ she was strong, but whatever madness had the sailor in its grip made him stronger. She tightened the muscles of her stomach, attempting to gain enough power to either throw him off or twist out from underneath him, but his thighs only clenched tighter around her.

“Knew you’d come around,” he said, his leer widening into a grin. He was missing two teeth. He ground his hips against hers. “Knew a woman who walks like you do would want it, no matter how much her pretty lips protested.”

“I _don’t_ ,” she spat. “I want no part of this.”

He lowered his head, close enough for her to smell the reek of rum and rot on his breath, but not near enough for her to smash her forehead into his, as she wished to do. “I don’t care,” he replied. All she could see was his face, twisted with hate and ugly desire. The ends of his hair tickled her cheeks and she tried to bite at it but he only laughed.

Until the cast-iron pot came crashing down on the back of his head. 

The sailor fell in an abrupt, boneless heap atop her and she nearly gagged as she hauled herself out from beneath him. Sebastian—wielder of the pot—grabbed the man by the shoulders and threw him aside. The sailor bounced off the wall and lay motionless.

“Hawke…” His voice was gentle, though his cheeks were flushed and his eyes flashed with barely-restrained rage. He bent and gathered the man’s blades, staring down at them as if he did not understand their purpose. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she said, still breathless, her nostrils still filled with the scent of alcohol and hair left too long unwashed. She scrubbed her hands down the front of her thighs, already feeling bruises forming at her wrists and along the flesh of her legs. “I’m fine. He didn’t—I’m fine.” She gasped. “Are you okay? Your wound—”

“Is fine,” Sebastian said. “I’m fine, Hawke. I promise.”

“Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched around the hilts of the daggers. “I wish I had. I should have—”

“No,” she said, still shaking with adrenaline and no small amount of fear. She was not used to feeling helpless; not used to being the one _rescued_. It felt wrong in all the worst ways. “Isabela will deal with him. Isabela will… she’ll do something. She’ll do something. Are you sure he’s not dead?”

She glanced past Sebastian, wrapping her arms around herself and willing her body to cease its trembling. The sailor lay where he’d been thrown, but even at the slight distance the rise and fall of his chest was visible. “No, then. It’s fine. Isabela. Isabela will—”

“Hawke,” Sebastian repeated, less gently. She forced herself to meet his gaze, and was surprised to find only concern there, and none of the pity she dreaded.

“He surprised me,” she admitted, hating the words, hating the way she wanted to cry, even though the danger was past. “I—my guard was down. He moved so… he was so _fast_.” She frowned, looking down at the planks beneath her feet. “Why didn’t I scream? I… I could have screamed.”

Sebastian lowered the daggers onto the table next to the pot and took a tentative step forward, hands held where she could easily see them, as though he was approaching a skittish horse. This made her frown harder. “Hawke,” he said for a third time. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“I _know_ ,” she snapped. “Don’t _patronize_ me, Sebastian.”

His hands clenched into fists and he turned his head slightly, as if she’d slapped him. Then he swallowed hard and said, “Go get Isabela. I’ll watch him until you return, though I don’t think he’ll be waking any time soon.”

Kiara managed three steps before her legs would take her no farther, and she put her hands out to brace herself against the table. Sebastian was at her side in an instant, though he didn’t touch her. It was she who turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his chest. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I don’t know—I couldn’t—I _tried_ —just… thank you.”

One arm snaked around her shoulders, and the other hand cupped the back of her head gently. He said nothing, and she found herself oddly grateful for his silence. After several moments, she pulled away. His arms dropped heavily back to his sides. “I’m fine now,” she repeated, almost believing it. “I’ll get Isabela. Feel free to hit him with that pot again if he so much as twitches.”

“I might do it even if he doesn’t,” Sebastian replied, glaring over his shoulder at the felled sailor. His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Isabela _vouched_ for these men. She said she trusted them.”

“She wouldn’t be the first to be mistaken about a man’s character,” Kiara said softly. “It happens to the best of us. Still. It seems… he had to have known he’d be _caught_. There’s nowhere to hide on a boat. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like he wasn’t thinking.”

Sebastian shook his head, expression still dark.

#

Isabela waited until the man woke before she passed judgement. When he glared up at his captain, blood still matting his hair, eyes bright with feverish defiance, Isabela brought the back of her hand across his cheek in a vicious slap that made his neck crack. He spat at her, cursing.

“I hope you’re a good swimmer,” Isabela said coolly, as two of her sailors dragged the man to the starboard side of the ship. Before he could do more than mutter a protest, the men tipped him over the side. A moment later there was a solid-sounding splash, followed by another sputtering curse.

Kiara tried to feel pity for the man left floundering in the dark seas, but couldn’t. Beside her, Sebastian stood silent, his expression inscrutable as he watched the man begin the likely-fruitless attempt to swim for shore.

Behind them, Isabela shouted orders and her men leapt to do her bidding. Soon the sails billowed out, filled with wind, and they left the swimmer behind, but Kiara remained at the railing, watching the spot she’d last seen him. Sebastian stood at her side, still silent.

“Sebastian,” she said at last, tentatively, trying to make sense of his expression, “was the punishment too harsh? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No,” he replied stonily, without looking down. “I’m not certain I would have been so merciful.”

#

Kiara woke, gasping for breath, heart thudding in her chest. At first she thought it only another forgotten nightmare. In the five days since leaving Kirkwall—and two since the sailor’s aborted attack—sleep had been more elusive even than usual, and what rest she managed was troubled. 

When the ship beneath her lurched and she found herself flung against the wall of her bunk, she realized it was no mere dream causing her anxiety. A crash of thunder punctuated this comprehension, deafening even from belowdecks, and Kiara pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, staggering across her tiny cabin. The ship rolled again, and it took several tries to unlock her door.

She heard the rain before she felt it; it sounded like a stampede of rabid brontos running across the wooden planks above her. Kiara clung to the ladder as the boat shifted, pushing the hatch open with one hand only to be instantly swamped by the deluge. The wind howled around her, trying to either rip the hatch from her grip or beat her down with it. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the deck, but what Kiara saw brought her no comfort: two of the sails hung torn and useless, flapping in the strong wind as men tried to pull them in; other sailors were desperately trying to clear the deck of anything that might be washed overboard and lost to the angry sea; the waves themselves towered, and explained the heaving ship.

Before Kiara could pull herself fully up the ladder, Isabela appeared, one hand clutching a rope, legs braced but feet still slipping on the rain-slick boards. The other hand wrapped around Kiara’s wrist and tightened so painfully she knew there would be new bruises layered over the ones left by the sailor. The roar and crash of the sea, coupled with another roll of too-near thunder stole the pirate’s words, but Kiara could see her screaming. Another flash revealed how utterly drenched Isabela was. She’d lost the ever-present blue headscarf, and her hair was a snarled tangle around a face gone pale with a strange blend of fear and excitement and iron resolve.

The ship crested another vast wave. Isabela only wrapped the rope once more around her wrist and pulled it taut, while her feet remained impossibly steady. Kiara lost her grip on the ladder momentarily and cracked her ribs as she fell sideways against the open hatch, but Isabela’s grasp on her wrist was immovable and kept her from completely losing her balance. In the moment of silence between thunderclaps, Isabela shouted, “Get belowdecks and _stay there_! I’ve already lost a man to this storm; I won’t have you be another casualty!”

“Let me help!”

Isabela’s smile was fierce, her eyes narrowed against the onslaught of the elements. “Sweetheart, you handle yourself well for a landsman, but you’ve no place here. This isn’t the kind of battle you know how to fight.”

Kiara opened her mouth to protest, but another booming roll of thunder silenced her. Isabela shook her head. “My ship, my rules. Get below. Stay until I come get you. Same goes for Princess. I see your faces and I get mad. I get mad and you get yourself knocked over the head with something heavy and no one wakes you up until we get to Starkhaven. Got it?”

Kiara nodded, but whatever reluctance she felt was diminished by the crash of yet another wave over the bow. It took all her strength to keep from being swept away. She’d fought in all kinds of untenable situations—feet slipping in blood, unsteady on sand—but she knew Isabela was right: trying to help _now_ would mean only a fast death. 

Isabela only shook her hair back and snarled something at one of her sailors. Above the pulled-in sails, the masts rose like skeletal fingers bereft of their flesh. The image sent a shiver down Kiara’s spine, but she blamed it on the cold rain, and the even colder wave.

“Shut that hatch, Hawke, before you fill the hold with seawater and drown us all. Go! _Now!_ ”

“Aye, Captain,” she shouted. As she carefully eased down the ladder, lowering the hatch, another flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and Kiara saw Isabela grin.

 _The madwoman’s actually_ enjoying _this._

Varric and Sebastian, Kiara soon learned, were most definitely _not_ enjoying the storm. When she pushed open the door to their cabin, Varric blinked at her but didn’t lift his head, and Sebastian’s expression was very nearly as pathetic.

“You didn’t go _out_ there, did you?” Varric groaned. “Are you actively courting death, Hawke? Knowing you’re going to sink to the bottom of the ocean in a sodding sailed coffin isn’t enough for you?”

Kiara smiled faintly, but the listing of the ship kept the gesture weak. “I thought I could help.”

Varric swallowed hard, one arm clinging to the railing of his bunk, and the other clenched tight to his middle. “Put me out of my misery. That’ll help.”

“He’s been begging for death for half an hour,” Sebastian said, sounding none too healthy himself. Kiara could hardly blame him. The room was small and close, and the storm meant the single tiny porthole was shut tight. The air within was too warm, and smelled of sour, stale sickness and retching dwarf.

“Give me what I want and I’ll stop begging,” Varric replied. “Promise.”

Sebastian grimaced. “I’ve half a mind to oblige you, Varric, if only to shut you up.”

“I think Isabela has things under control,” Kiara offered. Varric only rolled his eyes and groaned again.

“Rivaini’s got lots of talents, Hawke, but calming stormy oceans by sheer force of will isn’t one of them.”

Her smiled widened slightly. “As long as you’re still using nicknames you’re healthy enough to live, I think.”

Varric muttered under his breath—very unflattering things not just about her person, but about her family, which was hardly fair to Amelle—and rolled to his other side. Sebastian, sitting on his bunk and propped against the wall, shrugged his good shoulder. She found herself reflexively checking his face and his posture for signs of pain, but apart from looking weary and wrung out and a little green around the gills, he did not seem to be suffering.

Kiara sat on the opposite end of his bed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Sure enough, the wrist Isabela had grabbed was already purpling with new bruises. Her bones ached, still haunted by the memory of phantom fingers.

“Remind me,” Sebastian said softly, his gaze on her bruised flesh. “What exactly was so very wrong with taking the overland route?”

Kiara chuckled, her stomach lurching along with the movement of the boat. An ominous creak sounded from above, but when it wasn’t followed by a crash of masts breaking or the ceiling falling in she exhaled her relief. “You mean apart from your certain death?”

“Ahh. Certain death. I’d forgotten.”

“Boats sail through storms all the time,” she said, attempting to sound reassuring. And failing.

“Ships,” Varric mumbled. “She’ll pitch you overboard if she hears you say _boat_ one more time.”

“Ships,” Kiara amended.

“Didn’t her _last_ ship go down in a storm?” Sebastian queried mildly.

“Lightning never strikes twice,” Kiara replied. The porthole brightened as lightning flashed outside, and it was instantly echoed by thunder that seemed to shake the very hull. “Ahh. Bad choice of idiom.”

Varric moaned.

“Come on, Varric,” Kiara cajoled. “Think what a fantastic _story_ this will make.”

“Fantastic story my hairy ass. There’s a reason I favor fiction.”

“Write what you know?”

Varric glared at her. “Don’t tempt me, Hawke, or my next book will be about a devastatingly handsome dwarf who kills his obnoxious, red-headed friend in cold blood.”

Kiara smiled. “What did poor _Aveline_ do to piss you off?”

Varric’s snort could _almost_ have been interpreted as a laugh, which Kiara took as an epic victory, all things considered.

The amusement, however, was short-lived. Things grew worse before they grew better. At one point the porthole blew inward, extinguishing the lantern and allowing several inches of water to pool on the floor before they could wrestle it closed again. At another, the ship canted so sharply Kiara was flung against Sebastian; he winced as her weight slammed against his wounded side. He reluctantly allowed her to fuss over him afterward, but even that distraction was not enough to keep her from imagining the stifling terror of death by drowning. 

By the time Isabela finally appeared below, all of them had taken turns retching, though Varric’s illness was by far the worst; Kiara hadn’t known it was possible for anyone to be _paler_ than skimmed milk. Isabela, still soaking wet and leaving puddles around her boots wherever she stood, looked haggard and exhausted and also somehow more _alive_. She glanced around the cabin and said, without preamble, “So there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“Let me guess,” Kiara said, “the good news is we’re not dead.”

“I’m mostly dead,” Varric moaned in protest. “I might still die. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die, actually.”

Isabela shot the dwarf a fond glance. “You’re fine, Fuzzy. Nothing a little dry land won’t cure. Yes, the good news is we’re not dead. And the ship is still mostly in one piece.”

Varric turned his head and raised his eyebrows, looking pathetically hopeful. “Dry land, you say?”

“Which brings us to the bad news,” Isabela continued. “We lost most of our stores. Even on rations we don’t have enough fresh _water_ to get us to Starkhaven. It’ll cost us an extra day or two, but we’ve got to put ashore.”

Beside Kiara, Sebastian stiffened. Though he did not immediately speak, she could practically _hear_ the protest rising to his lips and she put out a hand to forestall it, tightening her fingers around his wrist. It was enough to make him look at her, and whatever he saw on her face was enough to keep him silent.

“Which brings us to the other good news,” Isabela said. “The storm blew us off course, but because we have to put ashore, it’s a _good_ off course. We’re no more than a few hours’ sail out of Hercinia.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened even further. “You’ve a strange notion of _good news_ , Isabela.”

Isabela pushed a hand through her hair and scowled, shaking her fingers, when it came away damp. “It’d be a dull world if we were all cut from the same cloth, Princess. As long as we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us. A little respect goes a long way.”

Sebastian snorted. “Respect like you showed the qunari?”

The pirate’s hand twitched close to the hilt of her dagger before closing into a fist; Kiara had to admire her restraint. Or possibly Isabela was only too exhausted to fight. Her tone, however, was anything but weary. “You want to swim the rest of the way to Starkhaven? Be my bloody guest.”

“Please—” Kiara began, only to be cut off by Sebastian’s clipped retort, “You’re a thief and a liar, and you expect me to blindly walk beside you into a place like _Hercinia_?”

“That’s enough, Choir Boy,” Varric warned. The dwarf was still pale and ill, but he’d managed to pull himself upright, and the look he fixed on Sebastian was dangerous even though they all knew he hadn’t the strength to follow through with the violence it promised.

Kiara frowned. “What—why is this place so dangerous?”

“It isn’t,” Sebastian said, without taking his gaze from Isabela. “If you can follow their rules.”

Trying to defuse the situation, Kiara said, “So no drinking or swearing or whoring or murdering people out of turn. I’m sure even Isabela can behave herself for the time it requires to buy provisions.”

But Sebastian was clearly unamused. His eyes were cold and sharp when he turned to face her, and it took a great deal of willpower not to flinch away. “And what do you know of the Marches, Hawke? What do you know, apart from Kirkwall’s bickering mages and templars? There are places in this world where wit and a wink make for poor currency, and Hercinia is one of them.”

“Then we’ll all stay safely aboard ship until the supplies are—”

Sebastian shook his head, eyes narrowing. “You’ve already broken their rules and you don’t even know it. The Assembly’s Book of Law is three inches thick. Even dedicated diplomats who study the Book for months or years still make mistakes.”

“So we apologize,” Kiara snapped.

Tilting his head, Sebastian’s expression turned patronizing. “Of course you do. But in Hercinia you apologize with your life.”

“Now you’re milking the melodrama, Princess,” Isabela scoffed. “You’ll have Hawke thinking the streets run with blood.” Turning to Kiara, she explained, “It’s not death you face, but servitude. Those who fail to uphold the Law spend the rest of their lives _serving_ the Law. And in spite of what Vael would have you believe, I _have_ managed to anchor at Hercinia any _number_ of times without incident.” Isabela turned a saccharine smile on Sebastian. “Unless you think _you_ can’t mind your manners, sweetheart?”

Sebastian said nothing, but if looks could kill, Isabela would have been instantly reduced to a twitching corpse.

“ _Why_ can’t the rest of us stay aboard?” Kiara asked. 

Isabela shrugged as she wrung a fistful of water from her hair, ignoring Sebastian and his glares entirely. “Hercinians place great stock in hospitality. Every guest to the city—for whatever reason—must stay one night. They must sleep in a Hercinian bed and eat of a Hercinian table. It’s no hardship; the Hercinians make fine fish pie and even finer mead.”

“It’s still a risk,” Sebastian growled. “And one we can easily avoid. If we can sail to Hercinia, surely we can make Estwatch.”

Isabela snorted a laugh. “We might _make_ Estwatch, yes, but I can guarantee you’ll find no provisions there, and you’ll need to hire a new captain besides. Estwatch and I… don’t see eye to eye, and the captain of their guard has a long memory.”

Sebastian spat a curse, and it was so vitriolic Kiara _did_ flinch. “Sebastian,” she soothed. “We’ll be careful. It will be one night. We can’t make it to Starkhaven without food and water.”

This time when he raised his eyes to meet hers, his expression was resigned, and beyond weary. “I’ve offered my warning, and you’ve ignored it. Maker have mercy on us, Hawke. Maker have mercy.”

For an instant even Isabela looked unaccountably nervous, and Kiara wondered just what she’d agreed to.


	32. Chapter 32

The worst part about being left behind was that there was no one to argue with or appeal to about it.  Kiara was gone — quite definitively gone, and over _water_ no less (that portion of the news had almost made Amelle glad to have been left behind) — and, more to the point, there was no way to _contact_ her.  What had been done was done; Kiara was en route to Starkhaven and Amelle was left to fill her days and nights as she saw fit — and she saw fit to spend them down in the clinic.

It took a day or two before the brightly burning anger and quietly simmering resentment and betrayal began to fade; Amelle was doing what she wanted, which had always been what she _said_ she wanted… and yet, she found herself troubled.  The trouble was the same as it had been since the memorial: _this wasn’t like Kiara_.  Oh, they’d fought before, and Amelle was certain they’d fight again — and very possibly on the day Kiara _returned_ from Starkhaven — but their arguments never lasted.  But this one had — it had lasted and _festered_ until… until Kiara left in the dead of night to leave Kirkwall for Starkhaven, without a real goodbye (a _note_ hardly counted) and without the two of them clearing the air and putting their argument behind them.

It just wasn’t _like_ her.  And the longer Amelle kept herself busy, the more she found herself reflecting on all the ways Kiara just hadn’t seemed right since… _since._ Her sister wanting Amelle to be safe was common enough, but leaving without a goodbye wasn’t.  The two of them arguing was… well, normal insofar as they were sisters and bickering was sometimes part of the territory, but the strained silence lasting for days wasn’t normal; it was leagues away from anything even resembling normal, in fact.  So the more Amelle thought, the more she found she had to keep herself occupied; and the more she kept herself occupied, the more time she had to think.  As a result, all of that frustration and worry got redirected into more… useful pursuits.

It was a mere two days after Kiara’s departure, and already the clinic was beginning to look more and more as it had in her Fade construct.  Oh, the exsanguination tables were still pushed together in a jagged, messy pile to be dealt with, and quite a bit of stubborn dirt still coated some surfaces, but it was already a brighter, cleaner, _cheerier_ place.  And on this particular morning she was armed again with cleaning supplies and two very full buckets stacked by the wine-cellar’s ladder.  The buckets were always an adventure — a wet, messy adventure, and this morning Amelle rubbed her chin thoughtfully, trying to fathom a way to transport the water down the ladder without sloshing everywhere.

Assistance would’ve been nice, but she knew too well Aveline and Cullen were busy with things that _actually_ required their attention, and Fenris… well, Fenris tended not to be too fond of early mornings as a general rule.  She certainly wasn’t about to wake him for something like this.  After another few moments of consideration, Amelle took a breath and flicked her fingers at the buckets, freezing the liquid within.  The wood creaked with the change, but held.  

 _At least this way I won’t spill it,_ she thought, and had bent to grasp one of the handles when a voice came from the stairs:  “Amelle.”

She started with a jolt and turned, lifting her hand and calling forth a flicker of blue flame that chased away some of the darkness.  She blinked once.  Then twice.  “Fenris?” she said, shaking her head and allowing herself a soft breath of laughter.  “Maker, but you startled me.”

“My apologies, Orana told me I might find…”  Fenris trailed off, looking at the two buckets of ice.

Amelle just grinned.  “Less apt to spill that way.”

“I see.  And you were going to… carry them down the ladder.”

“That was the plan, yes,” she answered slowly.  “Unless you have a better idea?”

“You asked my assistance once; why not ask it again?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered.  Just because Kiara’s asked you to watch over me while she’s gone doesn’t mean you want to spend every spare moment of your time helping me with little pet projects.  Besides, I figured you’d still be asleep.”  She tilted a teasing smirk his way.  “Which makes me wonder why you aren’t.  Or has Orana gotten you addicted to her sticky buns?”  

“I…”  After a moment, Fenris looked to the side and grimaced.

“I thought so.”  She came forward, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry; you wouldn’t be the first to succumb.  I understand _completely._ ”  Then, linking her hands behind her back, she dipped her head and smiled sheepishly at Fenris.  “But, since you’re here… would you… _mind_ helping me with the buckets?  We can work up an appetite before buns and tea that way.”  His expression was curiously unreadable — or maybe that wasn’t _so_ curious, since this was Fenris, and “inscrutable” might as well have been his middle name.  “Let me put it this way: there _will_ be buns later, Fenris.  You’re welcome to join me, or not — but don’t even _think_ about standing between me and Orana’s sticky buns.”

A beat of silence passed, and then another; he was frowning at her as if trying to decide whether she was joking or not.  Finally, he shook his head — _all right, let’s be fair; remember Fenris isn’t much of a morning person,_ she told herself — and turned his attention back to her supplies.  

“Very well.  If I carry the buckets, I assume you can manage what remains?”  When Amelle nodded, Fenris strode forward and hefted one bucket before descending lightly and quickly down the ladder, soon appearing again to carry the second one down.  She joined him, a bundle of rags and scrub brushes under one arm, to find several large crates stacked, somewhat unceremoniously, blocking the clinic’s wide, swinging door.

Crates, Amelle was suddenly _sure_ , more than large enough to hold the supplies she’d asked Varric about.

 _“Varric,_ ” Amelle breathed, setting the bundle down and rushing forward to open the smallest of the crates.  Inside was a collection of dried medicinal herbs, some common, some not, and all of them useful.  “Varric Tethras, you are a _miracle worker._ Fenris, help me with…”

But Fenris was already working at opening the largest crate; inside, nestled in pine shavings, were crafting reagents and more potion bottles than Amelle had ever owned at one time.  Together they examined the contents of each crate — rolls of clean linen for bandages, poultice ingredients, materials for splints, and a collection of needles and spools of thread for stitching up wounds.  Varric had managed everything she’d asked of him _and more._  

“I can’t believe he did this,” she breathed, kneeling and sitting back on her heels.  She shook her head slowly and looked up at Fenris.  “I can’t believe he was _able_ to do this.”

Fenris only rolled his shoulders in a shrug.  “He believes your pursuit is a worthwhile one. Why wouldn’t he assist you if he was able?  Though he pretends otherwise, Varric understands you are taking on a role desperately needed here.” 

His words were enough to make her stop what she was doing.  “I…”  Amelle shook her head a little and breathed a soft laugh.  “I’ve got to confess, Fenris, it still surprises me a little to hear you say things… like that.”

He shrugged again, then looked intently at the crate packed full of empty bottles, the glass reflecting the lanternlight in little starbursts.  After a moment, he looked back up at her.  “You and Hawke both exhibit surprise when I express such a sentiment.”

“Yes.  Well.  A vi—”

“Viper in the nest,” he finished for her, looking ceilingward and shaking his head.  “Had I even the first idea how frequently those words would be revisited upon me…”

“You would’ve said them more quietly?” she teased, nudging him.  

“Amelle.”  The look he shot her was a strange blend of sheepishness (entirely out of place on his countenance) and reproach (less out of place).  “You must underst—”

“Oh, Fenris… that’s— that’s… where you’re wrong.”  She plucked up a pine curlicue and stretched it gently between her fingers.  “I do understand,” she said after a short silence.  “I understand, and… and I don’t…”  Amelle hesitated but a moment before deciding _to the Void with it._ “I don’t blame you,” she said, finally.  “For hating magic, for distrusting mages.  I don’t blame you for any of it.  I mean…”  She twined the curling ribbon of wood around her finger as she spoke.  “I… I _did_ blame you.  Before.  And I didn’t understand at all, for a time.  A— a long time.”

When Amelle looked up, it was to find Fenris watching her intently, his expression characteristically — and maddeningly — inscrutable.  “Go on.”

“Well… I— I was sort of…  well.  In the middle of all that not-understanding, we… we met Hadriana.”  Amelle stopped suddenly, making a face and shaking her head at herself.  “Listen to me,” she muttered with a snort.  “We ‘met’ Hadriana.  As if we all sat down to have tea and cakes together.”  Slowly, she unwound the curl of wood from around her finger.  “After that, after what I… what I _saw,_ I… began to understand a little,” Amelle admitted, not daring to meet his eyes, not knowing what she would see if she _did_ meet them.  “And then… well.  Merrill was practicing blood magic and Anders was—” she stopped sharply, nearly biting her tongue.  “Well.  They weren’t the most… _responsible_ wielders of the arcane, let’s just say.”  

“Amelle…”

She put her hand up, urging Fenris to wait, and after a moment or two, he subsided and gave her a nod, silently inviting her to continue.

“But then… just when I thought— then there was Danarius.  And I— I _saw,_ Fenris,” she said, remembering the icy superiority in the magister’s eyes with far more clarity than she liked.  Doing a poor job of suppressing her shudder, Amelle continued, “In him I saw… _wrongness_ , and everything _bad_.Not just magic, but _everything._   We’d seen horrible things — what Quentin d-did…” Swallowing hard, Amelle turned away, rubbing at her arms.  “But Danarius left me feeling… _unclean_.  And I realized it wasn’t any wonder why you hated magic and mages so much.  Honestly, I’m not sure I blamed you at all, after… that.”

“Amelle.”  Fenris said her name quietly, but she shook her head, as if to block him out, hugging her arms tighter around herself, and plunging on:

“All I’m trying to say is that I understand a little better than I did before.  And I don’t blame you.  And the fact you’re here at all, that you’re _helping_ me — Maker’s sake, you let me heal your hangovers… all of that gives me hope.”  She turned, offering him a tremulous smile.

Fenris inhaled deeply and sat upon one of the crates.  “I realize, Amelle, that you are not… cut from the same cloth as Danarius — or Hadriana, for that matter.  Or Anders.  Or even Merrill. But you must admit you are outnumbered.  For every mage like you, there are at least a dozen too selfish or too weak or too hungry for power.  Your sister knows this — you must be aware of it as well.”  

Amelle nodded, not daring to speak; she knew all too well the sorts of monsters magic made.  She thought of some of them now, of Gascard duPuis, and again of Quentin, of the atrocities acted upon her _mother_ , and this time she gave a violent shudder she did not suppress.

“But,” Fenris was saying, “invoking the Rite of Annulment… was not the answer.” And Amelle’s shocked look must have telegraphed itself clearly, for he shook his head.  “No, I would not always have said so.  But as you are allowed to alter your opinions over the years, I may as well.  And I see that the work you do here is good.”

“…Thank you.”

Fenris held her gaze for longer than Amelle expected; she was the first to look away, feeling another rush of heat warm her cheeks.  Fenris then turned to the crates still waiting to be unpacked.

“You are welcome.  And with that out of the way, perhaps we ought to turn our attention to the work at hand.”

Amelle agreed.  And after some discussion, they decided the first thing that required their attention was the pile of exsanguination tables Kiara and Fenris had moved from the clinic.  She’d always hated the tables; it was as if she could feel the dark, tainted magic soaked into the grain, exuding corruption so deep the wood nearly stank of it.  They stood before the pile, neither of them speaking for several minutes.

“Your sister wondered if they should be burned.  I… believe she was concerned about the smoke.”

Amelle’s smile was a grim one.  “There are ways enough around that,” she said, breathing in _deep_ and letting her mana flow strong and bright and _fierce_ , sending out a blast of fire so strong, so hot, that the wood splintered on contact.  Then she froze the blackened, smoldering remains, encasing everything in ice.  The wood cracked, and soon the jagged ice sculpture collapsed in on itself with a crash that sounded like so much breaking glass.  It was loud, discordant, and above all, _satisfying._  

Even the fact that the clinic now had nothing even resembling a bed didn’t bother her, because Amelle Hawke had _plans._ She turned to Fenris, grinning.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“And now that you have?”

She considered this.  It was a deeper, more profound question than anything having to do with the tables, she felt.  The question seemed… _larger_ than that.  Amelle had wanted to do many things for longer than she cared to remember, and now was the first time she felt, was _aware of_ her own agency.  She was in a position to make plans.  It was a unique place for her to be.

“Let’s empty the crates,” she replied, “and then see if there are any carpenters looking for work.  The clinic’s going to need some proper beds.”

Plans.  _Plans._   It was almost enough to make Amelle giddy.

#

Days passed in Kirkwall, and with those days came progress.  

Nearly a week after Kiara’s departure, progress had come in the form of new tables, freshly sawed and nailed and sanded, filling the clinic’s space with the clean scent of new wood.  Actual beds.  They had no mattresses, and only a thin, hand-sewn cushion — Orana’s contribution — where a pillow ought to have been, and there were half as many blankets as she needed, but everything was clean and there were _beds_ in the clinic instead of gruesomely stained tables.  The clinic didn’t have much in the way of windows — narrow spaces letting in very little light at all — but Amelle’s windowboxes were in place, each of them growing elfroot and embrium and spindleweed; though their presence was entirely practical, Amelle had to admit they also brightened things up pleasantly.

And, with every one of those days that passed, Fenris arrived every morning without fail, without complaint.  He moved benches until they were flush against the wall, and helped Amelle drag tables and beds around until they began to show some semblance of order.  He worked alongside her, helping until every last bandage was cut and rolled and put away, until every last potion was placed meticulously in the spots Amelle had designated for them.  When the sick and injured began filtering into the clinic again, their faces showing a strange mixture of wary hopefulness as they asked whether the healer was in, Fenris stood quiet guard while Amelle mixed potions and poultices, healed broken fingers and dislocated joints, and treated ragged-sounding coughs and wheezing breaths.  

Every night he stayed until Amelle, exhausted and mana-drained, dragged herself up the ladder; he remained until she ate whatever dinner Orana had prepared for her, and did not leave until she finally decided, in between wide, jaw-cracking yawns, to go to bed.

When the morning finally came that Fenris did not appear soon after breakfast, Amelle was not terribly surprised.  She didn’t flatter herself to think that _she_ was his sole responsibility in all of Kirkwall, and wasn’t as if she was in any sort of danger that _required_ such a bodyguard.  All the same, she lingered over her tea, her ears trained for that soft knock at the front door that always heralded the elf’s arrival.  By the time she’d finished her third cup it was soon clear he wasn’t coming.  

With a shrug, Amelle pushed away from the table and made her way down to the tunnels, stopping first to collect a small-but-sturdy chest from Kiara’s study — it was empty, and the perfect size to store some of the smaller, more delicate potion crafting items — and keeping a vial or four of lyrium potion handy wouldn’t go amiss, either.  The chest was small enough that she could still manage the ladder, but awkward enough that she couldn’t manage the ladder _easily._ It was while she was trying to navigate the ladder that Amelle misjudged the distance from one rung to another, her foot missing the rung entirely.  She barely had time enough to suck in a surprised gasp when a warm, sure hand closed around her calf, guiding her foot back to the rung.  

“You ought to be more careful,” a voice said.  It was Fenris, waiting for her by the clinic doors.

It took Amelle a moment to process his appearance here.  “You’re down here,” she said slowly.  “Waiting… for me?”  When the elf only shrugged one shoulder, she nodded at the ladder and said, “You’ve got to admit this is the shorter route.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“And I’ve… got to admit I’m wondering why you didn’t take it this morning.”

Fenris said nothing for a moment, then his gaze slid to the side.  “I had certain responsibilities requiring my attention this morning.”  Amelle narrowed her eyes at him and waited, clearly expecting more of an explanation.  After several seconds of silence ticked by, Fenris’ jaw tightened minutely and he added, “Varric’s absence has given certain… _factions_ in Darktown the impression that this clinic and its healer were… unprotected.  I needed to address those false assumptions.”

Amelle stared.  “What?”

Now Fenris looked at her.  “Surely you knew Varric paid to keep this clinic protected from both the Carta and Coterie when the space was Anders’ responsibility.”

“ _Still_?”

Fenris’ answering glower was a stern one as he took the chest from her arms and turned on his heel, making his way into the clinic.  Amelle followed him in, still digesting this — not only had Varric paid for her protection, but Fenris apparently had… enforced the dwarf’s arrangement on her behalf?

“And you knew this was going to happen?” she asked, trailing after him.

Fenris placed the chest down on a table.  “I knew it was a possibility.  There is no cause for concern — the matter has been… settled.”

It was at that point Amelle noticed how disheveled Fenris looked.  A generous spattering of blood marred his boots and leggings.

“Are you… all right, then?  Are you hurt?”

“I am most assuredly _not_ the one hurt by the altercation,” he said, and there was something in his tone that told Amelle everything she needed to know about Fenris’ morning.  “But I thank you for asking.”

Amelle cast about for something to say, feeling strange that the clinic — and, by extension, she — had been in any sort of jeopardy and she hadn’t even _known._   “So, you…” she began hesitantly, “I didn’t realize you— I didn’t realize there was—”

Folding his arms, Fenris inclined his head.  “Danger is not only a product of an elder sister’s overprotective mind, Amelle.”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, frowning.  “It’s…”  Her words faded into silence as she thought, finally saying, “It’s unpleasant to realize one’s own naiveté, I think.  I didn’t realize Varric was…”  Amelle looked around.  She’d been coming down here without so much as a staff.  Foolish.  _Idiotic._   That would have to change.  “Well, in any event, you’ve done your good deed for the day.  …Unless you think they’re coming back?”

“I sincerely doubt that,” answered Fenris, and Amelle wondered fleetingly if he’d even bothered to try and hide the bodies.  Probably not.

“Then,” she said, smiling, “consider yourself off the hook for the rest of the day.”

Confusion clouded in Fenris’ eyes for a moment as he narrowed them at her.  “I… beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’ve beaten the bad guys off with a stick — literally, even,” Amelle explained with a shrug.  “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything you’d _rather_ be doing today.  Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but if they aren’t coming back—”

“Do you… wish me to leave?” Fenris asked, the question coming out strangely blunt.  The note of defiance puzzled her.

“No,” Amelle replied evenly, “but I sincerely doubt you actually _want_ to stay.  I mean, it’s… it’s _Darktown_ , Fenris.  I don’t think anyone comes here who doesn’t have to.”

“You do,” he countered mildly.

“I’m the healer; I hardly count.”

“I beg to differ.”

Amelle wrinkled her nose, scrunching her face into a _look,_ part guilt, part puzzlement, and part _exasperation_.  “It just seems like… of all the places for you to _choose_ to be…” she trailed off, her shoulders rising in a helpless shrug as she looked around at the clinic.  

Crossing his arms, Fenris regarded Amelle steadily for a few moments.  “I grow… weary of this conversation, Amelle,” said Fenris, and he indeed sounded so.  “My… feelings will not be hurt if you prefer me to go.  You may tell me.”

Amelle flung her hands up helplessly. “It’s just… I know Kiara probably threatened you or _something_ to make sure I wasn’t left alone.  And that’s hardly fair to you, especially when we have no idea how long she’ll be gone.  Are you supposed to stick by me every hour of every day just because my sister said so?”  She let out a sigh and shook her head.  “I just… I want you to know… I’ll… support your decision.  Without fear of repercussions from her for deserting your post.”

He watched her a moment, narrowing his eyes as if in scrutiny.  “You’ll support my decision.”

Nodding, Amelle said, “To do whatever you like while she’s gone.”

“I have your word?”

Taken aback somewhat, she blinked at this, her mouth working silently for a moment.  “Y-yes. You have my word.  Of course.”

Fenris then gave her a small smile.  It was almost… crooked, in a way that implied he was at least partially amused by the exchange.  “Then we’ll have no more talk of me going anywhere.”

This was not the way Amelle had imagined the conversation going, and with a sudden, fiery blush coloring her cheeks, she began to protest. But as she opened her mouth _to_ protest, she remembered she’d given Fenris her word that she wouldn’t, and so her mouth snapped shut again, though her confusion remained.  

“Have you something to add, Amelle?” Fenris asked, and, Maker help her, was he actually _smirking_?

“N-no.  No, I—”

From behind her came the the sound of a baby crying.  Thankful for the distraction — if not quite thankful for the nature of it — Amelle turned to find Ianna, the mother of the child she’d delivered some weeks ago, pale and troubled, carrying the infant, Adan, in her arms.  It looked to Amelle like the sort of worry that was on the verge of tipping over into fear and she wondered just how frayed Ianna’s nerves were, and what had happened to put her in such a state.  She crossed the clinic, meeting the new mother halfway, and before Amelle could even ask, Ianna’s tenuous control slipped and her eyes went unnaturally bright with a sudden deluge of tears as the words came tumbling out.

“Mistress…  Mistress Amelle, please.  I… he…”

“It’s all right,” Amelle murmured reassuringly, taking Adan’s swaddled form from his mother’s arms.  Almost instantly she could feel the heat radiating through the cloth, and she looked down at the child’s face — he was no longer the full-cheeked, ruddy-faced infant she’d delivered.  His cheeks were not nearly as full, and his face seemed pale, aside from the flush of fever upon his cheeks.  Something was wrong indeed and Amelle felt her heart give a little lurch as she ran her fingers over his forehead, grimacing at the heat there.

Ianna scrubbed at her damp cheeks with her hands.  “I thought… I thought it just the colic, at first.  Nothing to worry over.  Nothing to trouble you with.  But he’s— Maker, he’s so _hot._ ”  She looked down at her child and covered her mouth with one hand, as if trying to push back the flood of emotion that had already broken through.  She trembled a moment, then broke into the hysterical sobs of the beyond exhausted and Amelle looked at Fenris, then gestured with her chin to the shelf of potions.

“Fenris?” she said quietly.  “The… one on the end.  The pale gold?  Give her a little, will you?  Just a finger.”

With a nod, he obeyed her immediately.  They both knew what it was — a calming draught — and they both knew the mother would refuse it if she knew what it was.  But she took the potion with little fuss, and after a few moments, began to settle.  Amelle didn’t blame Ianna at all for her worry or her exhaustion, but the child in her arms needed every once of her attention.  She could hardly believe this was the same babe at all — Adan was a mere shadow of the infant she’d brought into the world; his lusty cries faded to the dullest of whimpers.

“What ails him?” Fenris asked softly, coming to her side.

Amelle could only raise her eyes to his and shake her head.  “I-I have no _idea._ ”

The fever was unlike anything she’d ever seen before; it withstood every potion — drinkable and topical — in her considerable arsenal, from tincture of elfroot to ice balm, and cool compresses grew entirely too warm entirely too _fast_ against his skin.  Finally, she took the Adan and sat with him upon one of the heavily constructed tables, cradling the tiny, whimpering form against her breast.  She closed her eyes and took a breath of mana, calling upon and tapping into the healing energy that swirled like a current inside of her, focusing it on the child and letting it pour into him.

Amelle felt wave after wave of healing magic sink into the child, but the longer she held him, and the longer she poured that energy into him, the more she became certain something was very, very _wrong_. No fever should take this long, this much _effort_ to relieve. She tried to reach out with her mind, tried to _feel_ something, but instinct only screamed at her that whatever had caused this fever was not natural.  And yet, there was no obvious trace of magic on the child — that in itself wasn’t surprising; it’s not as if a plethora of mages were left in Kirkwall.

All around her more patients were filing into the clinic: a nose broken in a fight, a sprained ankle, various and sundry aches and pains.  A hangover.  It was busy — busier than any midmorning ought to have been — but the others were going to have to wait.  

Taking in another breath of mana, Amelle closed her eyes tighter and blocked out everything else going on in the clinic.  She felt the child’s heat and his too-rapid heartbeat — and Fenris nearby, watching her, she _knew_ , keenly, as wave after wave of blue-white light pulsed into the infant.  She could _feel_ her mana depleting, a deeper exhaustion than anything she’d ever known creeping into her blood.  She was starting to feel cold, _numb_ , and as she reached the end of her reserves, Amelle felt the healing magic’s flow stutter and nearly wink out, when the child in her arms finally shifted and let out a loud, healthy wail.  Slowly she blinked her eyes open, fighting the sudden wave of vertigo as she adjusted Adan more securely in her arms.  Whatever the ailment, it was no more, but Amelle was left entirely drained, and barely able to keep her eyes open.  

In fact, it took a moment for her to find even the energy to stand, which she managed, but unsteadily.

Fenris, ever present, ever watchful, took the child from her arms and deposited him into those of his very grateful, intensely relieved mother.  Amelle sank back onto the table and noticed, with an odd sort of detachment, a splash of red against her sleeve.  When she touched her nose she found it bleeding.

 _Huh.  That’s new_.

“Blessed Maker and his Bride,” the mother whispered reverently, “is he — did you cure him, Mistress Amelle?”

“I…” Amelle began, but trailed off and blinked hard, trying to clear her mind, which was feeling increasingly fuzzy and making it more and more difficult to _think._  

Maker, she was just so _tired._  

“I believe he will recover,” she said slowly, hating how _thick_ her voice sounded to her ears.  “But bring him back tomorrow, to be safe, and let me know if there are any changes — for the better or worse — as soon as you can.”

Ianna left, a little more optimistic and a little less exhausted; Amelle wished she had the latter in common with the woman, but she was fairly swaying even as she sat.  Warm hands steadied her and she closed her eyes.  She could feel the blood trickling from her nose again and she swiped at it with her sleeve, hating the wet warmth, the compulsion to sniffle.  She reached up and swiped her sleeve across her face, knowing she’d left a smear across it, but she found she was too exhausted to care.

“Rest, Amelle,” Fenris said, putting her fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face up.  When she pried open her eyes, she found him watching her with an expression very near to angry, his dark brows lowered and furrowed together.

“Can’t,” she mumbled, shaking her head.  “…There’re more waiting.”

“They can continue to wait until you are sufficiently recovered.”

“There’s… there’s lyrium potion.  In the chest.  Find it— I’ll be okay.  It’ll help.”

“Amelle.”

“I’ll be okay, Fenris. Promise.  Just…”  It was better — it was _always_ better — for a mage’s mana to be allowed to return naturally.  And it did, with rest.  But there were times when rest wasn’t an option.  During those times, lyrium potion had to suffice.  Maker knew it wasn’t an option to take a _nap_ in the middle of a battle.

Fenris was back again before she’d fully realized he was gone, pressing a bottle of shimmering potion into her hands.  He didn’t look pleased, but Amelle could hardly blame him that; she wasn’t particularly keen on her condition either.

“You shouldn’t drain yourself so,” he said quietly.  She struggled with the cork for a few seconds pulling it free with a soft _pop_ and downing the bottle’s bitter contents in a few deep swallows.  “You do no benefit to anyone if you exhaust yourself completely.”

Amelle shuddered and grimaced at the taste, but nodded.  “I know.  Believe me, I know.”  The potion coursed down her throat and into her belly, warming her from the inside out, until her mana swirled back to life inside of her.  Her exhaustion vanished and her mind sharpened.  She rubbed at her forehead; the _memory_ of mana-drained exhaustion remained, and such fatigue replaced so quickly with alertness was a sensation she’d never grown accustomed to.

“Are you all right?” Fenris asked, still frowning.

“I’m better,” replied Amelle, sliding her hand around to rub the base of her neck.  “Still no idea what in the Void _that_ was, though.”  She rubbed at the residual tension, tamping down the urge to release a wave of healing magic into herself.  It wasn’t a smart move, especially after such an intense use of magic.  “Whatever it was,” she said, “it was stubborn.”

“Stubborn?” echoed Fenris.

Amelle nodded grimly.  “Apparently, the Maker has seen fit to send all manner of stubborn ailments my way,” she grumbled, though unable to shake the strange coincidence of Sebastian’s wound and Adan’s fever — two instances that took nearly all of her mana before they even started to show improvement.  And in Sebastian’s case, Amelle had pushed herself nearly to depletion more than once.  That wasn’t common — especially when it came to stab wounds.  It was one of the furthest things _from_ common.

With a frown, Amelle let her hand fall from her neck as she stared down at her palms.  There was, of course, the possibility that the wound and fever weren’t “stubborn,” but rather she just wasn’t quite as good at healing as she thought she was.  Or perhaps after calling on her powers in such a singular manner over the years had… dulled her abilities, rather than sharpening them.  She flexed her fingers slowly.

No, that didn’t seem right.  It didn’t _feel_ right.

The matter was still bothering her, still niggling at the back of her brain hours later.  The strangeness of it.  The _wrongness_ of it.  She thought of the times she’d released wave after wave of magic into Sebastian until her power had begun to feel as if it were trembling beneath a weight it could not support.

_But a wound isn’t the same as a fever — unless that wound is infected. But even if that were the case, how would a stab wound develop the same kind of infection as—_

“You have not eaten.”

Her mind pulled suddenly from both her thoughts and her work, Amelle looked up at Fenris, then down at what she was doing — this batch of elfroot potion wasn’t quite ready to be set aside yet — and shook her head.  “No, not yet.  Nearly there, though.”  

“It can’t wait?”

“It _can_ wait, just not yet,” she explained.  “I’m nearly ready to bottle this.  Why don’t you run a quick check on things outside?  By the time you get back, we can find some lunch.”  He looked almost surprised at this suggestion and Amelle grinned at him.  “I think I’m not the only one who hasn’t eaten anything.” The grin slid and quirked into something more teasing: “Or were you thinking you might sneak off to the Rose for a meal with prettier company?”

“I… hadn’t given it thought.”  He hesitated, then added, “I did not wish to presume to… impose upon your time.”

Amelle still smiled, shaking her head as she ground the mortar down, crushing the elfroot into a fine paste.  “It’s hardly an imposition.  Besides, you know Orana always makes too much food anyway — and you’ve certainly been keeping busy around this place.  So if you want to join me, you’re more than welcome.  However, if you think your presence at the Rose will be missed…” She gave the mortar a twist and examined the pulpy elfroot again.  “It’s up to you.”

“It truly will not be an imposition?”

Amelle began straining the pulp through a square of linen.  “Fenris, was it an imposition to… _enforce_ on Varric’s behalf this morning?”

“No.  Of course not.”

“Well,” she said, squeezing as much of the vibrant green liquid as she could into a glass flask, “there you have it.”  Pausing again, Amelle looked up and sent Fenris a look of mock-exasperation.  “This is what friends _do,_ Fenris.  Aren’t we—” she stopped and blinked, suddenly unsure how to continue.  It certainly felt like they were on some sort of path _to_ friendship, but whether they were actually there yet, Amelle did not truly know.  “Never mind.  You’re welcome to join me if you like.  If you’ve other plans, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I have no other plans.”

Amelle held the flask up to the light, looking for any bits of pulp or leaf that might have made it through the cloth.  “That settles it then,” she said, squinting at the liquid.  “I’ll be right here when you get back.  Probably just putting stoppers in the bottles.”

With a nod, Fenris left Amelle to her work.  The day had been a busy one so far, and she was making full use of the lull in the steady stream of patients in order to supplement her potion supply.  Elfroot potion had been one of the first recipes she’d ever mastered, and it took nearly no time at all to restock the dent that had been made that morning.  Besides, now that she had _bottles_ to put potions _in,_ it was a waste not to use them.  Especially when a solid stock of potions was exactly what she needed.

Amelle’s frown deepened as she strained the liquid a second time.  It was unusual, she thought; considering everything Kirkwall had undergone in the past months, it seemed intensely strange more people hadn’t fled. She found it baffling and reassuring at the same time — _she’d_ certainly expected more people to leave Kirkwall in the chaos.  The Qunari uprising was one thing — they’d been a fixture, but still a foreign presence, and one people had never been entirely sure of.  But after the Chantry lay in ruins, Kiara had found their enemy not to be horned zealots intent on destruction, but on people they _knew_ , were _familiar_ with.  Amelle had _liked_ the First Enchanter at one point; he’d seemed so… level-headed, so _reasonable._   And then…

Her hands shook as she poured and a small droplet of green splashed her cuff.  With a whispered curse, Amelle steadied her hands and strained the last vestiges of pulp from the liquid.

But if today was any indication, people weren’t leaving Kirkwall — or, at least, the poorer folk weren’t, which made a sort of sense, Amelle had to admit.  She’d overheard a number of the Fereldan refugees (though she wasn’t sure it was fair to call them “refugees” so many years later) talk about what exactly had made them leave their own homes in Gwaren or Lothering or Amaranthine or Highever; a number of them muttered darkly that nothing short of another Archdemon would make them pack up and leave again.

Amelle let herself wonder for a moment what sort of force the Divine might yet send — though clearly not an Archdemon — and she shuddered; whatever action the Divine took (and Amelle had no doubt there would be action taken _now_ ) had the potential to be as devastating as any darkspawn horde, but with better teeth and clearer skin and shinier armor and, ostensibly, the Maker and Andraste themselves on their side.  It was difficult not to let herself feel even a little panic when she thought about _that_ — when she thought about what repercussions the coming weeks and months and even years would bring.  Amelle was sure they’d be far from Kirkwall by that point, but _where?_   And how did one _avoid_ a holy war?

She took a deep breath and shook her head.  _You have enough to worry about right now,_ she thought, holding the flask in one hand and letting just enough heat come forth that the liquid within began to thicken slightly, giving off a sharp astringent scent.  She let the morning’s events turn over in her head once more, wondering yet again what could have caused _such_ a fever in a child.  

_How might a child develop the same manner of infection as a man stabbed in an alleyway?  A child with no physical wounds to speak of?_

Her frown deepened as she added concentrator agent to the thickening elfroot and let the two liquids blend, swirling them gently in the bottom of the flask.  Whatever had been wrong with the child had felt as if it existed _deep_ within him — normal fevers were fairly easy to treat; it was a matter of searching out the illness, whether it originated in the lungs, as did frequently happen with smaller children in Darktown, or elsewhere in the body.  But whatever illness had been causing Adan’s fever, it had been nearly impossible for Amelle to _sense_ it, to _find_ its point of origin.  

It was as if his entire body had been sick, as if the illness had existed everywhere at once.

It also hadn’t felt _natural —_ and yet Amelle was entirely certain the child hadn’t been hexed or poisoned.  If the illness had been caused by magic, Amelle would have found the source, would have _sensed_ it, and from there would have applied healing energy — or a combination of potions — to attempt to unravel the spell or counteract the poison.

No, this was… different.

She added distilling agent to the potion and let her hands warm the mixture again, watching as the potion took on a sharp jewel-green color, the murkiness simmering away until the potion was as clear as the most flawless emerald.  Amelle poured it into smaller potion bottles before it cooled completely, then stuck a small cork in each — it was best to trap the steam and let it reconstitute into the potion, making for a more a more potent dose.

Placing both hands at the small of her back, Amelle stretched, letting her spine pop softly as it realigned itself.

That lull that had lasted long enough to allow her to craft a batch of elfroot potion was just that: a lull.  Amelle knew it wasn’t going to last.  She just didn’t expect it to end quite so suddenly, or to end with the very sound that had started her day off to a less than auspicious beginning: the heart-sinking sound of a small child crying.

Amelle rushed to the clinic’s doors — _It can’t be Adan again, surely not_ ,she told herself even as she tried to shove down the panic rising in her chest — and found, not Ianna and Adan, but another, different terrified parent carrying a different flushed, whimpering child.  

Amelle knew Colm and his daughter, Rinna; she was a little older than Adan — just learning to walk, in fact.  The girl’s mother had been taken soon after birth, claimed by the filth and death that always permeated Darktown, and Amelle found herself remembering all too clearly the night Anders had delivered the child within these very walls.  She’d been down here on such a simple errand — delivering Anders’ portion of payment on a job — when she’d walked in to find the healer, up to his elbows in blood and other matter, placing the tiny, writhing infant against her exhausted mother’s breast.  

She remembered the night the woman had died, as well.  Anders hadn’t been in the clinic; no one had known where he’d gone off to (though Amelle had a fair idea _now_ ), and it had been Kiara who’d burst into the library and grabbed her by the arm, _pulling_ her out of the house and down to the clinic in a mad rush to help.  But by the time Amelle had reached Jeannette — and Amelle remembered _that_ from the way her husband had been pleading with her to stay, to not leave him _please_ — she was truly gone, her spirit having already passed through the Veil and into the Fade.  There had been nothing she could do — it was simply too late.

“She ain’t right, Mistress Amelle,” Colm said, the moment he spied Amelle, waiting in the doorway.  “I don’t know what — she was just fine yesterday, but she’s so… it’s a fever — she’s burning up.”

Without a word, Amelle met Colm as he reached the top stair and took Rinna into her arms, resting the child against her breast.  Rinna’s arms went instinctively around Amelle’s neck, burying her hot face against the crook of her neck.  Amelle clutched the girl a little tighter, but forced her voice to remain light:

“Well, let’s see what we can do, hmm?”

It took no time at all for Amelle to discern that Rinna’s fever was of the same nature as Adan’s.  Though this little girl was a little older — and stronger — than an infant, Rinna was also _sicker._   Amelle felt it in the heat rolling off of her in waves, in the blotchy red fever-flush at her cheeks, and in her eyes rimmed with red from so much crying.  Feeling a wave of dread she didn’t dare show, Amelle carried the girl to one of the nearby beds, taking care to sit no more than an arm’s length away from her modest cache of lyrium potion.

Rocking the girl slowly, Amelle closed her eyes; with a breath of mana she summoned her healing energy and focused it on the child, feeling a sudden pang of dismay upon realizing just how much sicker Rinna was.  Still there was no _location_ — the fever was simply there, simply _everywhere_ — leaving Amelle little choice but to focus and concentrate and _push_ , pouring healing magic into the child until she saw enough light from behind her eyelids to know both she and Rinna were glowing with it.

Finally, like a dam weakening beneath wave after crashing wave, the fever broke.  Whatever had been making the child burn up finally relinquished its hold; Rinna shivered hard, then relaxed against Amelle.  After a moment, she began sucking her thumb.  The heat, almost instantly, began to ebb away.

Amelle would have been extraordinarily pleased indeed, if she hadn’t been so bloody _exhausted_ by it all.  Rest, she thought shakily, sounded like an excellent idea.  But before she could reach for a bottle of lyrium potion, Colm rushed forward, relieved tears in his tired, worn eyes.

“Thank the Maker — Mistress Amelle, I thought she was gone for sure, and I couldn’t— not after my Jeannie, Miss.  I _couldn’t_.”

Amelle sat very still, letting Colm take the suddenly, and understandably tired Rinna from her arms.  She held her hands carefully in her lap, hoping the gesture hid how very badly they were shaking.  Her vision hadn’t gone blurry yet, but the headache blossoming behind her eyes hinted that things were going to progress in that direction shortly.

“Take her home,” she said slowly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose.  “Let her rest.  Do keep an eye out and let me know if there’s any change.”  She paused to reorder her thoughts.  It was harder than it should have been. “There was something like it this morning, and if there’s illness making its way through Darktown, better we’re prepared.”

Colm nodded, almost giddy with relief, never noticing Amelle’s own slowed speech, her careful gestures.  Once she was alone, Amelle regarded the small chest of potions just over an arm’s length away.  From there, the lyrium taunted her, the bottle of shimmering liquid swirling just out of reach.

Funny.  It had seemed so _close_ before.

Taking a deep breath, Amelle pushed herself to her feet, taking one shaky step, then another toward the chest of potions.  But the headache that had only been threatening moments before washed over her, pounding mercilessly behind her eyes, making the clinic go blurry as she sank to her knees, her hands braced against the floor.  Her head pounded, and she was so _very_ tired.

A little nap — just a tiny one — really sounded like a most excellent idea.

#

Someone was talking to her.  The words were soft and muddled, as if one were trying to speak — or be understood — underwater. It required too much concentration to understand the words, and Amelle was too warm and comfortable to care.

 _Maker,_ she thought with a groan _.  Kiri, go away._ The fire was crackling, the divan was soft and cozy, and she cuddled down, pressing her cheek against the cushion.  Kiara would take the hint and leave, sooner or later.  Maybe.  Probably.  Amelle thought about opening her eyes and telling her sister to sod off, but she was so _tired._ Even opening her eyes felt like a chore; she wanted to roll over and sleep for at least a week.  Maybe two.  Two sounded good.

But, no, the words kept coming, and then someone gripped her shoulders and  — not Kiara, surely not; Kiara would have started singing or whistling or some other Maker-forsaken thing, but she wouldn’t be shaking Amelle awake.  Kiara certainly wouldn’t be— 

 _If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody_ sister.

—Oh.

With that thought, Amelle’s slumber burned away; as she woke, more details came into focus.  The person speaking to her was more assuredly _not_ Kiara — but the hands were warm, despite their grip — and Amelle tried to listen, tried to piece together what the voice was saying, but the words slipped out of her grasp, refusing to focus, refusing to _make sense_.

Gradually it sank in that whatever those words were, they weren’t being said _to_ her, but rather _at_ her.  It was a low growl of a voice that sounded alternately _furious_ and afraid and—

_Wait.  I know that voice._

She knew that word, too— _that_ one.  That one was particularly bad.  Amelle could remember hearing that word on a number of occasions, and not a single one of them pleasant.  Someone was _cursing_ at her.

No, someone was cursing at her in _Arcanum_.

“…Fenris?” she croaked out, softly.  Amelle’s mouth felt dry and her tongue felt huge and her head still felt as if it were splitting, but the elf appeared not to care.  He stopped mid-swear and for the barest fraction of an instant, relief crossed his features, soon replaced by something that… well, if it wasn’t anger, it was extreme exasperation.

“What have you done?” he growled, eyes flashing.

 _Definitely angry,_ Amelle thought muzzily, and as she tried to push herself into a sitting position, she realized somewhat disjointedly that she was in the library, not the clinic — she’d been in the clinic earlier, she was _sure —_ and Amelle wondered anew what in all the Void _happened._

“I’m all right,” she said thickly, as she slowly pushed herself up — it was a long, slow process; probably longer and slower than it really ought to have been.

“You are _not_ ‘all right.’”

“I am,” she insisted, pressing her fingers to her forehead and rubbing.  Her headache felt as if it had taken up residence in the whole of her head, pounding and throbbing against her eyes and down her spine.  With a breath of mana, the headache melted away, but it was too soon for magic use just yet, and while the measure sent the pain away, expending the mana left Amelle feeling vaguely nauseated and empty.  “I’m _better,_ ” she insisted, lamely.

At least without the headache clouding her mind, she remembered how she wound up on the floor, and she looked up at Fenris, explaining, “Another child came in with a fever.”

“And you overextended yourself again,” he replied, his scowl never lightening.  

Amelle let out an annoyed sigh.  “You say that like I did it on purpose.”

Fenris’ expression didn’t change; if anything, he looked as if his annoyance _grew_.  “After the first incident you were hardly ignorant of what could happen.”

“I didn’t realize I could _pass out._ ”

“And now that you _do_ realize it,” he snapped at her, “I would urge you to demonstrate _caution_.”

“Caution?” she echoed.  “What, should I have sent them _away_?”

Fenris stood, clearly full to overflowing with restless energy, and paced from the divan to the fireplace.  “You ought to have _waited_ ,” he said to the flames.  “You were aware I was planning to return.”

Amelle opened her mouth to snap a retort back at him, to defend her decision, when she realized, with an uncomfortable, creeping sort of discomfort, that he was _right_.  Taking in a deep breath, she shifted on the divan and tried to push to her feet.  The world wobbled and she sank back down against the cushions.

“Yes, well,” she said, trying not to feel so bloody _sheepish_ about it.  “Everything’s all right now, isn’t it?”

“Fenris?”  Merrill’s voice floated into the library from the hall moments before she came hurrying into the library.  “Fenris, Orana’s put on some tea and— oh!”  She blinked owlishly at Amelle and she let out a relieved sigh, shoulders drooping as she placed a hand over her heart.  “Thank the Creators, you’re _awake_.”

Amelle stared uncomprehendingly at Merrill, who seemed to realize rather quickly she was being stared at.  Gesturing vaguely behind her, she said, “I was just stopping by to see to your sister’s plants — she _does_ realize they _do_ need to be watered, doesn’t she?”  The question would have sounded impudent on anyone else; on Merrill, it sounded… _earnest_.  “Anyway, I’d heard you were rather busy down in the clinic and wanted to say hello, if it wasn’t too forward of me, that is.  I’d hoped not.  But then I saw you down there, and couldn’t wake you — are you always such a deep sleeper? — and I was about to fetch some help when Fenris walked in and once he saw you he—”

“I sent Merrill upstairs to let Orana know I would be bringing you up shortly,” Fenris cut in brusquely.

“Oh, Maker,” Amelle muttered, clapping a hand over her eyes.  “ _Lovely_.” Embarrassment burned hotly at her cheeks and she didn’t remove her hand as she added, “I’m fine.  Really.  Whatever it is _has passed._ ”

But then Merrill and Fenris exchanged a look.  That in itself was odd, as the two rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary — or unless Merrill gave in to her natural inclination toward prattle.  But when they exchanged that look, Merrill’s expressive face fell suddenly and she looked utterly, unaccountably _sad._   She hesitated, clasping her hands together as she stepped closer.

“No, Amelle.  It… it hasn’t.”

Amelle looked between them, waiting for an explanation.  None seemed forthcoming.  “What… what do you mean?”  But neither of them looked her in the eye.  

“There has been another fever,” Fenris finally said, looking again into the fire.  “Another child.”

And with those words, Amelle pushed herself to her feet.  Again the room spun and the floor tilted, but she gritted her teeth and took a few staggering steps forward, grabbing hold of a high-backed armchair and letting it support her weight as she leaned.  “Then we have to go back down there.  Where’s the—”

“Dead, Amelle,” Merrill said gently, coming forward and resting a hand on her arm.  “The babe was dead by the time his parents got there.”  She looked at Fenris as if silently beseeching him to say something — _anything._   But Fenris merely bowed his head, his jaw tightening.  Merrill bit her lip and added,  “I… there was nothing you could have done.  It… it was too late.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

With that news, the floor seemed to fall out from beneath her.  Amelle clutched harder at the chair, fingers sinking into the soft, supple leather as she fought to stay upright.  This fever, this illness, _whatever it was_ , had claimed one already?  It didn’t seem possible, and yet she knew better than to think Fenris and Merrill would collaborate on such a falsehood.  And the worst of it was that Amelle still had no idea what was causing it, and only the vaguest idea how to fix it — and _that_ required draining her mana, a measure both inadvisable and impractical.  

What she _did_ know, and positively hated reflecting on, even as she let Fenris place his hand beneath her elbow and carefully guide her back to the divan, was that she couldn’t let it — whatever _it_ was — get any worse.


	33. Chapter 33

When the knock came, Kiara almost didn’t open the door because she did not recognize the woman on the other side. However, the little peephole revealed Sebastian standing _next_ to the newcomer, and that was enough to ensure trust. Of course, when she pulled the door open and looked closely, she realized the woman wearing the high-necked gown, hair pulled tidily back, and _facial jewelry removed_ , was actually _Isabela_ , and she nearly laughed, or fainted, or _both._

“Don’t,” Isabela commanded, with a glower rendered somewhat less fierce by the lace beneath it. And the pink. And the _ruffles_.

“Don’t what?” Kiara replied with mock innocence. “Comment? Giggle? Compliment you?”

“I’m charging you triple for every minute I have to spend wrapped in this revolting… _thing_.” With a derisive snort, Isabela tossed her head. For a moment she looked startled, as though she’d expected to feel the familiar brush of hair on her shoulders. “Besides, if you think this is bad, wait until you see what you’ve got. Believe me when I say I chose the lesser of two evils. I don’t know what lady-friend Castillon entertained on this ship, but her taste in clothing was appalling.”

And from behind her back, Isabela presented the single most hideous article of clothing Kiara had ever had the misfortune of beholding.

“She, uh, certainly seemed fond of ruffles,” Kiara offered. Isabela only grimaced, and pushed the offensive garment into Kiara’s unwilling arms. “And… I’m sorry, is this shade _chartreuse_?”

“I’ve been calling it baby shit brown,” Isabela remarked. “I bet you’re _longing_ for the pink one now.”

Kiara smiled weakly. “Oh, not at all.” She gestured vaguely at her hair. “I hear pink’s no shade for a redhead. Or at least that’s what Mother always used to exclaim, loudly and at length, whenever I showed any interest in it.”

“Baby shit brown’ll be much more flattering,” Isabela agreed. “Think you can manage that alone? Or shall I leave you a maid?” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder at a horrified Sebastian—who was, Kiara noted, simply attired, with nary a ghastly color or ruffle in sight. Lucky bastard.

“I’ll manage,” Kiara murmured. “Though the offer is tempting.”

Isabela barked a laugh somewhat at odds with her eerily ladylike appearance. “Isn’t it just? Look how prettily he blushes.”

Kiara rather regretted her decision, however, when she closed the cabin door and was left alone with the garment in question. After several minutes of struggle—and vehement cursing—she managed to wiggle into the dress and even do up half the buttons, but the other half defeated her. Opening the door, she peered into the dim, narrow hallway. Sebastian waited, arms crossed and expression carefully bland.

“Trouble?” he asked.

She glowered, lifting her hair and turning her back. “How good are you with buttons?”

His huff of laughter made her blush. “Better than you, it appears.”

“You try doing up your clothes blind, with your arms all twisted behind you.”

“No, thank you,” he replied, even as his fingers reached out and deftly began to put her dress to rights. It occurred to her to wonder if even the skin of her _back_ was turning pink. She feared it probably was.

“She did that to me on purpose, didn’t she?”

Sebastian chuckled. “I imagine so.” His fingers slowed before pausing altogether. “Hawke, look… your knowledge of the Marches is—”

“Sketchy at best,” she interjected. “I know. You don’t have to remind me. You did make yourself perfectly clear earlier.”

He fastened three more buttons before adding, “Please, follow my lead here. I know it… doesn’t come naturally to you, but—”

Twisting her neck, she glanced over her shoulder to find him frowning. For a moment he looked almost chagrined. “I hope I’m not so intractable that I can’t see an advantage when it’s presented to me. You know this place. I don’t. It only makes _sense_ to follow your lead, Sebastian. I’m not here to make trouble.”

He finished the last of the buttons and dropped his hands back down to his sides. “You say that now.”

Grimacing, she twisted her hair into a knot at the base of her skull, the way Isabela’s had been done. “Is it slavery? Murder? Kicking puppies in the street? Truly, Sebastian, your concern is… alarming.”

This time his brief laugh was utterly mirthless. “Good. And no, it’s none of those things. It’s subtler. In some ways more horrible.”

“Like being forced to wear this dress?”

“It’s not a _jest_ , Hawke.”

He spoke with such sudden heat that Kiara startled, dropping several hairpins to the floorboards. Sebastian bent to retrieve them, and when he dropped them into her hand, she saw his fingers were trembling. “Forgive me,” she said. “I—you know me.”

His eyes were sharp and shrewd and just a little frightened. “I _do_ , Hawke. That’s the problem.”

Kiara closed her fingers around the pins and looked down at them.  Drawing in a breath and letting it out, she then began inserting the pins into her hair, taking care not to jab her scalp in the process.  Kiara felt Sebastian’s eyes on her the whole while, and she _saw_ the way his mouth tightened at the corners, the pinched look at his eyes, the furrow between his brows.  She wondered how much of it had to do with Hercinia, and how much of it had to do with his lingering injury.  Sebastian must have seen the way her eyes dropped because he sighed a little and shook his head.

“It is bothering me no more than it has been.”

She nodded, tapping her fingers against her thigh, wondering _why_ it had seemed so _bloody important_ to leave Amelle behind.  “You’re certain?” she asked in an attempt to sound neutral, but not sure how well it came off; even she heard the note of concern in her voice.  “You…” she cleared her throat and forced a smile.  “Then something about this particular port makes you look as if you’re in horrible pain.  As Varric would say, sounds like a story there.”  She nodded at the coiled belt on her bunk.  It was a prettily braided affair with a sheath on the side just the right size for her smallest dagger. “Why don’t you hand me that and regale me while I finish up?”

Sebastian attempted a smile, but it came off more like a grimace, and after a moment he took a seat on the bottom bunk, raising the belt.  It looked almost absurdly _feminine_ in his hands, and something about the buttery-soft leather draped over strong fingers made Kiara’s flush flare anew.  She held out her hand expectantly, but Sebastian only coiled the accessory neatly and set it aside.

“You cannot take a weapon into Hercinia, Hawke.”

She felt her eyebrow arch almost of its own accord.  “I’m not taking a weapon into Hercinia, Sebastian.  I’m taking a letter-opener.”

But he only shook his head and gestured for her to sit down.  “You don’t understand.  All weapons, any weapons, anything that could _potentially be used_ as a weapon, is forbidden.”  He paused, looking briefly at the belt in question.  “Even glorified letter-openers.”

Kiara took a moment to let this sink in.  It sounded _strange,_ certainly, but nowhere near deserving of the level of Sebastian’s distress.  “You’re… serious.”

“I’m quite serious.”

Kiara nodded slowly and looked for somewhere else, somewhere a little… _safer_ to sit, but options were limited; she barely had room enough to turn around before sitting down on the bunk, allowing about an arm’s length of space between them.  “All right, then.  Tell me.  Tell me why I can’t even carry the decorative dagger my sister gave me on our last First Day in Lothering.”

“I… want you to understand that I’m not trying to be alarmist, Hawke.  Only cautious.  Hercinia is… in many ways it has the appearance of being… pleasant.  The people here are unused to… anyone with…”  Here, Sebastian frowned and looked at his hands, clasping them loosely between his knees as he searched for the right word.  “They are unused to anyone possessing even a fraction of the… _spirit_ that the Champion of Kirkwall possesses.  And I fear the very thing that makes you unique will… cause problems here.”

“Why do I feel you aren’t referring to my wit and vivacity?”

He didn’t laugh. If anything, his expression darkened even further. “In some ways I _am_ referring to your wit and vivacity. But I’m also referring to your… propensity for jumping in to things head first.”

“Implying that there’s something about this place that’s going to _induce_ me to jump in to things head first?”

Sebastian uttered a brief, frustrated groan. “We ought to have gone to Estwatch. Isabela’s history with the guard-captain there be damned. _That,_ I think, you could have talked our way out of.”

“Sebastian,” she growled, and her tone made his chin jerk up. He blinked at her, and then glanced swiftly away once again. “Dancing around the question isn’t going to make me forget I asked it. We’re here now. We need supplies. Maker’s balls, we need _water_. So tell me what I need to know.”

When he clenched his hands into sudden fists, she didn’t miss the wince of pain, however brief it was. “Hercinia is ruled by an Assembly.”

“Right. Book of Laws. You said.”

Sebastian nodded. “Only men may serve on the Assembly.”

Narrowing her eyes, she said nothing, but she twitched her chin in a gesture for him to continue. Which he did. Reluctantly. “There has been an Assembly in Hercinia as long as anyone can remember. They have ruled by their Book. And there are… distinct stratifications in their society. Women rule the house. Men rule everything else.”

The word _everything_ sounded bitter, and Kiara swallowed hard, as though swallowing might somehow rid her of the unpleasantness. Sighing, Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose. “But it’s more complicated than that. And what they call _respect_ , I fear you will call… condescension. I can already see the war raging on your face, Hawke. I can see you hoping to offer freedom and equality to all, but it isn’t like that. The Law is _sacrosanct_. No one thinks to question it. _You_ will be horrified when you see a woman walking two paces behind a man. _She_ will accept absolutely that her place is right and just and good and _ordained_. If you tried to… to speak to her, even, she would turn you in to the authorities. You must not speak out of turn. You must not… reach past your station. And here? Your station is… not what you have been accustomed to.”

Twisting her fingers together in her lap, Kiara grimaced. “I don’t know. It’s not like I was accustomed to much back when I was a mercenary Fereldan refugee.”

“A mercenary Fereldan refugee allowed to speak her mind and act as she wished and fight bloody tooth and nail to earn herself a higher place in the world, Hawke. It is not the same. This is… this is hundreds of years of—”

“Brainwashing?” she interjected.

Sebastian only nodded sadly. “Perhaps.”

She bit her bottom lip hard—hard enough to cause pain, but not quite enough to draw blood.  Sebastian wasn’t wrong. Already she could feel the faint prickle of disgust and anger and the _need to right wrongs_ like an itch under her skin. She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “We need water,” she repeated softly. “We need provisions. We need to… what did Isabela say? Sleep in a Hercinian bed and eat at a Hercinian table? I… I can’t promise I won’t help someone who _asks_ , but I… won’t offer.” Her stomach lurched and she added, “It’s not like I haven’t made a mess of _that_ of late, either. I-I _can_ mind my own business. And I will. I probably ought to have started doing so a long time ago.”

She nearly flinched when she felt Sebastian’s hand on her shoulder, heavy and warm and so very solid. It was an old gesture, a familiar gesture, something so clearly belonging to _before_ —before Anders, before the Chantry, _before_ —that Kiara nearly wept. Instead, she coughed lightly and pushed herself to her feet, even as she fixed a brittle smile to her lips. “No doubt Isabela is waiting with bated breath to behold the hideousness of this dress. We should—we should go.”

He nodded, hand falling back to his side as he slowly rose from the bunk. “Hawke…”

Shaking her head firmly, she gestured toward the door. “When in Hercinia, right? After you. I’ll just be two steps behind.”

She’d meant to say the words in jest, but Sebastian looked so pained she knew they’d fallen flat. “We just need water,” she reminded him. “Water. Food. Bed. This is not the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

She glanced away before she could see the expression on his face. She was all too certain it would be pity. And she wanted none of that.

#

It wasn’t that Sebastian doubted Hawke, or thought her in any way incapable.  She was _very_ capable.  The most obvious exemplar being her rise to prominence in Kirkwall, from refugee to Champion in what now felt like no time at all.  She was the type of person who, when working hard did not yield the results she wanted, worked _harder_ ,found ways to _make_ things work—through brute force if necessary, but more frequently through the liberal use of charm and wit and a well-turned phrase.  In truth, it wasn’t a surprise she’d managed to win over Kirkwall.  Sebastian was of the opinion Kiara Hawke could win over any city she wanted.

Any city _but_ Hercinia.

He couldn’t fathom how Isabela had ever managed to make port there without incident.  He certainly didn’t understand how Isabela could ever have managed to make port there and afterward left with any urge whatsoever to come back. He supposed her relationship with the city of Estwatch must be very, very bad indeed.

But Hawke…  Hawke’s natural inclination was to win people over and put them at ease, and it was something she did well. Inordinately well, in fact.  Though she had no thirst for politics, she had a talent for handling people, and she knew it.  But all of the skills that had served her so very well in the past wouldn’t only fail her here, they could doom her.

_Now you_ are _being melodramatic,_ he chastised himself. _Hawke is not a fool.  You have explained the danger to the best of your ability.  She knows you are in earnest._

As they came up from below, Sebastian was mildly reassured to see the marked difference in demeanor between both Varric and Isabela.  The pirate wore her meekness like she would wear any other costume — convincingly — but Sebastian had known her long enough to recognize the way she carried herself, the way she held her head and lowered her eyes and clasped her hands for what they were: a subtle mockery of the very customs and laws she knew she had no choice but to follow.  

For his part, Varric looked troubled, though Sebastian was sure the dwarf was doing his best not to appear so.  Of their entire party, Varric was the one Sebastian found himself least worried about. The Tethras family hadn’t risen to mercantile prominence by making enemies, and Sebastian knew very well Varric was the savviest of them all.

Hawke followed him into the sunlight — the storm was a distant memory, and the sun burned away any lingering moisture in the air, catching her red hair and making it gleam like burnished copper.  Sebastian found himself wishing her hair hadn’t been pulled back, that it was instead down and loose around her shoulders, all the better to—

His thoughts stopped with a jerk and he shook his head.  If his face had betrayed his thoughts — though he doubted it had — Hawke said nothing.  Instead, she mimicked Isabela’s posture and pose, still looking distressed. The pirate, however, cocked an eyebrow and smirked. Sebastian ignored her.

“Okay, so,” Varric began, once Sebastian and Hawke joined them on deck, “we have the names of the people to see about provisions and water.  The sooner we can do what we came here to do, the sooner we can concentrate on all the other stuff.  Namely: not getting arrested.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Isabela’s mouth as she murmured, “Story of my life.”

“And a heck of a story it is, Rivaini.”

Her smirk broadened for a moment, before she once again adopted the mild, sweet expression so… utterly unlike her. Varric snorted lightly. “Andraste’s ass, woman,” he said on a laugh. “We should have been running theatricals out of The Hanged Man all these years. Had no idea you were such a talented actress.”

Isabela fluttered her eyelashes in feigned innocence. “I am, as they say, a woman of many talents. Many, _many_ talents.”

“They say that, do they?” Hawke murmured, shaking her head slightly, a faint smile pulling at her lips. Isabela’s fake guilelessness disappeared with an eyeroll and a rude gesture. Hawke laughed.

For a moment they were all silent. It was her laughter, Sebastian realized. What was once commonplace had been rendered so very rare. Even Hawke looked startled by the sound. Varric only reached out and patted her hand. “Good to know you still have it in you,” he remarked. “So. Here’s the plan. Rivaini and I’ll take care of the business side of things, and we’ll meet up later. Couple of hours should do it.”

“There’s an inn near the docks,” Isabela explained. “Tends to cater to the foreign crowd. Little less… stolid. Not a _lot_ less, but a little. Men and women are allowed to eat in the same room, for example. Very forward thinking.”

Varric gave a theatrically put upon sigh. “More’s the pity.”

Isabela applied a swift kick to his shin—no small feat considering the heavily ruffled state of her skirt—and he yelped. 

Smoothing her dress back into place, Isabela ignored Varric’s wounded expression and said, “It’s called The Dancing Dog. We’ll meet up there in time for dinner. And mead.”

Sebastian glowered at her and she held her hands up in surrender. “Not _that_ much mead. We sleep. We leave at first light. Easy as can be.”

It was Hawke’s turn for an exaggerated sigh. “Maker’s _balls_ , Isabela. Does the phrase ‘famous last words’ have no meaning for you? What are Sebastian and I meant to do? Do you have a… a task for us?”

Varric and Isabela exchanged a brief look before Varric replied, “Nah, Hawke. You and Choir Boy take in the sights.”

Isabela added, “Let him do the talking.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I’ve had the lecture. Thank you. I still think things would go faster if we split the duties up.”

After another weighty exchange of expressions, Varric shrugged and shook his head. “Even your purse isn’t bottomless, Hawke, and I’ve _seen_ you shop. You don’t have a bartering bone in your body and shopkeepers can _sense it_. Dockside merchants’ll take you for everything you’re worth. Best leave it to the experts.”

Sebastian could sense her disappointment. He wasn’t certain _how_ , precisely. Nothing about her demeanor or her expression changed; she looked as calm and reserved as she’d done a moment before. Too many days and weeks of restless inactivity—of _forced_ restless inactivity—were taking their toll. She was a woman used to _doing_ and it had been a very long time since she’d been allowed to do much of anything at all.

Hercinia really was the _worst_ city for her.

“We’ll go to the town market,” Sebastian said. “There’s no reason we can’t _endeavor_ to have a pleasant afternoon.”

Hawke’s look was scathingly skeptical.

“Ooh,” Isabela wheedled, “buy me a present.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “Something with ruffles, perhaps?”

Isabela glared. Hawke only turned her head and gazed at him steadily. When she spoke, her tone was dry. “Trust me not to get us swindled or arrested now, do you?”

“It’s just the market,” Isabela remarked. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Improbably, this made Hawke laugh again. “Maker’s breath, Isabela. You do know how to tempt fate.”

On a wink, Isabela said, “Yes, well. Tempting things _is_ one of those many, many talents I mentioned.”

#

Hercinia probably would have been charming if it wasn’t so blighted _creepy_ , Kiara thought.  

Oh, it looked nice enough.  The carved stone fountains were inlaid with vibrant mosaics, and the buildings, for all they were squared off and severe, had surprising little flourishes here and there: bright tile roofs and ornate balconies with intricate — and deceptively delicate — wrought-iron balustrades.  Archways were studded with vivid blue tile that Kiara thought had to be indigenous to the area; it was everywhere.  

Even the marketplace was a flurry of color — bright awnings flapping and rippling in the breeze, carts selling fruits the color of jewels — grapes so deep a purple Kiara thought for a moment they had to be fake — and flowers the likes of which she’d never seen or smelled.  She gazed longingly at a cluster of blooms, rounded peach petals that looked impossibly soft, growing darker and more vibrant toward the center of the flower, where bright yellow pollen sad amid a deeply pink middle.  Her sister would have loved them.  

Then Kiara looked glumly at the expanse of Sebastian’s back and suppressed a sigh.  _Mely would love the flowers, but I think she’d hate the view._   Not that Sebastian’s back was an unpleasant sight — his shoulders were broad and well-formed and tapered down rather nicely…

Kiara jerked her eyes back up to Sebastian’s shoulders, wondering how many rules she’d just broken, then took a quick glance around to make sure no one had caught her out.  No one, it appeared, _had_ , which left only Kiara with the knowledge of what she’d been doing.  She shook her head, silently scolding herself, then walked on, maintaining the increasingly despised two-pace distance behind Sebastian.

_“I should warn you,”_ he’d told her as they descended from ship to dock, _“people will assume we are husband and wife.  It would be best to not give them reason to doubt.”_

_“Dare I ask why?_ ”

_“Otherwise they will wonder where your chaperone is.  Believe me when I say this is the better path.”_

And Kiara believed him.  As she snuck surreptitious glances around her, she saw other women following two steps behind their male companions, some accompanied by what might have been brothers or uncles.  She wanted to find the men cruel and stern-looking, and the women pale and weak, but they all looked so astonishingly _normal_ Kiara found it difficult to make sense of.  It was, in many respects, like Kirkwall or Denerim — you could tell quite plainly who had money and who did not.  The wealthier women’s dresses were more colorful, though still of a modest cut, and they carried delicately ruffled parasols in colors complimenting their gowns to shield them from the sun’s rays.  But still they walked behind their husbands, they did not speak until spoken to, and they met no one’s gaze.  That in itself was enough to remind Kiara to jerk her eyes to the back of Sebastian’s head.

She followed him to a fruit stall, managing to look around without falling too far behind.  She saw almost immediately the fruit-seller had perfectly ripe strawberries for sale, and her mouth watered at the sight of them.  Turning his head slightly, she saw Sebastian sneaking a glance her way, as if checking to see if she’d noticed the seller’s wares.  When he turned back to the merchant, Kiara could hear something like… something like _amusement_ in his voice.

And then he bought her strawberries.

She considered it one of the greatest feats of willpower in her life she didn’t simply reach out and cram the fruit immediately into her mouth. Sebastian, accepting the little basket as he handed over currency—the merchant raised his eyes at the stamp of Kirkwall, but pocketed the coins easily enough—smiled at her as though reading her thoughts and she blushed. It was, after all, only fruit.

But these were the brightest, most perfectly formed little berries she’d ever seen. She wanted to eat them. _Right now._

Lowering her eyes demurely, she waited for Sebastian to move. Luckily, they did not go far. Benches ringed a central fountain. Sebastian claimed an empty one and sat. Kiara, startled, waited for him to explain what she was meant to do— _sitting together and eating_ in public seemed awfully forward-thinking, after all.

“You may sit,” Sebastian said, pitching his voice low. “To my right. Don’t let even the ruffles of your dress touch any part of me. You mustn’t initiate any sort of contact; that is always left for the man.”

Swallowing any number of mocking retorts, Kiara did as he bade, and sat. She flicked a quick, sideways glance in his direction.

“I think they realized their marketplace would sell more if people were allowed to sample of its wares,” he explained softly, turning the little basket between his hands. She nodded, temporarily indifferent to the injustices of walking two steps behind and speaking only when spoken to. The _smell_ of the bloody strawberries was actually driving her mad. Keeping her eyes lowered, she watched through her lashes as he plucked the leaves from the top of a berry before extending his hand, pinching the little red fruit between thumb and forefinger.

Sebastian sighed. “I know it’s undignified. You can take it from my hand. It is… permitted. I initiated the action.”

Again, she swallowed the desire to be sarcastic, replying in a whisper, “Tell me I can use my hands.”

He huffed a brief laugh. “Of course. Do try to be discreet, though. Though I’m certain it happens as much here as anywhere, no one in Hercinia likes to be _reminded_ what goes on behind closed doors. And it goes without saying that you mustn’t accept anything from anyone’s hand but my own.”

“It goes without saying,” she repeated dryly, plucking the berry from his hand and popping it into her mouth.

Kiara was a connoisseur of strawberries. And she had never tasted _anything_ like this one. It very nearly brought tears to her eyes. She wasn’t even certain she could ever again call the old berries she’d known as strawberries by the same name, having now tasted these ones. In fact, fish pies and mead be damned, she was almost half-convinced to return to Hercinia at some point for the berries alone. What was a little indignity, when this was the reward?

“I did say they _don’t_ like to be reminded what happens behind closed doors, Hawke. The expression on your face is not helping.”

She couldn’t help it. She giggled. And then she covered her mouth with one hand, in case giggling was filed under Activities Punishable By Law. Sebastian only laughed, and when she gazed up at him, wide-eyed, she found his expression amused and fond, but not terrified-of-imminent-arrest, so she lowered her hand again, curling it loosely in her lap. He offered her another berry.

“Dare I?” she murmured. “My self-control is being heavily tested here.”

He gestured again, and she retrieved the second strawberry. She _tried_ to eat this one with more dignity, but feared she more or less failed abominably. “We’ll save the rest for later, perhaps. Because your adoration does… rather border on the obscene.”

“I really love strawberries.”

“I know you do,” he replied, his tone gone oddly serious after its previous amusement.

This time when she lowered her eyes to gaze at the hands curled in her lap, it wasn’t entirely because she was in Hercinia and it was _expected_. Her cheeks felt warm from more than the sun. Bloody strawberries. Bloody Sebastian. Bloody… everything.

“Hawke…”

“I’m fine,” she answered softly, still looking at her hands.  Sebastian said nothing, and though Kiara didn’t look at him, she could feel how much he didn’t believe her in the weight of his gaze.  Finally she clasped her hands together and said with a brightness she feared sounded too forced, “So, the Hercinians know their fruit.  Anything else we should see while we’re here?”

“They’re quite known for their fabrics—”

Kiara gave the voluminous ruffles of her gown a pointed look as she murmured under her breath, “Yes, well, they need so _much_ of it.”

Sebastian schooled his chuckle into a cough and went on.  “Hercinian honey is without equal, and there are a plethora of spices, woodcraft…”

“We’re to look for a gift for Isabela, remember.”  She sent him a slantwise glance.  “And I think the only way she’ll take her honey is in mead.”

“I fear there is very little available in a Hercinian marketplace that would appeal to Isabela.”

Just then a husband and wife walked by, both dressed in rich, vibrant silks.  The woman carried — entirely without irony — what was possibly the most absurdly ruffled parasol Kiara had ever seen.  It had more ruffles than she could possibly conceivably _imagine._   It also had, to its Hercinian credit, a most fantastically carved wooden handle.

“Think I can get that in pink?” she murmured, keeping her head bowed and now folding her hands in her lap with mock-innocence rivaling the pirate’s.

This time Sebastian didn’t bother checking his laugh.  “I think we can certainly _look._ ”

#

It hadn’t been all that bad, Kiara reflected as she followed Sebastian to the inn where they were to rendezvous with Varric and Isabela.  There had been one or two uncertain moments when Sebastian’s softly murmured directions to her had been the very lifeline she needed to gracefully avoid causing an international incident, but aside from having to stay two bloody paces behind Sebastian, keeping her eyes averted, and never speaking until spoken to…

Well, she wasn’t in any sort of a rush to _return_ to Hercinia, unless it was a special trip, just for the strawberries.  _Or_ the parasols.  Currently there was a box under Sebastian’s arm holding one such item — Isabela’s requested gift.  And they had it on good assurance there wasn’t a pinker, more ruffled parasol in all of the Free Marches.  It was _perfect._

As they rounded the corner, the mouth-watering scent of what Kiara suspected were Hercinian fish pies filled the air and her stomach gave a sudden growl.  Sebastian’s shoulders shuddered with a silent laugh and he shook his head.  At that moment Kiara saw a great deal of use in having a parasol — if she’d been in possession of one at that moment, she could have given him a warning poke.  Utterly by accident, _of course._

“And here we are,” Sebastian said on a sigh as they approached the door.  Reaching for the doorknob, he paused to glance over his shoulder at Kiara, saying in that same low tone, “And we neither of us managed to get swindled or arrest—”

Then, suddenly and without any warning, the door swung open, as a swarthy man roughly the size of the Arishok barreled through in a foul temper.  The door caught Sebastian solidly in the chest and he staggered back, dropping the box he held, his hand going immediately — and protectively — to the site of his wound.

“Sebastian?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

The Arishok-sized man didn’t so much as pause— _and_ _honestly_ , Kiara thought, _how isn’t_ utter rudeness _against Hercinia’s hallowed rules?_ —but she didn’t waste any time on him because Sebastian turned his head, his expression the picture of puzzlement, and began, “I’m fi—”

And then he went positively _grey_ , his eyes went peculiarly unfocused, and she saw him begin to fall.

She didn’t think. She didn’t have _time_ to think. Even hampered by her awkward skirts, Kiara crossed the two-pace distance in a heartbeat, already reaching out to catch him before he could land and do himself even more damage. Even with her feet braced, she still nearly went down. She was strong, but Sebastian wasn’t small, and the fainting dead weight of him seemed twice as heavy.

Wedging her shoulder underneath him, she managed to make his fall more gentle, but they still ended up on the ground, and she was alarmed when he didn’t immediately wake. Settling him so his head rested in her lap, her fingertips fluttered over his chest. No blood seeped through the white fabric of his shirt, at least, and though it was still a terrible color, his skin wasn’t either clammy or feverish. His pulse was a little rapid, however, and even when she gently shook the shoulder on his unwounded side, his eyelids didn’t so much as flutter.

She wasn’t aware of the crowd until someone touched her shoulder. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin, and if she’d been carrying a weapon—any weapon, even her letter-opener of a dagger—she might have put it through the interloper’s eye. The newcomer was a stranger, of course, a man with grim eyes over heavy, drooping mustaches. She vaguely recognized his blue uniform—she’d seen others wearing the same thing all over the city. Supposing him to be someone with authority, she pleaded, “Can you fetch a physician? A healer? My friend is injur—”

The man cut her off, shaking his head. “Your _friend_?”

Kiara blinked at him and, too slowly, amended, “My husband. My husband is injured.”

His expression clearly conveyed his doubt, and Kiara felt her heart flip in sudden apprehension. “The Law speaks clearly. You will come with us.”

Glancing around, she saw the man was not alone. Even armed she might have had trouble fighting _all_ the blue-clad Hercinians, especially in such close quarters. Several of the inn’s patrons stood around, watching without giving the appearance of watching. Kiara thought she saw a froth of pink ruffles, but she couldn’t be certain and she didn’t want to stare.

The last thing she needed was to involve Isabela and Varric in this.

“Please rise,” the man ordered. “You must come with us.”

Kiara took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry. What part of _injured_ are you having trouble understanding?”

“He will be brought with you.”

She barked an unpleasant, disbelieving laugh. “You’re not seriously implying he’s in trouble, too? For what? Fainting on the street?”

“The Law speaks clearly,” he repeated. “We must… investigate the inconsistencies in your story.”

Kiara had never wanted to punch someone so much in her _life_. Instead she touched gentle fingertips to Sebastian’s brow. This time he moaned lightly under her touch and she looked away from the Hercinian in time to see Sebastian’s eyes flutter open. She didn’t like how long it took him to focus, or that she saw his lips moving without sound. As soon as he realized where he was, he began to struggle to sit upright. “It’s okay,” she whispered, keeping one hand pressed to his good shoulder. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

The journey from the inn back into the city proper was too long.  Sebastian, deemed unfit to walk under his own power had several of the guardsmen assisting him.  Several more escorted Kiara to Hercinia’s Arch of Law — an apt name, Kiara couldn’t help but notice; the only way into the imposing building was through a long, arched corridor, tiled from ceiling to floor in the vibrant blue tiles.  Two guards walked on either side of her, one two steps ahead — _why break with tradition?_ — and one two steps behind, which, from the appalled looks she was getting from a number of other Hercinians told Kiara she’d committed a grave offense, indeed.

_We were so bloody_ close _,_ she thought, glaring straight ahead and fuming at the bloody _absurdity_ of it all.  The combined footfalls echoed unpleasantly on the tile and Kiara decided though she’d initially found the blue stone quite pretty, she liked it just as much as she liked the rest of Hercinia. Not very much indeed.

Of course, if she’d had it to do over again, she wouldn’t have changed anything.  Maker’s _balls,_ would a Hercinian wife just stand her dutiful two paces back and _let_ her husband faint dead away in the street?  And what in all the Void kind of law was _that_ to have?  

_A stupid one_ , Kiara decided.

Without touching her — without even _looking_ at her — Kiara’s cadre of guards led her down another and yet another hallway studded with heavy wooden doors.  They stopped at one such door and the frontmost guard knocked solidly against the wood.  Without hesitation, the door opened with nary a creak — _it’s probably against the law to have rusty hinges in Hercinia, too_ — and Kiara was waved into a plain, windowless room.  The first man — the one with the drooping mustache — was inside waiting for her, looking grimmer than ever.  The room was scantly furnished, with only a couple of heavy wooden chairs, crafted much like the doors, in the center of the room and a long wooden bench along one wall.  There was nothing that could be used as a weapon, and no way out, save the door.

Kiara was beginning to feel sick.

“Sit,” the mustached man said, waving at one of the chairs as the other guards stationed themselves around the room.  “Your… companion,” and, oh, she _hated_ the inflection he gave that word, “will be along shortly.  He is injured and requires extra assistance.”

Kiara bristled; he told her this as if she hadn’t been the one to tell _him_ Sebastian’s condition.  Or worse, as if she’d _caused_ it.  A sharp retort burned upon her tongue, but she swallowed it, her conscience taking on Sebastian’s voice as it warned her, _You’ll just make things worse.  Don’t make things worse._   So instead of giving breath to the litany of colorful invectives perched on her tongue, Kiara nodded coolly and sat in one of the chairs, folding her hands in her lap.  

The wait couldn’t have been more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes, but for Kiara the time ticked by far slower, and it felt like an hour had gone by before another knock sounded at the door.  The mustached guard strode over with an arrogant authority that made Kiara want nothing more than to trip him, and opened the door to reveal Sebastian.  His color was slightly improved, but he still clutched one fist against his chest, and seemed to be rubbing the spot slowly.  His eyes flicked over to her briefly and Kiara realized she’d been bracing herself for inevitable disappointment or censure in his gaze, but she found nothing but worry and concern in the blue depths.

“Sit, if you would, serah?  I am Magistrate Drolett, and I have a few… questions to put to you and your companion.”

Sebastian nodded and sat, without comment — without any sort of reaction at all.  The magistrate stood before them, watching them both as if they were simply waiting for an opportune moment to filch the silver.  It took approximately seven seconds of this before Kiara was biting back her irritation.  She could see why weapons weren’t allowed in Hercinia.

“From where do you hail?” Magistrate Drolett asked, but the question was directed at Sebastian, who, clearly, was expected to answer for both of them.  Kiara tried not to sigh.

“I… beg your pardon?” Sebastian asked cautiously.

“You are clearly not Hercinian, which means you are foreign,” the man barked.  “From where do you hail?”

Then there was the slightest, almost imperceptible shift in Sebastian’s demeanor.  He sat up a little straighter, despite how much his wound had to be bothering him, and answered the question clearly and _mildly_ , something that shocked Kiara, who was ready to rip that ridiculous mustache off with her bare hands.  “We are most recently from Kirkwall, but both my wife and I hail from other lands.  I from Starkhaven and she from Ferelden.”

“Your _wife,_ is it?”

“Aye,” came the immediate answer.

“She first called you her _friend._ ”

But Sebastian only smiled.  And then he _lied through his teeth._   “We are newly wed, messere.  I fear it is a slip we have both made in recent days.”

“Why are you in Hercinia?”

Kiara would have answered _for the strawberries_ , but Sebastian only inclined his head and replied, “The ship we travel on was damaged in the recent storm. Our captain put into port here. I was familiar enough with your customs to know we had to partake of your hospitality.” Butter wouldn’t _melt_ in his mouth. “Not that it was a hardship. Hercinia is a beautiful city. I have visited before, but my wife has not. I wished for her to see the sights.”

“What is your destination?”

“Starkhaven,” Sebastian replied. “To visit family. On the occasion of our nuptials. As one does.”

Magistrate Drolett’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment his nostrils flared, as though he sought to physically sniff out their lies.

“Serah,” he snapped, turning on her, “how long have you known this man?”

“Almost seven years,” she replied.

“And yet you are only newly wed?”

She smiled sweetly. “Forgive me, messere, you asked when we _met_ , not when we fell in love. Ours has been a gradual courtship.”

The magistrate grimaced, as though talk of love was somehow distasteful. “Where did you meet?”

“Kirkwall. Outside the chantry, to be more specific. Things are… different there, as you may be aware. He was posting work on the Chanter’s Board. I was looking for employment.”

“What kind of labor?”

“Housecleaning,” she replied without missing a beat.

Magistrate Drolett slapped one palm against his thigh before closing his hand into a fist. “This is an easy enough story to concoct. Perhaps you will not fare quite so well if you are questioned separately? Perhaps then your stories may not align so perfectly?”

Kiara’s stomach twisted, but she kept her expression as close to neutral as she could manage. She hoped any fear that leaked out would be taken for a wife not wishing to be separated from her husband.

“That is hardly appropriate,” Sebastian said. He no longer sounded cool and composed and reserved; the hard edge of anger was more than evident in his tone. “She has no chaperone. I told you, messere, I _am_ familiar with your Book of Law. I would be remiss in my duty as her husband if I allowed you to remove her from my presence. She has no one else to stand as her protector.”

What she wanted to say was _I fought a qunari Arishok with a sodding_ bow _! To the death! And I won! I should think I can stand as my own protector, thank you._ Instead, she bowed her head, because she was afraid if Drolett looked into her eyes now, he’d see all the evidence he required to keep them in service to Hercinian Law for life.

After too long a pause, the magistrate asked, “You both write? You are literate?”

She almost snickered. Except she knew snickering would be _very_ inappropriate. _Literate? Maker! I run Kiara Hawke’s School for Illiterate Elves, don’t you know?_

She nodded. Presumably Sebastian did the same; she didn’t dare look at him, and he didn’t speak aloud. If only she’d—but no, there was no _saying_ what kind of damage such a jarring fall could have caused. 

Even without looking up, she could _hear_ the smirk in Drolett’s tone. “Very well. You shall write your answers to my questions separately, and we shall see how well they match up.”

One of the magistrate’s guardsmen was sent off on the errand of finding pen and parchment, while Drolett stalked about the room, sending menacing glares their way. Kiara wanted to sigh. He was a petty bureaucrat, but hardly _terrifying_ the way he imagined he must be. Sebastian kept his gaze calmly focused on the wall opposite him, not reacting to the magistrate in any way.

The guard returned a little while later bearing paper, pens, and ink.  With no tables in the room, Kiara and Sebastian had little choice but to write upon their laps — messy and arduous, but by this point Kiara was _determined_ to pass Drolett’s test, whatever it might be.  Her determination and annoyance with the man overshadowed even the lingering doubt and worry he might ask questions she could not answer.  

Overshadowed, but did not eclipse completely.

A blotch of ink dripped from the tip of Kiara’s pen as she waited for the magistrate to pose his first question and she watched it seep into the paper, possibly through to her skirts below — though she couldn’t muster much of a care about that, given the hideousness of the dress.

“Are you both adequately prepared?” Drolett asked.  Kiara looked down at the nib of her pen and wondered how deeply she could jab it into the man’s throat before the guards pulled her off him.

“We are,” replied Sebastian, sounding elegantly put upon.  Kiara only nodded, not trusting her voice and not wanting to discover too late she was actually incapable of suppressing her scathing sarcasm.

“Very well.  You will both write your names at the top of the page.”  

This was an odd order, but Kiara complied, remembering to give herself the Vael name.  If Drolett thought to trip her up this way, the man’s stupidity equaled his insufferable arrogance.

“Once you have finished,” continued Drolett, now stalking from one end of the room to the other, “write down your most prized possession and that of your spouse.”

Kiara blinked, staring at the page.  _Maker, is he_ serious _?_   To answer for Sebastian was easy — the Starkhaven bow, given him by his grandfather.  Indeed, it was harder to answer the question for _herself._   She thought for a moment before writing down, _Mother’s tea-set_.  It wasn’t a bow or a dagger — and it wasn’t even strictly _hers_ ; she and Amelle technically shared it — but it was the most precious thing discovered in the Amell vault.

Magistrate Drolett coughed.  “If you are finished, write for me your parents’ names, and the names of your spouse’s parents.”

Kiara pressed her lips together in a thin line, hoping the Hawke name and any notoriety — or infamy — related to it had managed to pass over Hercinia.  _It wouldn’t surprise me if it had_ , she thought.  _Especially if how far Drolett keeps his head up his arse is any indication of things._   She wrote down the names _Malcolm and Leandra Hawke_ just above _Meghan and Lachlan Vael_ , and waited, tapping the leaky nib of her pen against the parchment.

“Favorite food,” Drolett said.  

_Strawberries_ , Kiara wrote briskly, and she somehow managed to refrain from adding, _the only sodding thing you’ve got going for yourself in Hercinia._ She smiled a little as she wrote, _Freshly baked bread with honey-butter_ , remembering the way Sebastian had always smiled upon returning to the chantry after any number of errands or jobs she’d taken him on that had run too long, bringing them back to Kirkwall in the dark hours between late night and early morning.  The smell of baking bread filled the air, even down to the courtyard, and more than once he’d procured one of the crusty loaves and shared it with her, slathered with the sticky-sweet butter.

For a moment Kiara forgot there wasn’t a chantry anymore and sudden tears blinded her when she remembered _._ There would be no more midnight kitchen raids, or friendly conversations on the chantry steps until dawn. Giving herself a brisk shake, she surreptitiously dashed away the moisture at her eyes.

“Preferred position in which to… repose.”

Both Kiara’s and Sebastian’s heads swiveled around to stare at the magistrate.  Kiara felt a blush — equal parts embarrassment and _anger_ at the impudence of the question — heat her entire face, all the way up to her hairline.

“That is _hardly_ appropriate,” Sebastian growled, his eyes flashing.  “Neither is it any of your business.”

“I must ask questions only a wife or husband can answer, serah,” replied Drolett, sounding not the slightest bit apologetic.  “Surely you understand.”

This time, she couldn’t help herself. With a smirk, she drew a lurid little illustration. Then she drew arrows and labeled the players. She even gave them speech-bubbles with dialogue. Well, as much dialogue as such situations afforded (along the lines of: _Maker, yes!_ and _More, more, harder!_ ). She thought even Isabela might have been impressed. Perhaps Kiara could carve off her own niche in the friend-fiction market. Friend… illustration.

Then, underneath, she added: _he’ll say he likes me on top, but really, he likes me_ naked _, end of story. I do look good naked. P.S._ Really _none of your business._

The magistrate seemed perplexed they hadn’t immediately confessed to their lies. Kiara wished she’d made her drawing somehow even more explicit. Or given the lady heavy mustaches. _That_ would have been terribly amusing. 

Very coolly, Sebastian said, “Perhaps those are questions enough, messere? I doubt you can ask anything more intimate than what you’ve done already.”

“Are you uncomfortable, serah? Afraid I will find you out?”

“There is little _to_ find out,” Sebastian retorted, with just the right dash of anger and affront. “Do you wish to know about the freckles on my wife’s shoulders? The subject of our last argument? That she has a mole on her left hip? You are hunting for a falsehood that simply doesn’t exist.”

Kiara was glad she was still so studiously examining her sheet of paper, because her blush was reaching rather _epic_ levels of heat.

How in the Maker’s name did he know about the bloody mole, anyway?

But Sebastian was still speaking. “Aye, Magistrate Drolett, I know the names of her siblings. I know her favorite color. I know she prefers the left side of the bed, and that although I’d been accustomed to the same, I moved to the right to please her. I know she is the kind of woman who would _never_ let anyone—husband or stranger—fall in the street. She is warmhearted and affectionate and forgiving, even when she has every right not to be. She is the best person I know, and you are treating her as you would treat the basest, most common criminal, because her tongue slipped, and because she had the gall to aid me before I could injure myself yet more grievously.”

Kiara hazarded a slight glance in Sebastian’s direction. She didn’t like the raggedness of his breathing. His right hand was white-knuckled around the quill, but the left hung at his side. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fervent, and entirely fixed on the magistrate. His words made her heart ache. They sounded so… _true_.

“The Law speaks clearly,” Drolett repeated, drawling the words with lazy cruelty.

“I broke your laws by tending him in the street,” Kiara admitted softly. “Is that right? But he had fainted. _He_ committed no crime. Keep me, if you must, but let him go. Please. Let him go back to our ship. Let him see a healer.”

“Kiara, no.” Sebastian said. Any other time it would have made her smile to hear her given name on his lips—it happened so rarely. “This can be resolved.”

But she was already shaking her head. A heavy droplet of ink fell from her pen and marred one of her ruffles. “If someone has to pay for a crime, let it be me. I’m not afraid.”

Drolett’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his lips twisted unpleasantly. “The Law is not swayed by melodramatic pleas. I do not believe you. Either of you. Pretending to be wed when you are not defies any _number_ of laws. You shall _both_ pay for your crimes. Now let me see your papers.”


	34. Chapter 34

Truly, the absurdity of it all was so great it seemed a crime the situation was not _funnier._   But Sebastian knew too well Hercinia’s love of law and order, the stranglehold of bureaucracy it had on the entire city.  It _was_ ridiculous, that they’d been apprehended when _he’d_ been the one upon whom injury had been done.  The law that kept Kiara Hawke two paces behind him, ostensibly to _keep her in her bloody place,_ was the same law that had put him into the path of the man roughly the size of an ox that came out of the inn at precisely the wrong moment.  Though, in truth, he knew that if Hawke had been by his side at the time, she’d have caught the brunt of the opening door, and likely would have been—

Who was he kidding?  Hawke would have demanded an apology.  And she’d have gotten one, too, particularly if she’d had her bow in hand.  That was an entertaining scenario, or would have been, had Sebastian been inclined to entertain such fancies.  He wasn’t.

Instead, he was stuck in a musty, dim room with a magistrate quickly on his way to being drunk on his own power.  Sebastian was coming to despise the man and his superior smirk, strutting about, so _certain_ of his own righteousness.  Drolett took their sheets of paper with the sort of condescension that bespoke that very same righteousness and sense of superiority.

So great was Sebastian’s irritation and affront that he almost forgot they _were_ lying to the magistrate.  It was difficult for him to care overmuch about the falsehood in which they’d engaged — not if Hawke was on the verge of being placed into Hercinian servitude for an act of kindness.

He did not think about — did not _like_ to think about — how _easy_ a lie it was to tell.

The sudden rush of anger at Drolett’s ridiculous — to say nothing of insulting and invasive — line of questioning made every muscle in his body grow tense and rigid, and then, perhaps unsurprisingly, the wound at his chest — still throbbing after being jarred so violently — began to ache and throb all the more.

Strangely, it had been Hawke’s _smirk_ while answering the last of Drolett’s questions (and had he not been harboring a healthy dislike for the man, Sebastian might have pitied him; the smirk meant trouble) that had made a surge of anger and protectiveness swell in his chest.

As he handed over his sheet of answers to the magistrate, Sebastian vowed silently he would break Hawke out of prison _himself_ if they failed this little test.  If they were jailed together, which also wasn’t unlikely, given what the Book of Law had to say on the matter, they would break out together.

But once Drolett had both pieces of parchment in his possession and began to read over their answers, a strange look overspread his face.  Slowly, the color began to drain from his cheeks, which until that point had been ruddy with what what Sebastian supposed was the thrill of victory.  Watching him closely, Sebastian took care to keep his expression bland, but now _he_ was suppressing the urge to smirk.

_So Magistrate Drolett has figured out he has the Champion of Kirkwall in custod—_

The magistrate’s throat worked as he swallowed hard.  “Your name is… Vael?”

“Of the Starkhaven Vaels,” Hawke added, too sweetly.

The magistrate ignored her, fixing a gaze so confused on Sebastian that it took every effort not to give in to the smirk. Instead, Sebastian gently lifted one eyebrow and replied, “I never attempted to hide my identity, messere.”

The unspoken _you never bothered to ask_ hung between them. If he’d had color to lose, the magistrate would certainly have lost it then. The man’s gaze darted back to the papers he still held clutched in his hands. “It says here—your parents—you’ve both written—”

“Lachlan and Meghan Vael, presumably.”

Drolett pulled the papers to his breast, as if they might protect him. “But then—”

Sebastian interrupted him, explaining patiently, as though he was speaking to a very small child, “I am the youngest son of the last rightful ruler of Starkhaven, aye. By all means, though, continue: I do understand the importance of law being upheld.”

“It is very important for a prince to understand the working of the law,” Hawke intoned. Sebastian felt his lips twitch and bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

“I—yes,” Drolett murmured feebly. “Yes, I’m sure. Ah. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. Ah. Your Highness. Highnesses.”

“I did say that right from the beginning,” Hawke reminded him. “Only you wouldn’t let me explain.”

Sebastian shot Hawke a warning look, and she inclined her head with a smile, subsiding.

“Now, Magistrate Drolett, presuming our… papers are in order, is there anything else? Our ship departs on the morning tide, and we would very much like to partake of the Hercinian hospitality whilst we’re still able. Unless…?” Sebastian let the word hang, a tacit challenge. Drolett reached up and tugged on his mustaches, blinking.

“Well, ah, Your Highness, ah—”

Whatever Drolett might have said was lost when a sudden insistent knocking at the door interrupted him. A hint of the man’s arrogance returned as he scowled at the intrusion and strode to the door. A guard quavered on the other side, clutching a piece of paper tight in his hand. “I know you said you weren’t to be interrupted, Magistrate, but—”

“What do you have there?” Drolett snapped.

“A marriage certificate, Magistrate. Signed by the ship captain who married them, and witnessed by Varric Tethras. You know, of the Tethras merchant family out of Kirkwall—”

“I am aware of the Tethras family, guardsman.”

“They supply all of Hercinia’s—”

“I _know_ ,” Drolett growled. “Enough. That will be all.”

The guard lowered his eyes but did not budge. “Magistrate, the Assembly has been informed. They have requested you allow these… guests to depart. They wish to… ah, _avoid an international incident_. I believe those were Assemblyman Sollen’s words. He did, ah, _order_ me to escort the… guests from the building.”

Sebastian grimaced as Drolett’s shoulders stiffened. He half expected the man to hold them for spite, now. He seemed exactly the type of paper shuffler who’d do such a thing, just to prove he _could_.

“Relations between Starkhaven and Hercinia have always been cordial,” Sebastian said lightly. “I would hate to see anything jeopardize that, Magistrate Drolett.”

“Quite… right,” Drolett agreed, reluctantly.

It became clear to Sebastian that the Assembly were men with whom one did not trifle when Drolett gave a gruff gesture, indicating that they were meant to leave with the guards.  He and Hawke stood — and he noticed she was less inclined to lower her gaze _now_.  On the contrary, she was all smiles and decidedly-not-lowered eyes as she crossed the room, standing by the guard’s _side_ , which left the poor man looking utterly befuddled and not a little worried.

Sebastian, on the other hand, approached Drolett, letting a polite smile form at his lips while keeping his eyes ever so slightly narrowed.  He put one hand out, and the magistrate looked confused for a moment — making an aborted movement, as if he thought for an instant Sebastian meant to clasp forearms with him — until Sebastian nodded at the documents the magistrate still held and said, “I believe those belong to us, serah.”

Magistrate Drolett looked down again.  Something on the topmost page made his face turn an alarming shade of red, and he pressed the papers into Sebastian’s hand.  Without looking at them, Sebastian folded the sheets and tucked them into a pocket, nodding.  “I thank you, serah.  If there is nothing else, my wife and I will depart.”

A muscle twitched in Drolett’s jaw as his throat worked silently.  “Ah.  No, Highness.  Nothing else.”  The ruddy color remained, and Sebastian started to wonder just what in the Maker’s name the man had _seen._   “No hard feelings then?”  

Hawke sent a bright smile the man’s way.  “I think you managed to avoid an international incident.”

Drolett only coughed and nodded, gesturing again, as if to shoo them off.  

It wasn’t until they were on the other side of the door and on their way back down the long, tiled corridor — two very familiar silhouettes waiting in the twilight at the end — Sebastian realized the enormity of what they’d just done.  He slowly flexed his left hand, the dull pain grounding him once again in the real world.  A world where he was not married to Kiara Hawke.

Relief overspread Varric and Isabela’s faces when they spied Sebastian and Hawke, but the complement of guards hampered their conversation significantly.  The dwarf sent him a look and Sebastian gave a brief nod, which seemed to satisfy Varric, who then shot Isabela a glance.  The pirate inclined her head, and the group of them walked in near silence back to the boat.

Once they were aboard, Isabela arched an eyebrow at the pair of them. “This had better not mean I’m blacklisted. There are only so many ports along this coast.”

“And as you’re already blacklisted in most of them…” Varric muttered, not quite under his breath. Sebastian gave the dwarf a sympathetic smile—Varric was _already_ looking a bit green, and the ship was still in port, while runners went to fetch Isabela’s sailors.

It occurred to Sebastian to hope no one had been partaking _too_ heavily of the mead, or they’d never make it out to sea alive. It also occurred to him that the Assembly must have been worried about an Incident indeed, if they were willing to let them break the laws of hospitality—bed and food—to leave at once. Only Hawke had that kind of luck.

Isabela rolled her eyes, plucking at the ruffles of her pink gown. “There is _something_ to be said for finally getting around those pesky hospitality traditions, but _honestly_ , what were you _thinking_ , Hawke?”

Hawke gave Isabela a nervous look and glanced over her shoulder, as if to make certain no Hercinian—Drolett or otherwise—was around to hear the name.

“I was thinking I couldn’t very well let my, uh, husband crack his head—or his barely-healed wound—open in the street.”

“We did witness _that_ part, kitten,” Isabela replied. “And we rescued your… things.”

Hawke giggled. “Did you like your parasol? I was afraid it was lost forever.”

Isabela’s eyes widened. “That was for _me_?”

“To match your dress, obviously. You did _ask_ for a present. We simply obliged. Do you like all the ruffles? Think how fashionable you’ll be the next time you have to put in port here.”

For a moment, the impossible happened—Isabela was rendered speechless. “Well,” she said at length. “I think it’s perfectly hideous.”

“She loves it,” Varric remarked. “She was going to steal it. Or… _forget_ to tell you it had been recovered.”

“I was _not_.” Isabela’s cheeks colored _ever_ so slightly, and she glowered at Varric. Hawke giggled again. Maker, but her giggle was—

“Kiara _Hawke_ , _what_ in the Maker’s _name_ is _this_?”

She smirked up at him through batted lashes. “Heart of my heart, it’s _Vael_ , remember? Did you find my picture?”

“Picture?” Isabela asked, parasol forgotten. “Is it naughty?”

“It most certainly _is_ ,” Hawke opined. “But that bloody bureaucrat was getting on my last nerve. Favorite position for _repose_ , indeed.”

“Ooh,” Isabela squealed. “Let me see. I love positions for… _repose_.”

Suddenly, Sebastian realized just why the man had been blushing. He feared his own cheeks were quite pink. Part of it was the picture. Part of it was the entirely inappropriate tangent his mind took at the words _heart of my heart._ Most of it was the picture, though. What the drawing lacked in skill of the artist was more than made up for by his traitorous, vivid imagination.

Also, he was fairly certain he’d never be able to innocently use the word _repose_ ever again.

Extending her hand, Hawke crooked her fingers. “Come on, Sebastian. Let me see your answers. I want to see how badly we’d have failed Drolett’s little exam.”

The heat at his cheeks never abating, Sebastian handed over his sheet of answers while at the same time trying to keep Hawke’s sheet from Isabela’s prying eyes.

“Oh, it _must_ be good if Princess doesn’t want me seeing it,” she laughed.  

Sebastian started to protest and turn away from Isabela again, but with a deftness and quickness the pirate usually saved for battle, she slipped around him and snatched the paper from his hands and only a second or two later, let out a rich peal of laughter.

“Andraste’s arsecheeks, _Hawke!_ ” Isabela’s mirth made her sputter slightly, but she wasn’t distracted enough to turn nimbly away from Sebastian when _he_ made a grab for the sheet.  “Mustache-Man asked you this?  _Really?_ Honestly, by the look of him I wouldn’t have thought he’d have _known_ there _were_ different positions for… _repose._ ”  And the intent Isabela loaded into the word made it sound every bit as obscene as… well, as Hawke’s diagram.

But Hawke didn’t reply.  She simply stared at the sheet of paper, a queer expression upon her face.  She was frowning, but didn’t look particularly troubled or even upset.  No, if anything, she looked confused _._  

While Isabela was distracted in her attempt to get Hawke’s attention, Sebastian snatched the piece of parchment back and strode a few steps away — the better to keep the item from Isabela’s prying eyes — to see if he could determine what exactly had Hawke so… bothered.

It took him no time at all to discern the root of her discomfiture.  His face still felt warm with the blush, which seemed impossible, as he was _certain_ the blood had to be draining from his face.

From behind him, he heard Hawke clear her throat and cough softly.  “Sebastian…”

Neither of them had got a single answer _wrong_.  It didn’t seem possible, but the more Sebastian thought about it, the more that didn’t make sense either.  Of course she’d known about the bow — _she’d_ been the one to present it to him.  She’d seen the look on his face when he’d wrapped his hands around the polished wood, unleashing so many memories spanning so many years.  He even found himself unsurprised, when he really _thought_ about it, she knew his weakness for the chantry’s fresh-baked bread, for the butter sweetened with honey that came from the bees feasting upon the flowers in the chantry’s own garden.  He remembered sitting on the chantry steps with Hawke, both of them filthy, exhausted and — more often than not — bloodstained, sharing a loaf of bread with butter and, on occasion, a steaming mug of too-strong tea, also sweetened with honey.  Together they’d watch the sun come up over Kirkwall, sometimes saying nothing at all as they simply enjoyed their bread, tea, and company.

They were some of Sebastian’s fondest memories.

Hawke coughed again.  “Sebastian?”

He turned, realizing too late his heart was thundering in his chest.  Sebastian swallowed hard; he was almost afraid to hear her ask the question so clear in her eyes.  He also realized he didn’t know which name to call her by, anymore.  “Aye?”  

She bit her lip gently, worrying it a moment as she hesitated.  But finally the question came out:  “How did you know about the tea-set?  That it was…”  She swallowed.  “How did you know?”

As far as questions went — and the ones she _could_ have asked — it was… answerable, at least.  He looked back down at the paper he held.  At the spatters of ink decorating the page as she’d tapped the tip of the quill so restlessly against the sheet.  The handwriting, elegant even though a lap hardly made for a proper desk. Everything on the parchment reflected Hawke so clearly it might as well have been a mirror. Even the drawing showed not only her wit and her sense of humor, but an utter intolerance for bullies of all kinds.

Licking his lips once, he considered her question.  “You mentioned your mother found it in the vault.  The night I came to—the night Amelle fetched me to… see you, it… it was on the sideboard in your room.”  He shrugged.  “It seemed… significant at the time.  And I do know how little you have that belonged to your parents…”  Sebastian trailed off — everything he was saying was true, but it still wasn’t the right _answer._  

He didn’t _know_ how he knew the tea-set was so important to Hawke.  It was something about the way she handled it when pouring tea, the way she stroked the rim of the teacup thoughtfully, the way she was always so careful with the delicate porcelain, almost _reverent_.  All of it spoke to him.  And all of it was equally difficult to articulate.

“You knew about the bread,” he said quietly.  “How?”

Her answering laugh was soft, and sounded almost broken.  “I thought for certain I got that one wrong.  I figured your favorite food was probably some impossibly rich, rare, _princely_ thing I could barely pronounce and had certainly never tasted myself.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, and it, too, sounded wrong to his own ears.  “No, I…no.  You were… quite entirely right, as it turns out. Right down to the honeyed butter.”

She glanced down, and this time it was her cheeks that colored. “I think, if not for your name and Varric and Isabela’s timely interference, our answers to the last question might’ve undone us.”

Sebastian didn’t need to look at the paper to remember what he’d written. _She will jest in answer to this insulting question, because you’ve embarrassed her. As to me? What man could choose favorites with a wife as beautiful as she? He should count himself lucky she deigns to_ repose _with him at all._

“And yet strangely, our replies echoed each other,” he said, carefully light. “I think we could have made a case.”

She huffed another laugh. “Did you get a good look at that certificate? I don’t know if we should be relieved it looked authentic, or concerned we might actually be married.”

Sebastian glanced at it now. Truly, whoever’d done the forgery was… alarmingly good, actually. He was forced to swallow past a hard knot of emotion. “I suspect Isabela. Maker knows what trouble we’ve signed our names to these past years.”

“Varric could be the dark horse, though.”

The dwarf chuckled at this, and Sebastian blinked, realizing both Varric and Isabela were watching with rapt attention. Hawke glared at them, collecting the various papers and folding them. “Use your powers for good,” she warned.

“We did!” Isabela cried. On Hawke’s _look_ , the pirate amended, “Mostly. I mean, _today_ we did.”

“That’s more like it. Now, all this madness aside, are we supplied adequately? Our… altercation didn’t make things more difficult?”

“We’ve supplies enough to get us to Starkhaven,” Isabela said. “And I bought _you_ a present, too, kitten.”

“Oh?”

“Princess isn’t the only one who knows your fondness for strawberries.”

This earned a genuine grin.

Varric added, “I don’t think anyone’s in the dark about that one.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Wasn’t _my_ purse the one paying for supplies?”

Isabela had the grace to look momentarily sheepish. “You bought yourself a present?”

Rolling her eyes, Hawke punched Isabela lightly in the shoulder. “I shudder to think what _other_ presents I bought you.”

“I kept her in check,” Varric assured her.

“Someone must,” Sebastian said under his breath, earning a glare from the pirate.

“Now, now, Princess. I’ve earned at _least_ twenty-four hours of gratitude from you, I think.”

Sebastian inclined his head.

On a smirk, Isabela said, “Now, since we’re about to leave this Maker-forsaken place, I’m going to rid myself of these ruffles. May I suggest you do the same, Hawke?”

Hawke chuckled. “I don’t know, I’ve grown rather accustomed to them.”

Isabela shot her a skeptical glance and disappeared belowdecks. Varric followed, somewhat more reluctantly. Sebastian felt for the man. And yet the sooner they were out to sea, the sooner they’d be in Starkhaven, and the sooner they were in Starkhaven—

His thoughts were interrupted by Hawke’s concern. “How are you feeling? Truly?”

“I—” He realized he was still absently worrying at the wound. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll take a look at it. I’ve—I’ve still got healing potions.”

“Amelle won’t thank you for so thoroughly depleting her stock.”

Hawke glanced skyward and sighed. “I’m afraid that’s the least of what Amelle won’t thank me for.”

Sebastian’s eyes dropped to the papers still folded tightly in her hands.

“Hawke—Kiara—I—there are things I would—”

Her answering smile was soft and sad. “Later, Sebastian. There’ll be time enough for talking later. When we have… less of an audience, perhaps.”

Sebastian nodded. The sailors were returning in twos and threes, laughing amongst themselves. Soon they would be out to sea again, trapped within the confines of the ship, once again caught in the routine of preparing food and helping on deck and sleeping and watching the horizon.

Perhaps there would also be talking, though, as she promised. Perhaps there would be apologies. For a moment—a brief, heartbreaking moment—he even let himself believe there might be forgiveness. Then he bowed his head and acquiesced to her request, following her belowdecks so she might once again tend to the wound that hounded him.

#

Kiara considered it a mark of pride that she could sneak up on Sebastian. Granted, at the moment _sneaking_ required hardly any effort at all. He was once again abovedeck, having left poor Varric to die alone in their cabin. He was evidently so engrossed in whatever he was reading she was able to throw herself down next to him before he noticed her.

“So am I avoiding you? Or are you avoiding me?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and failing miserably. 

“I’m not avoiding you,” he replied, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing the book in his lap. She saw then it wasn’t—as she’d half-expected—a book of sermons or volumes of the Chant, but a collection of children’s stories. Something about the incongruity of this made her heart ache, and she bowed her head.

“As I suspected then,” she said, with a theatrical sigh. “I must have been avoiding _you_.”

It wasn’t precisely true. The two of them were still in charge of the cooking, and most days they managed to occupy the same space for hours at a time. Avoiding wasn’t _possible_ in a ship’s galley. Not physically.

Emotionally, though? Maker, but she was good at avoiding things _emotionally._ And conversationally? If the title Champion was handed out for avoiding difficult conversations, she’d have been crowned many times over. In the week since Hercinia, their conversations had amounted to nothing more taxing or trying than ‘So, we’re down to the salt pork and hard tack?’ or ‘What do you suppose we can make with weevil-infested grain?’ She _knew_ Sebastian had tried, in the beginning. Day after day, meal after meal, he’d _tried_. And she’d avoided.

This time when Kiara sighed, there was nothing fake about it. “Sebastian, we need to talk.”

Had she been in his place, she would not have been able to rein in the sarcasm, but Sebastian only regarded her calmly for a few moments before nodding his agreement.

But before Kiara could say anything, they were interrupted by Isabela’s laughter. “Fuzzy! You’re alive!”

Varric’s voice didn’t carry as well as Isabela’s, but the expression on his face was unmistakable… and _alive_ seemed an exaggeration. Isabela leapt down from the foredeck, but Varric lurched away from her before she could touch him. Scowling, she said, “How many times do I have to _tell_ you—the best place for you is up here in the fresh air. You’ll feel better. Stop being such a bloody dwarf about this.”

“Belowdeck’s not exactly the Deep Roads, Rivaini. And as long as we’re on water, I feel like shit no matter where I’m at. Up, down. Inside, outside. It’s all the same. Misery. Also despair. And vomiting. So much vomiting.”

Kiara watched for a moment, waiting for them to once again depart, but instead Varric and Isabela spotted them and drew near, their expressions oddly identical and uncharacteristically sober. Kiara blinked, asking, “Is there trouble?”

Isabela said, “Yes,” at the same time Varric replied, “No.” Then they exchanged a glance and both amended, “Maybe.”

Varric swallowed hard—whether to keep illness at bay, or because he didn’t want to say what he was about to say, Kiara wasn’t certain—and said, “Let’s go with it’s not so much _trouble_ as _concern_.”

Kiara wanted to put her head in her hands, but refrained. The headache that had bothered her on and off since the battle with Meredith had all but disappeared in the week since they’d left Hercinia, but Varric’s tone was liable to bring a return of it. Every time someone used the word _concern_ these days, Bad Things Happened. She was… so desperately tired of Bad Things Happening. “Why? Is there another ship? Not another storm?” She glanced skyward, but there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. “Andraste’s tears, please tell me we don’t need to put into some other law-choked port. I don’t know if I could bear it.”

Isabela rolled her eyes but held her tongue. Varric gave the pirate a warning look before continuing, “We’ve been talking.”

Dryly, Sebastian opined, “How surprising.”

Varric ignored him. “You know, Hawke, for a couple of rogues? You and Choir Boy are terribly forthright and principled. Rivaini says—thank the Maker and the Creators and the sodding paragons and anything else that cares to listen—we’ll make Starkhaven tomorrow, winds willing. And… well, it’s Starkhaven. And… I know you think it’s your brother and all, Choir Boy, but—”

Clearly unable to hold the words inside any longer, Isabela blurted, “I don’t want to die.”

Kiara realized how stunned Sebastian was by this when his book tumbled to the deck and he didn’t immediately bend to retrieve it, even though it was sitting in a puddle of seawater. As she reached for it, he said, “Starkhaven’s not Kirkwall, Isabela. I don’t foresee immediate danger upon our arrival.”

Soothingly—ironic, given how sick he looked; truly, Kiara had never seen skin so green—Varric said, “No one’s saying anything about dying—”

“I really am,” Isabela interjected.

“No one except Isabela is saying anything about dying. Personally I’d rather take my chances with an entire battalion of slavers, an army of lyrium-mad templars, even a rampaging pack of rabid sodding _nugs_ if it means getting off this piece of shi—”

“Ship,” Isabela insisted on a glare. “Ship. _Ship._ ”

“Ship,” Varric agreed, shooting Kiara a look that said _touchy, touchy_. Then he coughed. Meaningfully. “Look, given the circumstances—we know next to nothing about _anything_ and we don’t want to walk blindly into a trap and all—we would prefer if you… let the real rogues have a crack at things first.”

Kiara felt her lips twitch, but she didn’t give in to the urge to smile. “The… real rogues?”

Isabela snorted. Also meaningfully. Varric reached out and laid a hand gently on the pirate’s arm, saying, “It’s possible your respectability and virtue—though charming, of course, Hawke—may need to… lie low.”

Crossing his arms over his chest—and she was glad to see he didn’t wince in pain when he did so—Sebastian said, “You want us to what? Lie? Cheat? Steal?”

Isabela brightened. “Yes?”

Varric glowered at her. “No, Choir Boy. You two got your… hands dirty enough in Hercinia. We just want you to let _us_ check the lay of the land.”

Sebastian tilted his head, regarding the two of them steadily until they began to fidget. “You didn’t think I was going to march up to the palace and demand an audience, did you?”

Isabela’s jaw dropped.

A little feebly, Varric said, “The… thought… the thought had…”

Sebastian’s sigh somehow encompassed disappointment, long-suffering and unhappiness all at the same time. Kiara felt her lips twitch again, and bit them. “You do take me for an idiot, don’t you?” Sebastian queried, eyes narrowing. “But Hawke and I would be more than happy to—how did you put it?—let you check the lay of the land. If you’re volunteering, that is.”

Varric and Isabela exchanged confounded glances. “So you’re… okay with this, then?” Varric asked.

“Perfectly. If there’s anyone in the world I trust to scour a city’s seedy underbelly for information, it’s the two of you.”

Isabela canted her head, as though desperate to find the insult she suspected had to be present in Sebastian’s words. Before she could say anything, however, Kiara pushed herself to her feet and tucked Sebastian’s book under her arm. “If that’s all?”

“Uh. Sure, Hawke. We…”

This time she allowed herself to smile, just a little. “I know, Varric. You’re just… doing what you do.”

It was Varric’s turn to look befuddled. Kiara reached out a hand to Sebastian—the gesture was automatic, but she still found herself surprised when she felt his grip strong around her wrist—and helped him to his feet. Smiling down at her, expression somehow both sad and fond at the same time as he released her, they made their way belowdecks, leaving Varric and Isabela bewildered behind them. “What _do_ I do?” she heard Varric ask Isabela. “Rivaini, what’d she mean by that?”

“Void if I know, Fuzzy. I’m still stuck on hearing agreement out of Princess’ mouth.”

“ _Real_ rogues,” Kiara muttered under her breath. “As if it’s all… skulking.”

“Or lockpicking,” Sebastian added.

“Or breaking fingers for information.”

He cocked his head. “To be fair, that’s more _thug_ territory than _rogue_. Lacks a certain finesse.”

“Finesse,” Kiara agreed. “ _Exactly._ We _both_ have finesse.”

“Ample.”

“ _Exceeding_ , even.”

She laughed. Sebastian blinked, startled. Then he chuckled too, and said, “While they’re slogging through the city, I suggest we find a pleasant inn and eat food made _for us_.”

“Using fresh ingredients,” Kiara added hopefully.

“And no weevils.”

Kiara shuddered. “No pork, salted or otherwise?”

“Or tack of any kind.”

Grinning, she said, “I could go for chicken. Probably even a whole one.”

“With roasted potatoes. _Vegetables,_ even _._ ”

She sighed. “Oh. Strawberries and cream. Freshly picked. Still warm form the sun.”

He smiled and shook his head. “They’ll never compare to Hercinia’s. I’m afraid they’ll have ruined you.”

The mention of Hercinia sobered her. Sebastian’s expression turned serious once again, and she pushed open the door to her cabin. “At least we won’t be interrupted in here. And no one will come begging for biscuits.” Sitting on one end of the bunk, she gestured to the other. After a moment, Sebastian joined her, but his back was straight and his shoulders tense. Kiara kicked off her boots and pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them in an insufficient gesture of comfort. “You could have thrown me to the wolves there.”

Wincing, he bowed his head. “No. I couldn’t have. But I understand why you might think otherwise.”

Resting her chin on her knees, Kiara could feel her heart thudding against her breastbone. “Everything happened so quickly, at the end. Everything went so wrong.”

Kiara saw his hand inch toward the place where he’d been wounded, which was how she knew that he, too, was thinking further back than Hercinia, but after a moment his hand fell back to his side. “It… did.”

“So, should we stop dancing, do you think?”

This brought his face up again, his eyes bright and confused. “Pardon me?”

“Around the important subjects.”

“Hawke…”

Grimacing, she breathed deep and said, “Let me start. I… owe you an apology.”

Sebastian’s intake of breath was almost a gasp, and he coughed as if to cover it up. There was no disguising the surprise on his face, however, or the disbelief in his eyes. “No, Hawke, you do not. If anything—”

She interrupted before he could finish. “I do. Please. Let me… I _do_ owe you an apology. For my interference in your affairs. I didn't ask if you wanted company on this trip, and then I forced you to go along with my plan, whether you liked to or not. Like always. You've been so... reserved. Since... everything that happened. I... realize I ought to have let you go, if that's what you wanted. It occurs to me that ... perhaps you've been reserved because you do not wish to be here. With us. Anymore.”

He blinked. “ _I’ve_ been reserved? Maker’s breath, Hawke. _If_ I’ve been reserved it’s because I… I feel I no longer have the _right_ to be here.” Kiara began to sputter a protest, but Sebastian only raised his voice and continued over her, “You’re apologizing for taking an action that very well may have saved my life. For thinking through the consequences of actions I would... not have thought through myself.”

Softly, Kiara continued, “But they are  _your_  decisions. It is  _your_  life. Not mine. I... ought to let you live it as you see fit. You... you should not feel indebted to me because we—because my sister happened upon you in time to save your life. I do not want to hold you against your will.”

“Hawke,” Sebastian repeated, more forcefully. She made herself look at him, but couldn’t read the lines and shadows of his face. This, more than anything, hurt her. There had been a time when she’d known every shift and smile and frown of Sebastian’s face. This man wasn’t quite a stranger, but she… she didn’t know him the same way she’d known the Sebastian of before.

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to put her face to her knees and weep. Instead, she said, “I’m not finished. I owe you a second apology. For… for Hercinia.”

He shifted a few inches closer to her, but didn’t attempt to touch her. She almost wished he would. The distance between them seemed so infinite. “It was an accident.”

She shook her head. “I know. That’s… not what I mean. I… _expected_ you to turn on me. I truly believed you would. But instead you… you _lied_ for me. You _never_ lie. But you looked that wretched magistrate in the face and you lied. To protect me.”

“And I would do it again,” he insisted. “But I would never lie _to_ you, Hawke. I… I hope you know that.”

“I haven’t been fair to you, Sebastian. Not once. Not since…”

“Once bitten, twice shy,” Sebastian said. “I can hardly blame you for it.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. Maker’s balls, Sebastian, _all_ of my friends have made mistakes—horrible mistakes—and I’ve forgiven them. You’ve already apologized to me, but I’m still making you pay. It’s not right. You deserve better. So I’m sorry.”

His forthright gaze made her blush, and she turned away, examining the grain of the wooden walls. When he spoke, she found his accent had gone strangely heavy. “ _I_ deserve better, Hawke? _I_ do? Thirst for revenge would have had me turn against you— _you_ , after _everything_ —and you believe _I_ deserve better? No. What I deserved was to be left in that alley. For _years_ I waited for the Maker to send me a sign, to tell me His will, to direct and guide me to the path where I might do the most good. Have I not said as much, time and time again? And yet all the while there you were, the Maker’s strident answer to my prayers. I simply did not _see_. I did not _listen_.”

Kiara frowned, dragging her fingernails anxiously up and down her shins. “I hardly think I’m anyone’s answer to prayer. I just… want to help. I want to… I want to keep the people I love _safe_. And half the time I can’t even do that right, so… So I want you to know we can leave you in Starkhaven. If that’s what you prefer. I… will respect your wishes in this. I promise.”

“There is no one I would rather have at my side. No matter what trials the Maker sends.” Sebastian inhaled deeply, and then released a long exhale. Kiara was gratified to hear no catch in his breath, no sound of pain or struggle. “If _you_ wish to go, I would not hold you against _your_ will. No matter what Starkhaven brings, you have nothing to fear from me. Now or… no matter what I said in the heat of anger, you will _always_ have an ally in me, Hawke. Always. If you have ever believed anything of me, believe that.”

Kiara straightened her legs. If she’d pointed her toes, she could have touched Sebastian’s thigh, but she did not. “Fine. Then it’s settled.”

Much as she did not want to recognize his current expression, she could not help doing so. He looked wounded. He looked wounded, and like he was trying to hide it. “You will return to Kirkwall, then?”

Arching an eyebrow, she replied, “Of course not. Eventually. But not right away.”

Sebastian glanced down again, hiding his face from her, studiously staring the palms of his hands.

“And we’re not going to argue about this anymore,” she added. “I’m staying because I want to stay. You’ve said you want me to stay. We’ve decided neither of us going to betray the other.”

Somehow the surprise on his face hurt more than the distress had. “You want to… start over?”

“If you can call it starting over. I mean, I still guessed your favorite bloody food, didn’t I? That has to count for something.” Scooting nearer to him, she touched one open palm with light fingertips. “I’d like to call it _healing_. You’re my—I… I _miss_ you, Sebastian.”

This time there was a catch in his breath, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with his injury. She hoped it did not. He didn’t say anything. He merely closed his fingers around hers.

“Good,” she whispered, not able to keep the hitch from her own breath, either. “Then that’s settled, too.”


	35. Chapter 35

**KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON**

 

By this point, Fenris really ought to have known better than to attempt predicting Hawke.

The walk to her Hightown estate was a short one, and yet his mind raced with the many ways she was going to react to his appearance now, after what had transpired between him and Hadriana in the caves.  Hawke was undeserving of such treatment, and Fenris hadn’t made it very far before his conscience had pressed him into acknowledging it.  So he’d swallowed his pride and went to apologize, expecting a million responses ranging from outright anger to cool dismissal.  He _hadn’t_ expected her to call him her friend and invite him to stay for a drink.

It wasn’t a night for victory, true, but neither had Hawke been willing to let him return to the mansion alone.

“You’ll only wallow, Fenris, and we can’t have that.  Come into the library — Amelle’s off badgering Anders for some elfroot,” she told him, making a face, “but she’s coming right back.  Why don’t we open a bottle of wine?  A little victory toast?”

“Victory,” he echoed flatly, arching an eyebrow at her.

She only tilted her head and smiled at him.  “We’re all healthy and whole.  I’d say that’s worth celebrating, wouldn’t you?”  When he didn’t reply, she sighed and shook her head at him. “I am _trying_ to give us an excuse to open a bottle of the good stuff and you aren’t helping.”

Arguing was fruitless and he knew it.  At his sigh, Hawke shot him a grin, sharp and fierce.

“Your choice,” she said, going to the sideboard and retrieving three wineglasses.  “Go on down and pick something _good._ ”

 _Go on down and pick something_ good _,_ her tone still implying some victory to celebrate.  

He disagreed, but went to the wine cellar, and though his thoughts were occupied, he would choose something Hawke would approve of.  Victory.  Hardly.  If it was victory, it was an empty one.  Dissatisfying.  

True, they’d walked away from the battle with minor injuries, and Hadriana was no more, but her demise only left Fenris feeling frustrated.  He hadn’t _wanted_ to kill the woman.  Not truly.  He’d given his word, and the fact that he’d broken it rankled now — there was no honor in it.  It would have been far better to make no such promise and kill her without giving any spark of false hope that she might live.  

And yet, when he tried to pick at why he’d done it, Fenris came up with very little that was satisfactory to him:

_Because she would report to Danarius._

_Because she would have returned to make him regret his mercy._

_Because she_ deserved _it._

That last thought had the ring of truth to it, but still left him… bothered.  Troubled.  And he could not quite pinpoint _why._   For all that she’d done to him, for all the indignities, the cruelties large and small, for every moment of pain and unrest she’d caused him, did she not deserve what he’d meted out?  Had that not been _justice_?

Fenris did not know, and that troubled him more than anything else.

The wine cellar was dim, but for the open trapdoor at the end, the secret passage to Darktown and to Anders’ clinic.  The glow filtered upward, but did little to pierce the gloom.  Fenris pulled various bottles free from their dusty niches, peering at the labels before sliding them back into place.  After a short search he found a Highever port and an Antivan red wine, both of which he felt certain Hawke would deem acceptable, and was deciding between the two when his ear caught the sounds of voices raised in anger, coming closer to the ladder.

“Andraste’s _ass_ , Anders,” Amelle cried, “you are thick!”

“Why do you never listen to _reason_?”

He paused, glancing over at the trap door and frowning.  Arguing again, then.  It was hardly a surprise.  Not one among them did not know the two mages did not get along.  

“Because ‘reason’ from you sounds too blighted much like ‘horse shit’ to me,” Amelle spat.  Fenris could not help his faint smile; Amelle Hawke was typically reserved around him, though he was not ignorant of her tendency toward tart retorts, particularly where Anders was concerned.  Her tone now, though, was far from merely pert.  She was well and truly angry, and for a fleeting moment, Fenris wondered what Anders could have done; the vitriol in her voice now went leagues beyond _tart retorts._

From below, Anders snorted. “I cannot understand how you can willfully ignore such an obvious similarity, Amelle.”

“Because,” she answered, speaking with exaggerated slowness, “it’s _horse shit_.”

 _I doubt you will make much of a dent with that line of reasoning,_ he thought, unwillingly curious about what the mages were discussing.  Amelle sounded for all the world like she was trying to get away from Anders, and Anders sounded as if he were not willing to let the conversation rest.  Unsurprising.

“Just because you can’t see the analogy—” Anders began, but Amelle never gave him a chance to finish.

“I— you are _impossible._ ”  And then she stopped and enunciated carefully, letting the silence between each accent the words themselves.  “Mages.  Aren’t.  _Slaves!_ ”

Fenris went cold, suddenly, the port nearly slipping through his fingers and crashing to the floor.  He caught the bottle at the last and steadied it, sliding it back to its spot on the shelf.  This was their argument?  _This?_   He looked at the Antivan wine in his hands and told himself to return upstairs — _do not listen to this; these words are not for your ears_ — but he could not help moving closer to the opening in the floor, holding his breath and listening more intently. 

Amelle had accompanied them to the Wounded Coast, had been by her sister’s side when the slavers ambushed them.  She had stood next to her sister when Hawke yelled the words _“Fenris is a free man!”_ and she had fought against those who would say differently.  She likewise accompanied them to the caverns where Hadriana hid, and in truth she did seem horrified by what Danarius’ student had wrought, but he had not stayed long enough to know more.

Anders heaved an impatient sigh.  “The Chant itself says magic is meant to—”

“Serve man and _never rule over him_ ,” Amelle finished sharply.  “Using magic to force anyone into submission is _every bit_ as reprehensible as doing it with physical force!  What the Tevinters—”

This time it was Anders who would not let Amelle finish, in his mind’s eye he could almost see the mage’s eyes flashing with anger, color mottling his cheeks, his high forehead, and Fenris found himself battling a renewed surge of irritation.  _Let her finish_ , he thought, scowling.  But alas, Anders did not.  “Mages are ruled by the Chantry in the same way!” he interrupted, his frustration making his voice thinner somehow, and more ragged.

“Maker’s _balls,_ ” Amelle spat, and Fenris could not help but smile a little to hear the younger sister using Hawke’s preferred invective, “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you’re _thick._ ”

“Then tell me how we _aren’t,_ ” Anders pressed.  “Neither of us can go about safely at night or any other—”

“Then I suppose you might want to curb back your visits to the Blooming Rose,” she riposted snidely.  “You know.  If you’re visiting so much they offering to _hire you._ ”

“Make jokes all you like, Amelle—”

“Well, it’s only that I find this conversation so very _funny,_ you see,” she said, sounding not at all amused even as she said it.  There was a rustle of material and heavy footsteps — no, _two_ sets of footsteps.  Anders didn’t reply right away and Fenris couldn’t see anything to tell for himself, but Amelle exhaled a great sigh and the sound came from farther away, as though she had walked away from the ladder.

“You can say all this because you’ve never been to the Circle yourself.  You’re _lucky_ and you don’t _see_ it.”

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake,” came the weary reply, “do not start with this again.  Don’t _presume_ , Anders, because I’ve never been to the Circle, that I am ignorant of what it Really Means To Be a Mage.  You know _nothing_ about me and you know _nothing_ of my experiences.  I know what _being an apostate_ is like.  I know what _running_ is like, Anders.  I know what _hiding_ is like.  I know what it’s like, never daring to _trust_.”  

 _As do I,_ Fenris thought, still listening, quietly shocked to find Amelle’s words mirroring so very many of his own thoughts.  He too knew of what Amelle spoke, of running, of hiding, of never daring to dream of staying in one place for long, of always looking over his shoulder.

“I know what it’s like to have no choice but to keep secrets,” she went on, “whether you want to or not, to hide what you think is the best of yourself—”

“Then how can you abide Fenris?” Anders asked, and at the sound of his own name, Fenris started, his grip on the wine bottle tightening.  He did not _want_ to hear what either mage thought of him, and yet he found himself rooted to the spot.  “All that hate, all that rancor?  He _despises_ us, Amelle — despite the fact we’ve never done anything to him, he hates us both, simply because of what we _are._ ”

Fenris scowled at Anders’ shadow, his free hand flexing into a fist.  _You give me very little reason not to hate you, mage._

“And you hate the templars,” Amelle countered, “ _all of them_ — simply because of what they are.”

“That is entirely different—”

“No, it _isn’t._ ”

Something a great deal like indignation rose in Fenris’ breast — the comparison between Anders’ unflattering opinions on templars and his own dislike of mages was not to be borne.  This, then?  This is how they spoke of him when he was nowhere near to hear it?  He would have expected it of Anders, but that Amelle would make such a comparison… it rankled.

“ _How_ can you say that?”

The ladder shook suddenly as a woman’s arm swung out, the hand slapping the wood soundly as Amelle snapped, “Do you even understand what slavery _is_ , Anders?  You speak so loftily about the struggles of mages, but you discount and ignore and brush off the suffering of every other being — unless you can use that suffering to further your own cause.  You’re quick to draw similarities, but do you—have you even ever _tried_ to understand?  Have you ever tried to _empathize_?  Or are you so certain _no one’s_ suffering can match yours?”

“So you simply ignore the fact that if not for Hawke, he likely would have crushed your heart by now?”

Such a question gave Fenris pause.  He did not like or trust mages, but neither did he deal death indiscriminately.  _Would_ he have ended Amelle Hawke had her sister not been there to prevent it?  He truly wasn’t sure; she certainly hadn’t actively done anything to antagonize him.  Indeed, she stayed out of his way as much as possible.  While they were not friends, given her treatment of him he could see no reason for wanting her dead, Hawke notwithstanding.

“He has his reasons for having neither love nor trust for mages,” Amelle said, and the words came as a surprise to him.  “I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger.  A mage killed my mother.  I hated my own power for a while.  I hated _myself_ for what had been done to her.”

“Quentin was insane _._ ”

Fenris glared down the passageway.  _An insane blood mage._

“An insane mage _,_ ” replied Amelle hotly, echoing Fenris’ thoughts _._   “His magic allowed him to turn her into—”  Amelle’s voice broke and she gritted out, voice trembling and suddenly thick with tears, “Drop it.  If you know what’s good for yourself, _drop it._ ”

There was a beat of silence and Fenris realized he was holding his breath.  His heart pounded beneath his breast, but he remained rooted to the spot.  Indeed, he could not turn away now even if he’d wanted to.  He closed his eyes and listened harder for any scrap of sound, but all he made out was the sound of labored breathing.  Amelle attempting to collect herself, no doubt.

It sounded as if Anders was the one to sigh this time, and there came with it the sound of movement — more footsteps, but only one set.  Whatever Amelle Hawke was doing, she wasn’t moving.

“We all do it,” she said tiredly, and Fenris wondered if the last bit of fire had been drained out of her with the mention of her mother.  “When someone hurts us, we remember it, and even if we don’t want to, even if we don’t mean to, we still hold it against the type of person that hurt us.  You hate the templars, Anders.”

“And I have good reason to, Amelle.  So do you.”

Another sigh.  She sounded tired, and the tears that had lodged in her throat at the mention of Leandra Hawke did not sound as if they’d dissipated yet.  “I don’t hate them.  I— I don’t expect you to understand.  And maybe it’s because you can’t.  Mages _hurt_ Fenris.  You — you didn’t see _._   I… I don’t even know how to make you see.  Their lives are not their own.  They’re… property to be bought, sold, and traded at will, like… like a _thing.”_ As Amelle spoke, every ounce of weariness and heartbreak resonated through her voice, and Fenris realized Amelle was more than just disgusted at the events in the cavern.  They’d affected her deeply.  “You weren’t there today.  I-I saw an old man — Orana’s _grandfather,_ for Andraste’s sake — drained of blood, just to feed a madwoman’s magic.  Her need for power _._   He was nothing to her.  He’d been her servant, he’d cooked her meals, and in the end none of it meant anything.  His life had no worth to her beyond how he could serve her, and in the end she decided his blood would serve her best.  So she killed him.  And why should she care?  She could go back to Tevinter and buy another just like him.  

“The magisters don’t look at slaves as people — they’re _tools._   Supplies.  Ingredients.  And they are _ruled by magic._   These— Maker, I can barely stand to call them people — they’ve used magic to victimize, to crush, to threaten, to _use_ —”

“It’s still not that different!  The Chantry can have us made Tranquil — as if we weren’t worth anything.  As if—”

“You know what?  There are mages who _deserve_ it.  I would have been happy to see that bastard Quentin made Tranquil. Or Gascard DuPuis. And don’t look at me like that — I’d have done it myself if I could.”

The ladder gave a great shudder then, creaking as it took on weight.  Fenris straightened and tucked the bottle beneath his arm before taking quick, light strides back to the stairway.  From behind him, Amelle’s voice drew nearer and he continued on up the stairs, not sure why he was taking such care to remain in shadow, only knowing he did not want Amelle to know she’d been overheard.  That _he’d_ overheard.

“Mages _are_ dangerous,” she said with a soft grunt as she climbed.  “I don’t fool myself into believing my powers aren’t dangerous, and we both know perfectly well what you are and how dangerous that makes you.”  He was halfway up the stairs as he heard her heft herself up with a thud and another grunt of effort.  Her voice was clearer now, closer.  His hand rested upon the doorknob and he eased it open without so much as a creak of protest from the hinges.

“That doesn’t mean I agree with the way things are, but calling mages _slaves_ dismisses and trivializes all the _real_ slaves have undergone and continue to undergo,” she called down through the open door.  Fenris wondered if Anders was still standing below to listen.  There was a swish of fabric as she stood, then a  sharp thump, followed by a creak and a bang as she kicked the trapdoor closed, punctuating her statement and ending the conversation.  

When next Amelle spoke, she spoke softly, the thick silence of the wine cellar almost swallowing her words entirely.  

“I am _not_ a slave.”

 

\-----

 

Another too-long day was finally drawing to a close.  

Four more days since Ianna had brought her babe in for healing, since he’d walked into the clinic to find Amelle unconscious on the clinic floor, Merrill doing her best to wake her and failing.  Four days since he’d scooped her up, feeling immeasurable relief that her body was warm, that she still drew breath, and carried her slung over one shoulder up the ladder and into the library.  In that time, more parents brought more sick children into the clinic for Amelle to heal.  And heal them she did, though under Fenris’ watchful eye.  He was not so careless as to leave her alone again — for all that she protested, promised, and swore she would not expend her mana so drastically, Fenris knew too well — for he’d seen it firsthand — Amelle’s single-mindedness when it came to healing.  He also knew that had he not been standing so nearby, she’d have done it again and again and _again_ if it meant healing someone who required it.  Amelle still healed the sick — including the mysterious fevers — but it was Fenris who reminded her to use a restorative afterward.  He was not particularly… _happy_ with the increase in Amelle’s use of lyrium potion, but it was a compromise they’d reached, however temporary.  Temporary, because the process was beginning to take its toll on her.  _We have to find a bloody cure for this illness sooner or later, Fenris,_ she’d told him that afternoon after forcing down another potion _.  Sooner would be better; I’m not sure how many more of these I can fix._

But for the moment, at least, the hour was late, the estate was quiet and Amelle was attempting to resist fatigue’s powerful pull.  Even in the firelight, she was pale, her eyes heavy with exhaustion as she was clutched more and more frequently by yawns, though she stubbornly remained awake.  That stubbornness was half the reason Fenris had made a habit of staying until Amelle retired for the evening before returning to the mansion; he wasn’t entirely convinced she _wouldn’t_ try to craft yet another batch of potions in his absence.

“Fenris, I have a question for you,” said Amelle, stretched out on the rug in front of the library’s hearth; Killer stretched languidly and placed its massive head in her lap, settling back into a doze.  

“Yes?” he answered, leaning back into the leather armchair, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.  The heat coming from the hearth baked into his skin, down to the bones, leaving him relaxed despite the tension of the past days.

But Amelle did not speak again for some moments.  She chose instead to focus on the sleeping mabari, her fingers tracing and rubbing its ears until the dog snuffled happily in its sleep.  Then, when the silence was on the verge of becoming too oppressive, she looked up at him.  Backlit by the fire as she was, her features were thrown into shadow.  “If you hate the Imperium so much,” she began slowly, “and everything to do with it…”  Amelle looked down at the dog, then back up at him, speaking slowly, as if unsure of the words.  “Why do you still speak in their tongue?”

For all that it was a valid question, asked without scorn or worse, hidden motives, the answer still took some time to consider.  He looked at her a moment, but there was no scorn in her expression; it was not the first time she’d surprised him with a simple, straightforward question.  

“There are few languages that feel so satisfying when speaking in…” he trailed off, considering how best to phrase it, then cleared his throat.  “When speaking with vehemence.”

The smile she gave him was a wry, dimpled one.  “You mean _swearing_.  There are few languages so satisfying to _swear_ in.”

His laugh took even him by surprise.  “I suppose that is a more… accurate way of putting it.”

Amelle leaned back slightly, bracing her hands behind her, letting her head loll back as she looked at the ceiling.  “Funny, isn’t it?”

“I’m… not sure I know what you mean.”

“Well,” she began, slanting a look his way before looking back at the ceiling, “Orlesian is very _pretty_ to swear in.  It seems like the sort of language you could call a person anything at all, and if you did it with a convincing enough smile, no one would think anything about it.  They might even think you were complimenting them.”

“Do you speak any Orlesian?” he asked, watching as her eyes tracked the shadows on the ceiling.

“Not a word.  But it _is_ pretty sounding.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled.

“Antivan, though — that’s a more robust-sounding tongue.”  She toed out of her slippers, flexing her toes by the warmth of the fire.  “You could have fun swearing in Antivan, I think.  It seems like the sort of language best spoken with a lot of volume and gestures.  Passionate.”  She paused.  “But Tevinter…”

“Yes?”

“Tevinter sounds…” she paused, and a queer expression came over her face.  She blushed suddenly.

“Yes?” Fenris prompted again, suddenly wanting very much to know what she wasn’t saying.

“Well, on the one hand,” she began, and as quickly as it came the expression was gone.  She cleared her throat and busied herself with… nothing at all, from what Fenris could see, plucking invisible strands from the carpet.  “On one hand, it sounds terribly angry when you swear.  Which, I suppose, makes sense.  You don’t swear when you’re pleased, right?”

“Maybe I do,” replied Fenris, and he wondered a bit at his own arch tone. 

Amelle stopped and looked at him, and then _laughed._

“Might I ask what’s so amusing?” he asked, tamping down on the surge of defensiveness in his breast.

“You — Fenris,” she said, her grin wide, “of anyone, I can entirely believe _you’d_ be able to manage sounding angry despite being pleased about something.”  

He did not comment to that, but instead tilted his head as he looked down at her.  “Dare I ask what brought this on?”

She gestured vaguely at the divan. “When you were trying to wake me the other day — I… well, you were swearing.  And I… I had wondered for a moment in the midst of it all if I was dreaming or brain-damaged, because there was this _voice_ speaking to me, and I didn’t understand a word of what it was saying.”  She paused and looked suddenly sheepish.  “Well, I take that back.  I understood a word.”

“Which one?” Fenris asked cautiously.  He’d said… a great many things while trying to wake Amelle.  Things far more telling, no matter what the tone or language they’d been spoken in.  He was intensely relieved she recognized only a single word.

When she repeated the word back to him, though, Fenris found himself smiling.

“Of them all, _that_ is the one you recognized?”

Amelle shrugged.  “That’s when I knew it was you. And I knew you were angry.”

He didn’t know how to tell her it had not been anger pulling those words from his lips.  It had been fear.  He supposed, on him, the two emotions possibly bore a resemblance to each other, and so he did not correct her.

“I imagine you were _quite_ put out to discover I was taking a nap on the floor,” she said, still grinning.

Fenris cleared his throat; though deflection was the more appealing of the two options before him, he chose to reply honestly:  “On the contrary, I believed for a moment my errand that morning had not been… entirely successful.”

“Your… oh.”  Amelle caught up with what he was saying, and she _winced,_ her hand flying up to cover her mouth.  “Oh. Oh, Fenris.  I… hadn’t thought of that.  I’m… Maker, I’m sorry.”

“I determined quickly that my initial impression was… incorrect.”  He only lifted his shoulders in a shrug, finding there was very little he could say.  “You need better restoratives in your supply, Amelle.”

“Tell me about it,” she groused.  “Some recipes are near impossible to come by.  I’ve been trying to pick apart some of the trickier ones, but not having much luck.”

“Is there a reason you cannot develop your own?”

“No one to test it on,” she explained slim shoulders rolling in a shrug as she twisted to lean upon one hip, facing him more fully.  “Unless you’re volunteering to knock me out for the sole purpose of recovering me?”

“I think your sister would hardly thank me for giving you brain damage.”

The dimple returned.  “And I think she’d argue you couldn’t make it any worse.”  Drawing her legs up, she pushed to her feet and stretched, rolling her shoulders and arching her back, then reaching her hands high above her head and leaning back until something let out a soft _pop_.  “Which raises an excellent point,” she said, walking from one end of the library to the other and back again.

“…A point,” he echoed, narrowing his eyes.

She seemed to anticipate his meaning and shook her head, waving a hand at him. “Not about brain damage, no.  About this bloody fever.  Something better than a restorative — a cure.  Something.  I honestly don’t know how long I can keep this up.  Four days and no sign of things slowing down?  I mean, thank the Maker I haven’t passed out again, but something’s going on, and I’m not sure I’m actually _helping._   It’s not spreading as fast as some illnesses, but…”  

Despite the late hour, she paced and continued to pace, tapping her fingers together in agitation.  It was true she’d not pushed herself to the same limits she had several days before, but she had pushed herself to the point of a nosebleed more than once; it was not something he wanted to see continue.  The mana Amelle was expending on patients was… not sustainable.

“And it’s easier,” she went on, still pacing, “not to overtax myself when you’re sitting there glowering at me.”  Her smile was lopsided and self-deprecating, but fleeting, and soon she was back to pacing, fingers working and fidgeting with each other.  It was as if she thought by simply _moving,_ she might solve the problem quicker.  “I’ve been rationing my mana, using it only when absolutely necessary and supplementing with lyrium when I must, but…”

“It is not a pace you can maintain.”  

Grimacing, Amelle nodded. 

“What do we know?” she asked, folding her arms and glaring up at the statue above the fire as though it held the answers she was seeking.  A few seconds of stillness, however, was more than enough, and soon she shook her head in evident disgust and began moving again.

“Not much so far,” replied Fenris, watching her. “The fever seems only to be striking the very young.  Have you noticed otherwise?”

Amelle shook her head.  “No.  No fevers in any of the adults or older children.  There have been a _lot_ of complaints, but most of them very common, run of the mill sorts of things — broken nose, dislocated finger, concussion,” she recounted, ticking each ailment off on her fingers.  “Nothing at all like what we encountered with those children.” 

“And you are certain there is no magic at work.”  

Amelle ceased her pacing to run a hand through her hair, tousling the short strands and sending a few standing straight up.  “I don’t _know,”_ she replied.  “It’s… it’s _possible,_ I suppose — it’d explain how resistant to me the fevers are.  But…”  She faced Fenris, arms hanging by her sides, worrying the fabric of her dress.  “If it’s magic, then it’s magic I’ve never seen and don’t know how to counteract.  So… Fenris, I hope to the Maker it’s _not_ magic, because I don’t know how to fix it if it _is._ ” 

Frustration was only too evident in her voice, and after these days he’d spent with her, Fenris could well understand her dwindling patience.  Amelle was a healer — beyond merely her occupation, it was her _identity_ as well.  That something like a _fever_ could cause her such difficulty was difficult to believe, particularly after Fenris himself had witnessed Amelle’s work on a near-death Sebastian in that alleyway.  

“You are exhausted.  Perhaps—”

She whirled around to face him, the suddenness of the gesture cutting off his words.  “I don’t think there’s—”  She stopped and rubbed at her face, pressing the tips of her fingers against her eyes. “I don’t want to say it’s absolutely _not_ magic, because I don’t know, and can’t be sure.  I’m _nearly_ certain, but…”

“Amelle.”

Fenris’ voice cut through her increasing agitation and she looked at him, pulling her hands slowly away from her eyes.  “…Yes?”

“This is accomplishing nothing,” he told her quietly.  “You must stop and _think._ ”

Amelle _stared_ at him for so many moments that Fenris wondered briefly if he’d inadvertently offended her.  But then, slowly and gradually, Amelle went still.  “You’re right.”  She shook her head and breathed a soft laugh.  “Maker, Fenris.  My… my father used to have to tell me the same thing.  ‘Breathe, rabbit,’ he used to say.  ‘You can’t focus if you’re turning blue.’”  She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, letting it out slowly.  “Right then.  Breathing now.”  She came close and sat in the armchair angled next to Fenris’, resting her elbows upon her knees and rubbing slowly at her temples. “Think.  Focus.  _Think._ ”

“You are exhausted,” he told her, voice low.  “Perhaps it would be wiser if you rested.”

She pulled her head from her hands and looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted as she shook her head.  “I _can’t_ ,” she said.  “Not yet.  What if another child dies during the night?  What if I go downstairs in the morning and there’s a line of people from my door all the way to the Gallows?”

“Worrying will not prevent either of those things from happening.”

She sighed hard, head dropping into her hands again.  “I know,” she answered, voice muffled.  After a few seconds spent in this fashion, Amelle peered up at him through her fingers.  “You know,” she mumbled against her hands, “you don’t have to—”

“Have we not been through this already?”

She leaned back, sinking into the chair, dropping her hands into her lap.  “Yes, but it’s _late._   And you’ve got to be tired.  Maker knows I am, but… I need _some_ sort of direction here.  I feel like I’m running around in circles.”

“Your stores are not endless; you must allow yourself to recover.”  He paused.  “ _Without_ the aid of lyrium potion.”

Amelle opened her mouth to argue — indeed, it was a moment when he saw the resemblance between the sisters most clearly.  But something made her stop, as though suddenly distracted by a memory.  “A mage’s power is not endless,” she murmured into the fire.  “And one should not treat it as if it were.”  Giving herself a little shake, Amelle said softly, “I’d almost let myself forget.”  Then she scrubbed her hands across her face, dragging her fingers into her hair.  “Maker, what I’d give for Kiara to be here.  I’d love a little perspective.”  

With those words, a thunderbolt hit, and the change in Amelle was marked.  She sat up straighter, and though there were fatigued shadows beneath her eyes, those eyes looked brighter, more alert.

“That’s _it._   We need _perspective,”_ she said, twisting around in her chair and facing Fenris.  “Namely? A _different_ perspective.”

He couldn’t argue; indeed, another opinion, another frame of reference, another _perspective_ sounded promising.  “What did you have in mind?”

Amelle pushed herself out of the chair and began pacing again, but instead of fatigue making her limbs heavy, an _idea_ made her step light and quick.  “Okay, so I’m nearly certain it’s not magic, but it’s not natural either.  So if I — _a mage_ — can’t sense it, then maybe—”

Comprehension made Fenris lean forward, bracing his palms on his knees.  “Then perhaps the templars could,” he finished for her.

“Templar, singular. Not plural,” she said, shaking her head.  “I don’t need that kind of trouble.  But _Cullen_ …  He’s the acting Knight-Commander, remember.  And evidently one of a cadre of babysitters my sister retained.  It seems to me he ought to be put to work doing something that isn’t cleaning up Meredith’s mess.”

“It is… an interesting idea, and may yield different results than you’ve been experiencing.  Do you truly think he’ll be able to help?”

“I’m not sure.  But I know I _do_ think we don’t deserve to be only ones stymied by this.”  She sat down with a flourish at Kiara’s desk and pulled a sheet of parchment free from one of the drawers and a quill from another.  After a moment or two of contemplation, she began to write:

_To: Templar Knight-Commander (acting, etc.) Cullen, Templar Hall, Kirkwall_

_Ser,_

_Forgive this method of communication; I hope I can be excused for not delivering it in person.  I don’t imagine you’d thank me much if I did, come to think of it._

_There is a matter of no small import upon which I require your unique perspective and expertise._

_I can be found, as you have already discovered (and to my lingering embarrassment and chagrin), at my family’s home in Hightown.  I would thank you to come at your earliest convenience._

_~A. Hawke_

_(Not to be confused with The Hawke.)_

Fenris stood quietly at her shoulder, watching as the quill scratched rapidly across the parchment as she wrote.  Though his reading skills were improving, it was near impossible for him to decipher the flowing, swooping handwriting.  When she was finished, Amelle read the letter aloud.

“What do you think?”

“Interesting postscript.”

Amelle shot him a grin as she wafted the letter to dry the ink.  “You have to admit, it’s probably going to be the least boring piece of correspondence to cross his desk tomorrow.  And I do strive never to be boring.”  

Snorting softly, Fenris crossed his arms.  “I think it’s safe to say you have succeeded in your endeavor many times over.”

“You’re only saying that because I passed out on _your_ watch,” replied Amelle with a smirk of her own as she folded the letter and sought out the sealing wax.

“And I thought you said you did not require a keeper.”

With a quick flick of her fingers, the wax went soft and dripped garish red splotches against the paper.  “I don’t,” she said, pressing the Amell seal into the soft wax.  “But you weren’t there as my keeper, were you?”

“At the time I was there as a fr—” He faltered as Amelle’s head shot up and she stared at him, her eyes slowly widening.  His uneasiness was palpable. “As… one… invested,” he went on, awkwardly, “in your best interests.”

In barely an instant, Amelle’s shocked look transformed as sent him a broad, blinding smile.  “You _can_ say it, you know,” she teased.  “I won’t _tell_ anyone.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” came his stiff reply, inclining his head and meeting her gaze defiantly.

“My _friend_ , Fenris.  You can say it: you were there as my friend.”

#

Cullen was busy. Truthfully, he’d been busy long before Meredith’s demise vaulted him into an unwanted promotion, but nothing like this. In many ways he was doing the work not only of Knight-Commander, but of Knight-Captain as well. They’d lost so many, and time was such a commodity, he hadn’t yet thought to appoint someone else to see to things like rosters or logistics or making certain recruits were still getting training, even with everything else going on. So he had half a dozen piles of paper on his desk, and no idea how to delegate.

Just looking at them gave him a headache.

He knew it fell to him to see things returned to the closest approximation of normalcy he could manage. Many of his templars still spent a great deal of their time in the city, helping clean and restore and rebuild, but with no mages to guard, he supposed it was as good a use of their time as anything. More troubling was the low-grade restlessness still plaguing the city, and though a tense peace had fallen after the memorial, he was still receiving far too many reports of fighting in the streets and tempers flaring into physical arguments. More worrisome still were the number of reports naming city guardsmen as instigators in these altercations. He didn’t want to level accusations blindly, especially not with tensions running so high, but he made a note to speak with Aveline when next he was in Hightown.

Sighing, he leaned on one elbow and put his chin in his hand. Apart from the first visit, he’d not had time to call on Amelle Hawke again. He supposed it mattered little—Hawke had been nothing if not thorough when choosing her watchdogs—and the mage had seemed well-protected. And much as he might like to stop by in time to partake of the morning buns he so _thoroughly_ enjoyed the last time, the prospect of fine baking was hardly impetus enough to send him across to Kirkwall proper, not when he had _so bloody much work to do_ at the Gallows. If she could maintain the same levels of discretion she’d managed since the chantry was lost, she would not require his presence. He was all but certain.

Still, the idea of _not_ checking on her made him itch, a little. Hawke had trusted him. He didn’t want to let her down.

But he was so bloody busy.

A knock at the door startled him from his reverie, and he raised his head to see Ser Hugh standing at the door, a folded parchment in his hand. “This just arrived for you, Knight-Commander. The, uh, bearer said it was important?”

Cullen leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “Who was the bearer?”

“The white-haired elf who sometimes accompanies Serah Hawke, Knight-Commander.”

He felt his spine stiffen, and he saw Hugh notice it. “Is he still here?”

“No, ser. I asked if he wished to bring it to you himself, but he said he had business in the city and could not be detained. He did insist I bring the letter to you at once, however.”

Cullen rose and extended a hand, and Hugh placed the letter in his outstretched palm. “Hugh,” he said, before the young templar could depart, “do you have a moment?”

Hugh’s eyes widened and he gave a jerky salute. “Of course, Knight-Commander.”

“You are in the city often? How much truth is there to these reports of arguments in the streets?”

Hugh looked momentarily uncomfortable. “A great deal, I’m afraid. I have had to step in to break up several such arguments.”

“Were the guard involved in any of them?”

For a moment, it looked as though Hugh did not wish to reply. At length, he replied, “All of them, ser.”

Cullen leaned back in the chair, frowning and tapping the edge of the letter against the palm of his other hand.  “I thought Guard-Captain Aveline rooted out the riffraff when she took over.”  The frown deepened.  “I remember Mere—” he caught himself.  “I recall my… predecessor was pleased when Captain Jeven was removed.”  And she _had_ been, though her opinion of Aveline Vallen taking up the position of Captain of the Guard was not high.  _Another of that Hawke girl’s upstarts,_ he’d heard her mutter.  But Aveline had proven herself more than competent for the job.  He didn’t know her particularly _well —_ being a member of Hawke’s inner circle didn’t help matters — but he did feel a faint swell of what he supposed had been Fereldan pride when one of King Maric’s soldiers had been promoted so.

That any of Aveline’s men would behave in such a manner was unusual indeed.

Hugh’s eyes scanned the floor a moment before he looked up again.  “Well, ser, it hasn’t always been like this.  The city guard and the templars don’t… always get on well, but I can’t remember ever having to break up altercations before. The captain doesn’t let just anyone join the ranks.”

That was something the templars and the city guard had in common, at least.  For all the good it did _now_.

“I suppose I can juggle the duty rosters to place more of our own men in some… strategically advantageous spots,” Cullen muttered, leaning forward and shuffling through one of the countless stacks of papers to find the duty roster in question.  “Though it _will_ be a juggling act.  We’ve few enough men as it is.”

Hugh shifted his weight and the armor with him, clanking softly.  “May I add something, Knight-Commander?”

“Of course, Hugh,” he replied not looking up.

“Some of the men thought… thought maybe the guard are — well, tensions _are_ running awfully high, ser.”

Having found the roster, Cullen looked up at the knight, narrowing his eyes.  “Surely you aren’t trying to excuse such behavior, Hugh.”

The younger man went crimson as he shook his head.  “No, Knight-Commander, ser.  Only that… if there’s any reason for it, that might be it.  After what happened… after everything…”

It was true Kirkwall hadn’t been… _peaceful_ as of late.  After the memorial, Cullen had hoped the city and its people might at least _start_ working toward some sort of attempt to heal and rebuild, not spiral further down into anarchy.  “Have you any report of our own men behaving in such a manner?”

Hugh shook his head.  “No, ser.  Other than those new recruits fighting in the courtyard—”

“Any new problems from them?”

“Not that I’ve seen or heard, ser.”  The younger knight gave a fleeting, lopsided grin.  “I think you put the fear of the Maker into them.  Not a lick of trouble from either since.”

Would that all of Kirkwall’s problems could be so easily remedied.  Cullen scribbled a few notes on the duty roster — it was becoming cluttered with his various and sundry notes to himself, all of them varying levels of cryptic.  “I suppose I’ve no choice but to speak with Guard-Captain Aveline about the matter.  Reprimanding my own men is one thing; I’ll not stick my nose where it’s likely to get cut off.”  He knew perfectly well Meredith had pushed her advantage after Viscount Dumar’s death, and he knew perfectly well how resented she’d become for it. But for the time being, at least, the templars and the city guard had no need to be working at cross-purposes.  A tactful conversation with the captain was in order.

Which meant a journey to Hightown.

He was halfway to the door before Hugh coughed lightly and nodded toward the letter. Cullen had abandoned it when he’d gone for the duty roster. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he retraced his steps, and took a closer look at it. Blinking, he thought he recognized the Amell seal. _Strange._ Before he could slide his thumbnail under the wax, however, Hugh said, “Knight-Commander, there is… another matter I would speak with you about.”

The young templar’s voice sounded strained and earnest and terribly _concerned_ , and Cullen raised his eyebrows in silent query. Hugh didn’t quite fidget, but he looked uncomfortable as he said, “We have… as you said, I am in the city often. I—”

“Too often?” Cullen asked. “Would you like to be here, then? I’ll see what I can—”

But Hugh was already shaking his head firmly. “You misunderstand me, Knight-Commander. I am glad of the occupation, and I believe we are doing actual good within Kirkwall. It is only… I was organizing the water supplies—”

Yet another cause for concern, Cullen feared. The spring beneath the chantry had collapsed and too much of the groundwater was undrinkable. It fell to the templars— _Maker, what doesn’t fall to us?_ —to supply water from the spring beneath the Gallows. As far as he understood, many of the Hightown wells were still usable, but the water was scarce. Continuing to rely on the Gallows spring was… a logistical _nightmare_. They would have to see about finding someone—anyone—who knew the workings of wells and springs well enough to either repair what was broken or scout out a new water source. In the meantime, perhaps he might recruit some of the townsfolk to aid in collection and distribution—

“Knight-Commander?”

Cullen blinked, his fingers momentarily tightening around the parchment still clutched in his hand. “Forgive me, Ser Hugh. I was distracted. The water situation is… vexing.”

“Yes, ser,” the templar replied, without disappointment or ire. “I agree.”

Cullen sighed. “But you are aware I know of it. What is it that’s troubling you?”

“I’m not certain _troubling_ is the right word, Knight-Commander. It’s only… have you heard rumors the clinic in Darktown’s open again?”

This garnered his full attention. Duty rosters and water and letters with the Amell seal—even Aveline’s guards running mad—all were forgotten. “The mage?”

Hugh shook his head again. “Not the same one, ser.” The young templar’s blue eyes narrowed. “Rumor says it’s a young woman. I imagine it’s the Hawke girl.”

_Oh, Amelle Hawke. Open the clinic again, yes. Very discreet. Sweet Andraste._

“That stands to reason,” Cullen remarked, and was gratified when Hugh blinked and shifted unsteadily, his armor clanking. “She is a healer, and if any place needs healing just now, it’s Kirkwall. These rumors of illness in the city are distressing, to say the least. She is attempting to ease the burden.”

Ser Hugh raised his chin, his jaw jutting in resolute defiance. “Twice you’ve let her leave when we ought to have brought her within the safety of our walls, ser.”

He bit back his groan, but only barely. _Of all the conversations I wish I didn’t have to have…_ “Thrice, if you must know,” Cullen explained. “I had… forgotten you were there on the Wounded Coast. No matter. The Champion—”

“But we’re _templars_ , ser. We have a _responsibility_. Mages must be protected, guarded, and able as she is, the Champion does not have the same resources we do.”

_Nor is she in the city, even if she did._

“You have seen her fight, Ser Hugh. You have seen the _aftermath_ of her fighting. How many would you see sacrificed, to bring one mage within these walls? Especially now, when there is no Circle to join?”

A concerned furrow creased the younger man’s brow. “But she’s—”

“She is watched, Ser Hugh. Perhaps not as constantly as she would be in a Gallows cell, but she is watched. It is…” Cullen shook his head, and resisted the urge to pinch his brow. He could feel a headache building beneath the ever-present layer of exhaustion. “A compromise had to be made. You see the result of it. Meredith was aware of it. I am aware of it. Amelle Hawke is not to be apprehended.”

“But, _ser_ —”

“Tell me, Hugh — is this the most pressing matter facing Kirkwall this morning?  An apostate mage, who — as I mentioned — _is_ watched, currently working to heal the sick and injured after a disaster the likes of which I have never seen?”

“A disaster caused by _a mage,_ Knight-Commander.  Leniency against mages cannot be—”

Cullen fought off the urge to bury his face in his hands; not only was this not a conversation he didn’t wish to have, it was a conversation he already _knew too well._   Not so long ago he would have been making this very argument himself, and he wasn’t sure how he could have lost the thread of it so completely.

“Hugh.”  Something about the expression he wore or the look in his eye made the younger man stop suddenly, his mouth snapping shut and his skin flushing scarlet all the way to the tips of his ears.  “The memorial is over, but things are far from back to normal.  Kirkwall is without potable water.  There is still rubble in the streets.  We are _still_ recovering remains.  And now we have violence breaking out and the very men and women charged with keeping Kirkwall safe are implicated.  Can you honestly tell me that there is _nothing_ more important _right this very moment_ than apprehending someone who is _helping_?”

Hugh’s mouth worked silently and soon his gaze found the floor again.  Cullen could see the younger man’s jaw tightening and releasing, and he did not know whether Hugh was fighting back the urge to say something scathing, or whether he was fighting to find something to say at all.

“No, ser,” he mumbled, still scarlet.  After a beat of silence, he forced his gaze to meet Cullen’s, albeit waveringly.  “No, ser,” he said again, his voice stronger this time.  “You… you are right.  Your orders are — the people of Kirkwall — their safety — should be our first priority.”

Crossing his arms over his breastplate, Cullen exhaled slowly.  He tried not to feel relief that Hugh was finally — _seemed_ finally willing to drop the matter; he knew the younger man would doubtless raise the question again.  When that time would come, however, Cullen didn’t know.  With luck, Hawke would be back by then and…

And then what?

That was a question better answered… later.  Later, when his desk was not covered entirely with documents.  Later, when the rubble was cleared.  Just… _later._ There would be time for all this… later.

“Very good, Ser Hugh.  You are dismissed.”

Hugh nodded once, saluted, and closed the door softly behind him.  Once more, Cullen looked down at the piece of correspondence, the red wax seal cracked and flaking, but not yet broken; it was definitely the Amell seal.  He turned it over and examined the writing on the front — it was not Hawke’s hand, but one with more flourishes and loops that was largely unfamiliar to him, though he was starting to formulate a guess.  In fact, he could almost see Amelle Hawke’s dimpled smile in his mind’s eye and hear her teasing voice in his ears.  _See, Knight-Commander?  I can too be discreet.  Silly._

Silly.

He had no time to think _those_ thoughts, either. 

Later.

Giving himself a little shake, Cullen snapped the wax seal, heedless of the flakes scattering to the floor.

He read through the brief missive several times. The tone was… odd, to say the least. On the fourth read-through, he pegged the strangeness as forced levity. Couched between her jests, the line _there is a matter of no small import upon which I require your unique perspective and expertise_ jumped out at him. Mages did not request the expertise of templars. They might _require_ it, but they never _requested_. He wondered if it mightn’t have to do with Anders, and his stomach twisted with some strange blend of rage and disgust and hate. That was justice he’d be more than glad to help Amelle mete out. Though he rather suspected a reappearance of the mage would not have allowed for amusement. Strange indeed.

And yet he couldn’t help the peculiar sensation of gratitude that wormed through him. Amelle’s letter gave him a valid excuse to look in on her, after all. The prospect shouldn’t have pleased him quite so much.

Silly, indeed.

Folding the letter, he tucked it into the sash at his waist and stalked to the weapon stand to retrieve his sword and shield. Hightown it was, then. He could stop by the Hawke estate and then see if the captain of the guard had any insight regarding the trouble in the city. And he would _have_ to look at the duty rosters later—it simply couldn’t be put off any longer.

Maker, he rather _hoped_ he was offered sticky buns once again. He had the sinking feeling today was going to be a very, very, _very_ long day.


	36. Chapter 36

Before Amelle took breakfast the next morning, she snuck down to the underground passages, hurrying along through the dimness like a ghost, her loose dress swishing around her legs as she walked.  She’d had dreams — insane, impossible dreams — of pox-ridden patients filling the clinic until they were nearly piled upon each other, moaning their death-throes until she had awoken with a start, clawing at her sweat-soaked sheets.  She washed and dressed herself quickly, and her hair was still damp as she clambered down the ladder.

The clinic was closed up.  The lantern was out.  All was still, as it should have been at such an hour.  Amelle blew out a relieved breath and climbed back up, returning to the estate’s cellar level in time to hear Orana call her for breakfast.

With so few in the house, breakfast was a charmingly simple affair — this morning Orana had made a rich, sweet bread, golden brown, studded throughout with dried fruit and wound into a braid.  Orana hadn’t had reason to make a full breakfast since that fateful morning after Kiara left — Aveline had been too busy to stop by since; emotions in the city were still running high, it seemed, and the guard were stretched too thin to be this busy.  That left Fenris, who typically showed up once Amelle was on her second cup of tea.  Sometimes they ate together before heading down to the clinic for another day of splinting broken bones, sewing up wounds, and — though she always hoped none would turn up — healing those blasted fevers.

Which made it all the more puzzling when the knock sounded as Amelle sat at her sister’s desk, holding a slice of bread in her teeth as she attempted to bring order to the swirling chaos of Kiara’s desk.  Kiara always claimed the desk was in a perfect state of organization, but after laying eyes upon weeks’ and months’ and _years’_ worth of old correspondence she’d found in nothing remotely _resembling_ order?  Amelle became more and more convinced the only things responsible for this mess were laziness and procrastination.  Oh, she was certain her sister would be entirely horrified upon her return, but that was rather the point: Amelle wrought her revenge in simple, subtle ways.  

“Drug _me_ , will you, Kiri?” she muttered through the bread.

Just then, Orana appeared at the door to Kiara’s study, looking almost birdlike as her hands plucked at each other and she shifted her weight uneasily from foot to foot.  “Mistress Amelle?” she said, pausing to take a brief look behind her.  “Th-there’s someone here to see you.  Knight-Commander Cullen?”  Her voice wavered as she said his name, and she was watching Amelle with a worried gaze.

Amelle swallowed her bite of bread, making short work of the rest of the crust as well.  “Ahh, good,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her dress and her hands. Once she was presentable, she smiled at the elf and said, “Thank you, Orana. Send him in, if you would?”

Orana gave a quick, jerky nod.  She twisted around in Kiara’s chair and lined up three bottles of ink in a flawless line, perfectly parallel with the back edge of the desk’s surface.  The soft sound of a throat clearing came from behind her and she turned around then stood, a smile ready at her lips as Cullen offered a quick nod of greeting.

“Ahh, Knight-Commander.”

The look he gave her was a stern one, but it was also one she was used to. “ _Amelle._ ”

“Acting.  Acting.”  She smiled a moment longer, then sobered, noting how Cullen’s expression mimicked hers.  “Would you come in?” she asked, gesturing around her.  “Take a seat, if you don’t think one will collapse under the weight of all that metal.  But at least come in — you make me nervous, hovering in the doorway like that.”

He nodded again and came in, and he seemed to fill the whole space with all that gleaming, clanking armor, and the similarly gleaming sword and shield at his back.  He looked around for a second, but decided to remain standing.  She did too, linking her hands behind her back and looking up at him.

“I admit I … find myself surprised.  Is there something I can do for you?  Your letter… while amusing—”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that much at least.”

He smiled.  “—while amusing, left me feeling somewhat…”

“Ill at ease?”

With a nod, he said, “Something like that.  When one asks for the unique expertise of a templar, it seldom means good things.  But that…”

“But that an apostate might need that expertise…” she prompted mildly.  He sighed.

“Indeed.  That an apostate,” and he lowered his voice saying the word, as if it may have held an insult, “might need my assistance is… strange indeed.”

Amelle nodded, then turned to Kiara’s desk. She’d already organized away any messes; all of her sister’s correspondence laid in neat, even piles.  She moved papers from one pile to another, fidgeting, not meeting his eyes.  “I— the illness in the city.  Do you know anything about it?”

“Little enough, I admit,” he said, watching her hands.  “I’ve heard it causes fever and has been striking the very young—”  But Amelle was already shaking her head at him.

“Not… the symptoms.”  She paused, grimacing, and when she spoke she wanted to grimace more for the awkward delivery of her words.  “The… cause.”  

It took barely a breath of time for Cullen to understand what she was saying, and his expression of horror was such that Amelle dropped the papers and took several steps forward, immediately contrite.

“I— I didn’t want to _think_ you _did,_ ” she said, gnawing on her bottom lip.  “It’s just… too much trouble of late has come from mages and templars and  Kirkwall is currently rather short on mages.  So.  I… wanted to check.  Cover my bases.”

Strangely, he didn’t become angry with her, as she had feared.  Instead, Cullen took in her words and gave a slow nod, then turned and paced the room for a moment.  When he stopped and looked over at her, she lifted her eyebrows questioningly, silently inviting him to say whatever was on his mind.  Maker knew _she_ had.

“There is yet a mage free who has shown little regard for the lives of the people of this city,” Cullen said darkly.  “Especially innocents.”

The urge to fidget surfaced yet again and Amelle folded her hands tightly in front of her.  “The thought had occurred.  But— somehow, I don’t think so.”  At his skeptical look, she added, “Oh, it’s possible, and the Maker knows he’s proved himself _capable_ , but—”

“But you have reason to believe he’s left Kirkwall?”

“You would, too, if you’d ever had Kiara mad at you.”  Suddenly the mental image of her sister, her eyes like ice as she glared and drew her bow, filled Amelle’s mind. She shut it away with all the force of a slamming door.  “Really mad.”  When she looked up, Cullen was almost smiling — almost — and Amelle felt reassured, despite the memory of the words she and her sister spoke — yelled — at one another.  But now was not the time for those regrets, not yet.  “He… you know he— came back.  Here.  After the battle.  I missed their conversation, but I think… things were said.”

“But were they things that might beg for revenge to be taken?  We must… consider the timing, Amelle.  Your sister left and people began sickening.”

Amelle was sure every last drop of blood drained from her face at that moment.  “Surely you aren’t implying—!”

And as if _he_ realized what _he_ was saying, Cullen flushed a very bright red.  “Maker, no!  No, no.  Her methods sometimes leave much to be desired, but I trust your sister.  I only meant it might be significant that trouble started — again — once the Champion was gone from the city.”

Amelle nodded thoughtfully as he spoke, then asked, “You trust her?  Truly?  Though you know she was hiding apostates from you for years?  Even though you know there were times she lied to you?”

But Cullen waved this thought away as it were were utterly inconsequential, then met her gaze and _held_ it, saying, “I will not lie to _you_ and say I was comfortable with every decision she ever made, but yes… I trust her.  She has stood by and fought when most would have run.  She has earned her title rightfully.”

This honesty, the deep sincerity of it, struck Amelle and she found it was suddenly _her_ turn to blush.  

“Also,” added Cullen, “she is a most unconvincing liar.  It’s not as though she ever _fooled_ me.”  

Amelle let out a sudden, surprised laugh, and Cullen grinned in turn, then looked around the study.  Before she could wonder what he was looking for, he arched an eyebrow and looked back at her.

“I see you’re without your bodyguard today.  Daring.”

The blush already at her cheeks only flamed harder.  “He is not my bodyguard.”  But Cullen only lifted skeptical eyebrows at her, though he still smiled — almost teasingly. Teased by a templar. Maker, but her life had taken a strange turn.

“Does he know that, I wonder?”  Amelle opened her mouth to object, but Cullen shook his head.  “No matter.  I— I do wonder, though, Amelle.  Might I…”  Here Cullen paused, looking around the room again — but this time it looked less like he was looking for a thing or a person and more like he was looking for words.  Specifically the right words to _say_.  “Might I stop by the clinic?”

A templar?  In her clinic?  The surprise must have shown on her face, because at her expression Cullen went on, speaking rapidly — almost blurting _,_ “If there are clues to the illness, and if it has some kind of magical signature, I may be able to pick it up.”

Amelle considered this, then tilted her head quizzically.  “You think I haven’t tried to hunt down if it’s magical in origin?”  But Cullen only waved his hand, taking in the templar armor he wore.

“Different methods,” he said, almost apologetically.  “I-I’m not looking to start a witch hunt, Amelle.  I only want to help.”

She narrowed her eyes and thought about his offer for several long moments.  Perhaps she shouldn’t have trusted him, but she did. Cullen began to grow vaguely uneasy — almost twitchy — at her silence. It was written all over his face.

“Oh, very _well,_ ” she said finally.  “But you’ll scare everyone half to death if you show up in your full templar regalia.  I don’t suppose you’d consider coming as a civilian?”

For some reason this only made Cullen blush again, and he offered her a slight bow from the waist, almost as if it stood a chance of hiding the color warming his cheeks.

“As you wish, Amelle.”

#

It had certainly taken long enough — longer than Amelle had anticipated, particularly given the increased activity in the clinic lately — but when she looked around she saw the clinic as she somehow felt it was always _meant_ to be.  It was brighter, cleaner, and more welcoming than it had ever been, and Amelle felt a rush of pride every time she walked through the doors.  

As it happened, increased activity was part of her growing problem; though Varric had left her inordinately well-supplied, with so many people in and out of the clinic, it wasn’t long before she realized she was running drastically low on supplies — bandages and potion bottles, mainly, though her stores of lyrium potion were somewhat lower than she was comfortable with, particularly given the fevers she’d been treating.  But that day, at least, had bordered on the mundane so far; though a lot of people were coming through the doors, their complaints were common and easily treated, frequently without magic at all.  So manageable was it that Amelle had asked Fenris if he wouldn’t mind chasing down some of Varric’s suppliers and seeing if more crafting agents and potion bottles might be found.  He’d been uncertain but agreed that the day had been quiet enough that he could run a simple errand for her.

It was all a pleasant sort of chaos, Amelle thought, and she wished intensely Kiara could have been there to see it, to share it with her.  Amelle missed her sister terribly, despite how tense and _horrible_ things had been between them before she’d left.  She knew, was _sure_ Kiara would be as happy as Amelle was to see the clinic in its current shape.  She wanted to show her sister this labor of love, share it with her, and _show_ her that there could be good in Kirkwall, despite what lessons they’d been taught in the years living there.

 _She’ll be back soon enough,_ she told herself, examining Marlin’s arm and wincing sympathetically as the young man let out a strangled gasp of pain.  “I’m afraid it _is_ broken,” she murmured, beginning the careful task of setting the bone.  She was barely finished when a murmur rippled through the few people remaining in the clinic and Amelle looked up, half expecting to see another harried parent carrying another feverish infant and saw instead a man lingering near the doorway.  It took her a few moments to recognize Cullen; even in his civilian clothing his bearing was a soldier’s — a soldier at ease, perhaps, but a soldier nonetheless.

Marlin followed her gaze then whispered up at her, “Mistress, he may be out of his fancy dress, but that’s the Knight-Commander in your clinic. My brother had a run-in with him once.  Recognize that face anywhere.”

Amelle sent the young man a small smile.  “Acting.”  

She noticed his eyes widen as she nodded at Cullen, offering him a brief wave.

“Wait here a moment, Marlin.  I’m not quite finished with you yet — and hold that arm still.”  With that, Amelle rose and crossed the room.  “Knigh—”

“Perhaps just Cullen,” he corrected quietly, offering her a warm smile.  “Best save the official title for official business.”  At her grateful smile, he added, “You do good work here, Amelle.  I’d hate to see the townsfolk suffer for fear of templar reprimand.”

That was somewhat surprising to hear, and Amelle said as much.  Cullen only furrowed his brows in reply, but as silent questions went, it was eloquent enough.  

Amelle shrugged as she explained, “You’re fair, but you’re devoted.  No one questions your belief in the work of the templars.”

“I… do.”  He looked past her then, his expression darkening.  

Amelle found herself wondering if he was thinking then of the previous mage who had maintained this particular space.  She followed his gaze; the clinic was nearly empty now after what she considered a good day.  For Amelle, a good day was one that ended with her being only _slightly_ wobbly, and having had not a single nosebleed.  A good day ended with nobody dying.  

Amelle had learned quickly to appreciate the days when no one died.

“But I have seen the repercussions of blind devotion firsthand,” Cullen went on, his voice low.  “I have seen madness, and I have seen too much death.  It does me some good, I think, to see compassion and selflessness and respect.”

Something about his words, or perhaps just the tone in which he said them, struck Amelle as very _earnest,_ and she decided, after a moment, she rather liked it.  She smiled, looking up at him for a second or two before noticing that the shirt Cullen wore complimented the color of his eyes, bringing out the gold in the hazel.  At that point she realized rather abruptly that she was staring and she looked away, flushed.

“I just want to help,” she said, simply, sure she could feel his eyes on her, now.  Before he could comment, she added, “That said, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be to _you_ today, I fear.  It has been one of the rare days I’ve not had to deal with this… illness.”

It was a rare blend of good news in its own way still disappointing, but if Cullen _was_ disappointed, he hid it well.  “In that case, may I look around?” he asked, gesturing at the clinic.

“Certainly. I just need to finish with my foolish young charge.  Then I’ll be free to answer any questions you might have.” 

Amelle returned to Marlin’s side and resumed the task of setting and binding the arm, helping the healing along with the barest glimmer of magic, but without completely mending the bone — she preferred it if she could let the healing happen naturally, and she had always been of the opinion that letting people who hurt themselves idiotically suffer a little was as much a part of the healing process as fixing the injury in the first place.  This fellow had fallen from a neighbor’s roof, for example.  While trying to look in at the neighbor’s wife.  In the bath.

 _Definitely_ stupid enough to have earned a few weeks’ natural healing.

As she bound the arm and settled it in a linen sling, Amelle felt warmth at her shoulder; she hadn’t heard Cullen come up behind her, but she knew without looking that he was there, watching her work.  She looked at her hands, only the faintest glow of blue-white light emanating from her palms and wondered for a moment what _he_ saw when he looked at her hands — instruments of healing, or madness and power waiting for the first opportunity to snap loose.

“And how _did_ you hurt yourself, young man?” he asked.

Amelle did a fair job of hiding her smile despite Marlin’s terrified look as he silently begged her to intercede.  She shook her head briefly at him.  “Go on, Marlin. Tell him.”

Marlin flushed red.  “Uh.  I was… climbing.  Messere.  Ser.  Cap—Commander-ser.”

Cullen glanced at Amelle for clarification, but she kept her expression serene and he was left no choice but to look again to Marlin.  “Climbing where?”

The young man looked utterly shamefaced as he mumbled, “My… roof… ser.”  

At these words Amelle shot Marlin a look and coughed both delicately _and_ pointedly.  Though it would have seemed impossible, Marlin’s flush deepened, and he quickly amended: “My neighbor’s roof, ser.  ’S just — Liri’s so pretty, right?  And I … I couldn’t _help_ myself, ser. But I got punished right good.  Fell off the roof and Liri was the one found me.”  He gestured dolefully at his broken arm.  “Her husband’ll probably break it again for me later.  Or my head.  He might break my head.  He _could._ ”

“I know Arin,” Amelle said gently as she tied off the binding and checked her work.  “Please tell him Amelle would prefer he not make more work for her.”

“C-can I go then, Mistress?  Ser?  I—promise I won’t do it again.”  He cast a pleading glance at Cullen.  “P-please don’t take me to the Gallows, ser.”

But Cullen just waved him off.  “Off with you then.  But make no more trouble for the healer, do you understand?”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser,” Marlin said quickly as he hurried out of the clinic.  

“You do realize you can’t send him to the Gallows,” Amelle murmured, amusement glinting in her eyes.  “He’s no mage.”

“Well, _he_ doesn’t know I can’t, does he?  And if it keeps him from climbing other people’s roofs and spying upon their wives…”  As Cullen watched Marlin go, a faint frown knitted his brow.  Once the young man was gone, the clinic door slamming shut behind him, Cullen’s frown deepened.  After a moment or two he paced to the windowboxes, staring at them for a time before plucking a dead leaf from an otherwise healthy bunch of elfroot, and returned to a baffled Amelle.

“He felt fine to you?” he asked.

“How do you mean?”

But Cullen only shook his head, looking at the dead leaf between his fingertips.  “There… was something off about him.  I don’t understand it.  It wasn’t magic.  But it wasn’t _normal_ either.”

This sounded to Amelle very much like her own description of the fevers striking the children she’d treated so far.  Not quite magic, but not quite normal.  She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then asked, “You think he was lying about the fall?”

“No,” came Cullen’s decisive answer.  “I’m certain he wasn’t.  But— something — I wonder… can you tell me about the others you treated today?”

Amelle’s eyebrow arched gracefully.  “All of them?  I see a lot of patients in a day, Cullen. More so lately.”

“Lately?”

She shrugged.  “The city is… unstable.”

“But have there been any more falls?  Strange stories?  Stupid behavior?”

Huffing a dry laugh, Amelle replied, “Like I said, I see a lot of patients in a day.”  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the floor, mentally rifling through everyone she treated that day — it had been another early morning, and while there hadn’t been any fevers… “Now that you mention it, Cassia was here today. She runs a fruit stall in the market, and she got into a _fight_ with a patron.  She is the sweetest, quietest, least aggressive person I’ve ever met.  But she was the one who started the fight. She said she thought the man was trying to cheat her. Pulled a knife on him and wouldn’t quit until one of her neighbors hit her over the head with a melon.  I think Willa brought Cassia to me because she was acting so _oddly._   The melon wasn’t nearly enough to give her a concussion.”

“And you… treated her?”

Amelle shrugged.  “I eased her headache and sent her on her way. Nothing out of the ordinary except the story, but then, like I said, the city’s still uneasy, after everything.”

“The city’s still uneasy, indeed,” he replied softly, glancing down once more at the leaf of elfroot, and for a moment it looked as though he didn’t remember picking it.  “Do you know where to find her, this Cassia?”

“I… suppose so.”

“Will you take me?  I’d like to see if she feels _odd_ to me the same way that boy Marlin felt odd.”

“It’s the very young who seem to be affected by this illness, Cullen. They’re the ones who come with fever — they’re the ones who are dying.”

“Still.  Odd is always worth investigating.  And you seem to be at a lull for the day.”

Amelle shrugged and smiled.  “Indeed.  No guarantee how long it will last.”

When Cullen offered her his arm, it seemed only polite to take it.  She let him guide her out of the clinic, and she doused the lantern just outside the door before locking up and leading Cullen to the ladder, up into the Amell cellars.  She could still remember that night, so long ago, when they’d broken into the house to retrieve Grandfather’s will — there hadn’t been slavers in these cellars for years, and the space now looked much more… cellar-like, filled with odds and ends, flotsam and jetsam from throughout their lives.  Over the years, Amelle and Kiara had worked to bolster the cellar’s wine collection as well, despite the recent dent Kiara had made in their stores.

“You are quite a hand with healing spells,” asked Cullen as they walked through the dim cellar.  “Was it always so?”

Amelle smiled.  “I was eight when my magic showed itself.  I… developed a propensity for lost causes and strays soon after.”  The smile faded.  “Looking back, I think it was because…”

“Because…?” he prompted.

“My magic first manifested itself as fire.  It was… scary, to say the least.  I’d been by myself at the time — weeding the family garden — and had no idea what was happening to me.  My father heard me calling for help and…” She shrugged.  “He… was an apostate as well.  He dried my tears and healed my burns and explained to me what I was.  But I had already frightened myself.  I… didn’t want to… to _destroy_ things.  I tried to learn how to heal them, instead.”  She was reminded, suddenly and _powerfully,_ of the afternoon she and Kiara had hidden in the woods, of the burn she’d dealt her sister when fear had overrun sense.  “I had… excellent incentives to become a healer.  I practiced on wounded and sick animals and worked up from there.”

“You said your father was the one who discovered you, after…”

“After I nearly burned our harvest to a crisp?  Yes.  He… I think, looking back, he was… upset, because he knew what it would mean for me.  He knew better than anyone that being tracked and hunted is no sort of life — and it has the potential to be…” she trailed off with a shrug, “lonely, I suppose.  I think he wanted things to be different for his children.  But… well, one out of three isn’t so bad.”

A beat of confused silence followed before Cullen spoke.  “Three?  I thought—”

Amelle very nearly tripped over her own feet, so sudden was her stop.  She turned to face Cullen and could _feel_ the blood draining from her face.  She hadn’t spoken about Carver to anyone _not_ in her sister’s immediate circle of friends.  She hadn’t spoken of him at all in… a very long time.  She swallowed hard.

“There—there were three of us.  We had a brother, Carver.”  Amelle hesitated a moment before adding, “He was my twin.”

Cullen blinked, startled; he’d not heard this before, and why would he have?  Kiara had done favors for Cullen, certainly, but he was not in the same… _circle_ as the rest of her friends.

“What happened to him?”

“Killed.”  And it was still so hard to say, even after so many years.  She tried saying the word quickly, as if that might mitigate some of the pain.  It didn’t.  She looked down, steeling herself, and went on: “We were fleeing Lothering, trying to get to Gwaren to catch a ship for Kirkwall.  That was our plan, such as it was.  But we… the darkspawn attacked.”  The memories were still so very _fresh_ after so long, and Amelle looked at the ground, unable to stop the deluge.  “Foolish blighter tried to take on an ogre by himself, with only his sword.  It…”  She stopped suddenly and collected herself.  Her hands had curled into white-knuckled fists.  “It was… very quick. I couldn’t— he was gone before I could…”  She stopped, took a deep breath.  “It was quick.”

Cullen said nothing for a long, long while.  Amelle simply stood, her arms hugging herself as she stared at the floor.  It felt _wrong_ somehow that she hadn’t spoken more of Carver, and she felt suddenly and intensely ashamed.

“I am sorry,” he said, finally.  Amelle nodded her thanks, but didn’t quite trust her voice.

When she did speak again — when she could — she found herself smiling, however tremulously.  “He was quite good with a sword, as it happens.  He wasn’t just — he didn’t just hack away at things.  He was _good._ ”  Cullen took her arm again, and she couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his arm despite the cool damp of the basement.  “He was never allowed to shine, though.  Never allowed to stand out, because of us.” She paused, and her fingers tightened reflexively on Cullen’s sleeve.  “Because of me.”

“He only wanted to protect his sister.”

“And I couldn’t protect _him._   Couldn’t even _heal_ him.  It— it all happened too _fast.”_

“Is that… why?” he asked, gesturing behind them — it was a vague motion, but he was clearly indicating the clinic.  

Such a thing had never occurred to Amelle and she stopped suddenly and turned, looking back down the tunnel, her hand flying to her mouth.  She stared down the path for a long while, then pulled her hand away, uttering a short, dry laugh.

“Probably. I couldn’t save my own twin brother, but, by the Maker, I’ll make up for it and save everybody _else._ ”

“I’m sure he’s walking by the Maker’s side, even now.”

Amelle’s smile was wry. “Unless the Maker’s leading him to a training field for a sparring match, I’m not sure Carver isn’t dreadfully bored.”

A small smile twitched at his mouth. “We none of us know what exists for us beyond death.  Perhaps there are more training fields and sparring matches than your brother could possibly hope for.”

“He’d like that.”  She turned again and began walking, leading the way back up to the house.  “I hope… I just hope he isn’t alone.  It won’t be so bad, at least, if Father’s there and if Mother can fuss over him.”  She fell silent as they walked, her arm linked with Cullen’s as she sifted through her memories.  “Maker.  I still miss that big idiot.”

“I’m sure he misses you, too.”

#

Amelle wasn’t sure _what_ made her keep her arm linked in Cullen’s the entire walk to Lowtown, but she found herself on the losing side of her internal argument over whether such contact was even remotely appropriate, mainly because it felt so _nice._  

It was _nice_ to walk along with someone like this — and surely if Cullen had any reservations regarding appearances or whether or not it was appropriate for him to be walking arm in arm with anyone — particularly an apostate mage — he’d have said so, with much blushing and stammering, Amelle was sure.  Blushing and stammering or a well-aimed holy smite.  That firmly in mind, she let herself enjoy the light contact.  Besides, it wasn’t as if she could pretend they were only out for anything but an early evening stroll — not when they were on the way to Lowtown, anyway.

“And you’re sure you know where Cassia lives?” Cullen asked, doubtless noticing the way Amelle peered at each doorway as they made their way through the colorless maze of buildings that was Lowtown.

“I can find it just fine from Uncle Gamlen’s house.  Any other starting point, I’m afraid, and I get a bit… lost.”

“Well, then. Shall we find your uncle’s house first?”

Amelle gave him a sheepish grin.  “That’s what I was trying to do.”

Cullen’s lips twitched, as if he were holding back a chuckle.  He cleared his throat instead and inclined his head.  “Did you not… live there too, at one time?”

Amelle ducked her head.  “Yes, we did.”

“Did you get this lost then, too?”

“Not quite _this_ lost.”

This time Cullen _did_ chuckle.  “All right.  Let’s start at the beginning.  Your uncle — Gamlen, was it? — lives in Lowtown.”

“Yes.”

“Which part?”

“The older part — not far from the alienage.  That’s where Cassia lives — the alienage.”

“Ah.  There I can help.”  Cullen’s grip on her arm tightened ever so slightly as he guided her to the left and then on through a series of winding alleyways until the upper limbs of the alienage’s sacred tree were visible above the rooftops.

“Ah.  I… I know where I am now, Cullen, thank y—”

“Amelle!”

Few voices in Kirkwall had the power to elicit much of a reaction from Amelle; her sister’s of course, and the voices of those they’d traveled and fought with over the years — Amelle knew the timbre and volume of each, and when they called her name, she turned willingly, even _happily,_ to answer them _._   This particular voice, however, made Amelle wish she’d studied earth magic just a little more closely so that she’d actually be _able_ to make the ground open up and swallow her whole.

All the same, she turned and smiled, resisting the urge to fidget.  “Hello, Uncle.”

The older man’s face was set in a disapproving frown, as always — particularly where Amelle was concerned.  Amelle wasn’t the Champion of Kirkwall; she was, first and foremost, a problem to be swept under the rug, like the other Amell children.  She’d thought things had changed after their mother’s death, and then thought they’d changed _again_ when Kiara had helped reunite Gamlen with his long lost daughter, but apparently the man had a pitifully short memory.  It was either that or he simply didn’t care much for Amelle.  Or mages at all, really.

“Surprised to see _you_ out and about,” he said, eyeing her in that way he had of making Amelle feel as if she’d filched all the family riches and lost it all in a card game—

 _Oh, wait, no,_ she thought, fighting to keep her expression perfectly neutral. _That was_ him.  She gestured a little at the cloudless sky, all innocence.  “Oh, just… taking advantage of the nice evening.”

He arched an incredulous eyebrow at her.  “A nice evening,” he echoed flatly. “In Lowtown.  I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so willing to come back, no matter the circumstances.  Felt like slumming it, then?”

Amelle resisted the urge to point out the one thing Lowtown had over Hightown insofar as ambiance went was a distinct _lack_ of ruined chantries; instead, she kept her smile fixed in place.  “Well, you know.  A clear sky’s a clear sky.”

Gamlen didn’t reply, but Amelle had noticed that his disapproving gaze had turned into a glower — _and_ it had slid from her to Cullen.  She tugged lightly at Cullen’s arm, urging him to leave with her, but he only gave her forearm a gentle squeeze… and stayed put.  Something about his posture changed ever so slightly, and Amelle saw the soldier’s bearing come through as he looked down at her uncle.

“Good evening, serah,” he said to Gamlen, the very picture of politeness, and Amelle felt a tiny flush of pride that Cullen, on top of everything else, seemed to stand so much _taller_ than her uncle.

“Hmph,” was the extent of Gamlen’s reply as he continued glowering — the fact that Cullen’s expression was politely bland only made Gamlen glower harder.  “So.  You’re a _friend_ of my niece, are you?”

Something about the way Gamlen had uttered the word _friend_ made Amelle feel vaguely insulted and slightly unclean.  Cullen squeezed her arm again.  She held her tongue and watched.

“I suppose I am, serah.  Am I to understand I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of another of her family?”

“I’m her uncle, if that’s what you’re asking.”  Gamlen narrowed his eyes slightly.  “And what about you?”

Cullen blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion.  “I’m sorry?  I thought we’d established I am a friend of your niece’s.”

Impatience and disdain flickered across Gamlen’s face.  “So are you one of _her_ kind?” he asked, taking only long enough to look at Amelle, though his tone and expression made his meaning entirely clear.  

And it was certainly clear enough for Cullen, who had gone strangely tense, and whose fingers spasmed against Amelle’s arm as he cleared his throat.  “And by ‘her kind,’ you mean…?”

“Mages, of course,” he spat.  “Apostates.  _Whatever_ you lot are referring to yourselves as now. You could call yourselves the bloody Queens of Antiva and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“I see.  No, serah, as fate would have it I am no mage—”

“Oh.  Well, good—”

“That said, I _am_ the current Knight-Commander of the Templar Order of Kirkwall, and I would thank you to show a modicum of respect for this healer who, as I can attest, has been doing more to help the citizens of Kirkwall than _some_ can begin to comprehend.”  Gamlen opened his mouth to reply, but Cullen stood even taller.  “Unless, serah, _you_ have been healing fevers, setting bones, and soothing burns without receiving so much as a copper in return.  In which case, I humbly beg your pardon.”

“I—”

“I thought not.”  Cullen offered a brief bow.  “Do excuse us, serah, but we must take our leave.  I am escorting your niece on exceptionally sensitive business this evening.”

Without a word, Cullen turned and whisked Amelle around the corner; she had a hard time keeping up with his long-legged strides and she hurried to maintain his pace until he slowed to a stop halfway down a narrow stairwell.

“I’m so sorry about that, Cullen, he—”

“Your own _uncle_ speaks to you that way?  Truly?”

Amelle fidgeted with her sleeve a moment.  “Well.  He’s not a _favorite_ uncle.  And he… well, he’s not _all_ bad, he just has a… terribly short memory, I think.”  Cullen appeared not to be convinced; Amelle grimaced again.  “I’m not making excuses for him.  He—”

“The man’s a weasel.”

“Well.  That’s… not… entirely untrue, I’ll warrant.”  She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “I’m sorry about that… assumption he made, too.”

He sighed. “Amelle—”

“It’s just that you’re out of armor and you’re in my company,” she sighed, wincing.  “Trust me — that was enough.  If you’d been _in_ armor, Gamlen likely would have assumed you were putting me under arrest.  And that, I’m sure, would have encouraged an entirely different response from him.  There might have even been cheering. Maybe confetti.”

Cullen did more than stare at her — he gaped.

“This… can’t be new to your experience, Cullen,” Amelle said, choosing her words with extreme care.  “My mother… chose to spend her life with an apostate.  That she got one for a child probably was never a surprise to her.  But not all family members are so… accepting.”  She swallowed, hating the way the words tasted on her tongue.

“I— no, I suppose it isn’t a surprise, exactly.  I’d just thought…”

The look she sent him was a wry one.  Amelle cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head, and in that moment she looked so much like her sister the resemblance was almost eerie.  “Thought perhaps that the Champion of Kirkwall’s family wouldn’t have included a shortsighted, selfish, rude, prejudiced weasel-cheat?”

“Er… not in so many words.  But… essentially, yes.”

Amelle sighed, spreading her hands.  “He’s family; I don’t have to like him.  And he doesn’t have to like _me._ ”

Cullen’s lips twitched into a slightly crooked grin.  “True, but it’s still nearly incomprehensible.  Are you _quite_ sure you’re related?  You’re far more likable than he is.”

His words — and the gentle, sincere nature of them — took Amelle by surprise, leaving her nearly breathless.  She swallowed hard and stared up at him, blinking rapidly as her mind raced to figure out whether he’d meant it, or whether he’d simply been teasing her.    Nothing about his tone or expression lent any real credibility to the possibility of teasing.  His smile reflected nothing but good humor, without superciliousness or scorn or cruelty, or any of the other qualities Amelle found herself frequently _expecting_.  Her heart thudded suddenly, hard, and she swallowed.

Sensing she’d been silent far too long, she cleared her throat, thankful for the afternoon’s lengthening shadows; the shadows hid the heat at her cheeks most effectively.  “Um… th-thank you.”

Several seconds ticked past before the spell suddenly broke.  Cullen reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking away.  “Yes.  Well.  It’s getting late.  We ought to find Cassia and speak with her, if she’ll let us.”

On impulse, Amelle took Cullen’s hand.  She felt him startle slightly, and she immediately relaxed her grip when he did, ready to pull away.  But in the space of a heartbeat, his fingers tightened warmly around hers.  Amelle turned her head to peer around a corner, using the opportunity to hide the tiny smile warming her lips.

“Come on,” she said, looking above the rooftops for the upper limbs of the alienage’s sacred tree. “I’ll try not to get us lost this time,” Amelle said, tugging Cullen into the golden afternoon light, leading him to the alienage and to Cassia.

#

Cassia’s husband Kavan answered the door when Cullen knocked.  He opened it only wide enough to see Cullen standing on the stoop, but not Amelle.  His eyes widened suddenly and he started to shut the door, but Amelle thrust her hands out against the flat of it, pushing back.  The force wasn’t enough to stop Kavan from slamming the door in their faces entirely, were he of a mind to, but it was enough to make him stop long enough to think _._

“Kavan, it’s me, Amelle,” she said quickly, ducking in front of Cullen so Kavan could see her.  ”I’m here to see after Cassia.”

The elf’s nervous face peered at them through the narrow opening, and he hesitated a moment longer before pulling the door completely open.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.  “It’s… things have been so strained lately, and after what happened with Cassie at the market today, I…” he grimaced and shook his head, looking down.  “We’ve been careful with visitors.  Not that we’ve really had a lot of those lately.”

“I understand,” Amelle said, bringing her hands down and linking them behind her back.  “It’s been… difficult around the city lately.  No one can be too careful.”

Kavan nodded, then looked around Cullen and Amelle, his eyes darting across the alienage’s courtyard.  “You said you wanted to see Cassie?”

“You’ve got to admit it was a strange altercation.  I thought I’d come by, see how she’s doing.”  

At this, Kavan’s expression clouded as he stepped back, silently inviting them in.  “I’ve never known her to act that way,” he said, lowering his voice once the door was closed.  

“Nor I,” Amelle agreed.  “It’s entirely unlike her.”  She looked around; their home was small but clean and lovingly kept — fresh fruit filled a basket that looked to Amelle to have been hand-woven.  She knew Kavan and Cassia had a small child — a little girl — but Amelle neither saw nor heard any sign of her.  If her mother was behaving erratically, it was probably for the best if the child was away from home, with friends or family, if any were to be had in the alienage; Amelle assumed there were.  “Has she been under any… stress?  I know the whole city has been… upended, but has Cassia been especially worried about anything?”

Kavan paused to think about this for a moment, then shook his head.  “No.  Nothing more than usual, anyway,” he said.  “Nothing that would’ve caused her to act like _that_.  Thank Andraste Willa was there, or…” Kavan trailed off with a shake of his head, closing his eyes as if he didn’t even want to  _consider_ what might have happened.  “That isn’t _like_ her, Mistress Amelle.  _My_ Cassie is the kindest, gentlest woman I know.  I don’t… I don’t understand what came over her this morning.  This isn’t _like_ her,” he said again, his tone growing desperate.  Amelle laid a soothing hand on his arm.

“I know it isn’t.  That’s why we’d like to speak with her, if she’s feeling better.”

The elf frowned, folding his arms — it was less a defensive gesture and looked more like he was simply trying to ward off any number of uncomfortable thoughts and possibilities.  “She’s… she’s been sleeping since I brought her home.”

“I only want to see if the treatment I gave her for the headache kept it at bay.”  She gave him her most disarming smile.  “Consider this a house-call.”

He looked at the floor for a moment, then over his shoulder at a closed door.  “I could… check on her, if you wanted.  If she’s awake, you can speak with her.”

Amelle’s smile didn’t budge.  “All right.  We’ll just wait here.”

Kavan nodded, then sent an uncertain look at Cullen, who remained mildly impassive.  Once Kavan disappeared into the other room, Amelle turned to him.  “Letting me do all the talking?”

He shrugged a little, looking only vaguely sheepish.  “These people know you, Amelle. I am… an interested observer, but as you said once, the armor tends to make people nervous.”

“You aren’t _in_ your armor now,” she reasoned.  “The only person I know who can go incognito by leaving things _out_ of your usual ensemble, in fact.”

He dipped his head to speak in a low tone near her ear and Amelle fought back the urge to shiver as warm breath stirred the short strands of hair along her neck.  “And yet were you to tell anyone I am a templar, I suspect any welcome we’d been given would grow significantly less warm.”

Before Amelle could reply, the door opened again and Kavan came out, looking more nervous than he had before.  “She’s… awake,” he said, casting a worried glance over his shoulder.  “But Mistress Amelle, she’s… not right.  I’m not sure you should—”

But Amelle was already walking toward the room in question.  “If she’s not quite right, Kavan,” she said brightly, with more confidence than she felt, “best let me see if I can figure out what’s wrong.” 

Either the elf was smart enough to let her attempt her work, or he was simply too unnerved by his wife’s behavior to protest.  Either way, he stepped aside as Amelle and Cullen entered the small room.

Cassia, a pretty elf with short blonde hair and wide brown eyes, sat upon the bed, shoulders slumped and elbows resting upon her knees, her head cradled in her hands.  Amelle couldn’t tell simply from looking whether the woman’s head merely ached or if this attitude was indicative of a different, larger problem.  She hoped — _desperately_ hoped, in fact — it was the former, but Amelle’s optimism had started to wane slightly as the latter seemed far more likely.  She felt a sudden pang of guilt, but tried shoving it aside; it was hard _not_ to beat up on herself — clearly something was very wrong with Cassia, but Amelle had only treated her for a bloody headache.

Amelle kept her voice low as she approached the woman. “Cassia?  It’s Amelle Hawke.  I’ve brought a friend; we’re here to see how you’re doing.”

Cassia looked up at them, dark eyes usually sparking with good humor and liveliness now vacant and empty, rimmed with red.  Slowly Cassia brought her hand up and touched her head, fingers brushing over the spot — Amelle assumed — where Willa had hit her with the melon.

“My head.”  She sounded distracted, her soft words too like a distant echo of something else.  Amelle felt the worry in her gut ratchet higher as she moved closer to the bed, unsure whether Cassia had even heard her.

“Yes,” she soothed, creeping closer.  “Your head.  You came to see me earlier and I treated you for headache.  Do you remember?”

 _That_ got Cassia’s attention and the woman’s expression flashed irritation as she looked up at Amelle.  “Of course I remember. I’m not _stupid_.”

Taken aback by the vehemence of the reply, Amelle faltered, scrambling a moment before she said, “Of course you aren’t, Cassia. But you did take quite a blow to the head.  We just want to make sure you’re still all right.”  

Cassia’s dark eyes narrowed and flicked over to Cullen, who was doing a fine job of looking as unassuming and nonthreatening as he possibly could.  “Who did you bring?” she snapped.  “Another shemlen _healer?_ ”

“N-no, Cassia.  This is Cullen.  He’s a friend.  He’s—”

“Here to take a statement, my good woman,” Cullen added fluidly, interrupting firmly enough to cause Amelle to stop talking, but gently enough that he didn’t seem rude about it.  “Mistress Amelle told me what happened today at the market.  I thought it best if I accompanied her.”

The change that came over the woman’s features was shocking; her lip curled and her eyes glittered wildly.  “One of the guard, then?  _Good._   Did she tell you that bastard shem tried to cheat me?”

The words themselves — to say nothing of their tone — were unlike anything Amelle had ever heard the merchant use before, but she nodded soberly even as Cullen said, “She did.  I asked her to bring me to see you so I might hear your side of the story.”

“What’s there to tell?” she spat, glaring.  “They always try to cheat me in Hightown.  Think I don’t know any better.  Think I’m just some stupid knife-eared bitch who doesn’t _know._ ”  Her voice was growing higher and shrill, trembling with anger as she curled her hands into fists.  “Well, I _know._   I _know_ , all right.  And I showed _him!_ ”

Amelle and Cullen exchanged a look.  Cullen nodded briefly — if Amelle’s guess was right he was feeling the same thing he sensed in Marlin earlier.  Amelle lifted her eyebrows and nodded once in silent acknowledgement, then stepped closer.

“Might I tend your head, Cassia?  Kavan’s terribly worried.”

The elf sneered and looked for a moment like she was going to spout a few unflattering words about her own husband, but instead she flung up a hand dismissively.

“Whatever.”

Amelle crept closer until she stood directly in front of Cassia, hands resting on either side of the woman’s head.  As she took a breath of mana and focused it, funneling it into healing energy, Amelle thought of the fevers she’d healed, how they _felt._

There was _something_ there.  Something almost _familiar_ in Cassia.

“Catch me if I faint, Cullen,” she murmured, eyes closed.

“Is that… _likely_ to happen?”  

“More likely than I’d prefer, I’m afraid,” she replied, setting to work. 

As Amelle rested her hands upon Cassia’s head, her mind was racing: _was_ Cassia ill in the same way the children had been?  She had no fever, but when Amelle’s fingers crept to the pulse in her neck, a rapid, erratic tattoo beneath her fingertips.

 _Concentrate_ , she thought, frowning. _Focus_.

 _There_ it was.  It was faint, but there.  That same sense of… something _wrong_.  Something there that shouldn’t have been.  It wasn’t localized; it was _everywhere_ , and for a brief, startling moment Amelle was utterly shocked she hadn’t felt it before.  But, no, when she’d tended Cassia’s headache, she’d sent a wave of healing magic to the woman’s head, focusing her energies upon the spot where she’d been hit with the melon.  She hadn’t looked any deeper than that — treating a symptom, rather than examining the _cause._   But a fever… a fever was more than a symptom; a fever indicated something was dreadfully wrong in the patient.  But an adult experienced no fever.  Odd.

She was vaguely aware of Cullen moving behind her, but his voice was distant to her ears.  “Amelle…”

“Just a moment…” she managed, adjusting her power slightly, shifting here and pulling there, feeling it tingle through her hands, more hot than cold, just now.

“Amelle.”  His voice was louder now, and he sounded alarmed.  “Amelle, your nose.”

She ignored him.  So _close,_ she thought.  _Nearly there_ — 

The next thing Amelle knew, she was shutting her eyes tight against a wave of light so white, so _brilliant_ that she saw it even from behind her lids.  She felt the healing spell sputter out and knew the glow from her hands had already died out as she darted back, gasping as if she’d been doused with icy water.  

A smite?  Here?  _Now_?  Sudden betrayal welled up in her, a dull ache in her chest, but then Amelle realized that, no, it had not been a smite.  A smite would have left her a crumpled, drained heap on the floor.  She was still upright and still felt her mana pulsing within.  But he’d disrupted the spell all the same.  Glaring, Amelle rounded on Cullen.

“What in all the Void was that about?” she demanded, poking her finger against his chest.  “I was nearly there!”

But Cullen only grasped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, looking down at her.  Worry and bewilderment mingled on his features as he said, “Amelle.  Your nose.  It’s bleeding.”

She stopped, her hand flying to her face.  Sure enough, her fingertips came back slicked with red and she swore softly.

“You were pushing yourself too hard,” said Cullen.  “It’s not good for—”

“M-mistress Amelle?”

They both stopped and stared.  Cassia was looking up at them both, like she had no memory of how she got there.  The woman blinked once, then twice, her mouth working silently.

“Mistress Amelle?” she began again.  “Y-you’re bleeding.  Are you… are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Amelle said, and from the way Cullen sent her a sidelong glare, she could tell he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.  “How’s your head?”

Cassia placed her hand against her forehead, looking strangely lost.  “It’s… fine. Better, I think.”  She bit her lip and looked around once more.  “I… how did I get home?”

“You don’t remember?” asked Cullen.

“I— I remember leaving for the market this morning, and…” she trailed off, rubbing her head again.  “It’s all kind of… muddled.”

“Muddled,” Amelle echoed.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Cullen said, frowning.

#

Amelle and Cullen assured Cassia and Kavan that while it was unlikely her headache would return, but if it _did_ manage to come back, or if Cassia began behaving oddly again, they were to bring Cassia to the clinic as soon as possible.

They walked back to Hightown in near silence.

“You sensed it,” Amelle said quietly.  “I saw your face.  You felt the same thing in Cassia you felt in Marlin.”  

Cullen nodded.  His arm was linked in hers again, though Amelle couldn’t help but wonder if this particular display of solicitousness was fueled by the fact that she’d magicked herself into a nosebleed before his eyes.  She grimaced at the memory.  _Hope he doesn’t think that was some fancy new application for blood magic_ , she thought, even as her fingers played absently with the cuff of his sleeve.

“As did you,” he mildly replied.  

“It was different, in Cassia.  With those children, I sensed it almost immediately.  Something wrong.  I didn’t sense it at all in Marlin _or_ Cassia — or, Maker, any number of the adults I saw today, yesterday, or the day before.”

“Perhaps you simply weren’t looking for it.  If someone comes in with a broken arm, you’re going to fix the _arm._   Not search for hidden reasons why its owner broke it in the first place.  But a child’s fever is… a different case altogether.”

“I’d thought much the same thing.”

A beat of silence passed.  “You don’t sound terribly convinced.  Besides, with as many patients as have been darkening your door as of late, you can hardly be blamed for not catching an aberration hidden beneath the surface.”

“But you did.”

“Ah,” he countered, giving her a sly half-grin, “but I was _looking_ for something.”

“All of which does us very little good,” she said.  Her hip brushed his as they walked and Amelle felt a sudden rush of heat flare at her cheeks.  She cleared her throat.  “We still have no idea what’s _causing_ it.”

Cullen’s stride hitched as he hesitated.  “I… may have a suggestion.  Though I would understand if you were disinclined to consider it.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

“The Circle library is still more or less intact,” he began.  “And as I understand it, there is a fairly well-stocked section on herbalism — that is… that is a speciality of yours, is it not?”  When Amelle nodded, he went on, “I suspect there are research and reference materials you might make good use of, if you were interested?”

“The Circle library,” she echoed, looking at him.  “The _Circle library_ located in the bowels of _Templar Hall_ located ever so helpfully in the _Gallows_?”

“I could get you in and out again, Amelle.  But you’d have to be quick about it.”

“I don’t even know what to look for,” she argued, not listening to the little voice inside that believed him, that trusted him to get her in and out again safely.  “It’s… it’s not even a needle in a haystack; it’s a needle in a pile of needles!  How much time do you possibly think you could give me?”

He considered.  “Given the… shortage of mages in the area, there is less need to patrol areas such as the library.  We’re rather shorter on men, so areas like the library aren’t patrolled as frequently.”

“That isn’t an answer, Knight-Commander,” she said dryly.

He made a face.  “ _Acting,_ ” he corrected her.  “And… overnight, I think.  I could give you overnight.  The last patrol is at dusk, and the first of the day is just after dawn.  Could you work with that?”

They climbed the stairs to Hightown as Amelle gave the matter all due contemplation.  If there was any chance at all this illness could be fought with a potion, it was certainly a path worth exploring, and though she had _some_ books on the subject, her library wasn’t nearly as vast as the Circle’s.  Amelle knew she didn’t have mana enough to heal everyone — she’d never drained herself so many times in such a short period before, and it was enough to make her worry.  She chewed the inside of her cheek before responding, “I could _potentially_ work with that, yes.  If anyone kept a record of what books—”

“One of the Tranquil minded the library.  I’m sure there is such an index.”

“Are you sure you could lay hands on it?”

He gave her a tiny smile as they reached the front door.  “Amelle, if the Knight-Commander can’t request the library index, what good is it being the Knight-Commander?”

Amelle met his smile with one of her own.  “ _Acting._ ”


	37. Chapter 37

It was late in the day by the time Fenris returned to the clinic with a crate of the most depleted supplies.  In addition to bandages, crafting reagents, and potion bottles — as well as a small cache of lyrium potion — Fenris had a promise from Varric’s supplier for more.  The dwarf had been somewhat reluctant, and much to Fenris’ annoyance he’d had little choice but to spend the better part of his afternoon being persuasive.  But he had the supplies Amelle needed most, and that would doubtless please her, so certainly the effort had been worth it.

Or it would have pleased her had she been in the clinic, but upon climbing the stairs Fenris found the doors closed, the lantern doused.  For a moment, the irritation that had been building all afternoon and evening was swept away by sudden panic, but though it was early for Amelle to be gone, the doors were most assuredly locked and there appeared to be no sign of battle or force.  Panic ebbed away, replaced by chagrin as he chastised himself — of course nothing had happened in his absence.  

 _If anything,_ he thought, letting himself into the clinic and setting the crate on a nearby table, _I ought to be relieved Amelle has — for once — apparently quit before having to be physically helped back to Hightown._ Fenris closed up the clinic again and made his way up the ladder into the Amell wine cellar and onward into the estate proper.  

As he continued upward, a thread of worry began to pull at him.  Amelle had exhausted herself before in his absence.  It was entirely within the realm of possibility that she had done so again.  If Aveline or Merrill or even Orana had come down and found her…

Fenris quickened his pace.

He told himself he was overreacting, told himself he was being foolish, told himself any number of things, but still he hurried up the final flight of stairs and stalked down the hallway that led into the warmth of the house.  He wouldn’t stay long, he decided — just long enough to make certain she was all right, and that nothing had _happened_ to make the clinic’s early closing necessary.

But just as Fenris crossed the threshold of that hall, he stopped.

Voices came from the library.  Laughter.  Amelle’s.  When he drew nearer, expecting to see Orana (or even Merrill; the Dalish elf had something of a gift for making Amelle laugh, he’d noticed) he instead saw Amelle at a long desk, laughing with a man.  As casual and at ease as he appeared, it took Fenris a moment to recognize the templar Knight-Captain out of his armor, and he too was… laughing.  

Fenris turned quickly to leave, but not before he noticed the way they were both leaning forward in their chairs, knees bumping awkwardly.  Sheets of parchment were spread out on the table, but Fenris was too interested in retreating to care what was printed upon them.  As he turned, however, Amelle looked up and saw him.

“Fenris!” she twisted around in her seat, smiling at him.  It was impossible to ignore the way her eyes lit up, and he hated that he noticed such a thing.  “You’re back.  Did you have any trouble?”

Behind her, the Knight-Captain inclined his head and Fenris straightened slightly, meeting that gaze with a steady one of his own.  The other man’s look held no overt challenge, but there was a definite moment wherein Fenris sized him up, and he was certain Cullen had done the same.  Finally he shifted his gaze to Amelle.

“I did not mean to interrupt. I only wished to tell you I’d procured the supplies you needed.”

“Thank you.”  She looked at the window to find it was dark outside.  “Maker, it took you all day?”  Her apologetic wince was immediate as she pushed out of the chair.  “I’m so sorry.  I can’t imagine it was your ideal day, chasing after Varric’s suppliers and bullying them into giving us bandages—”

Keeping his expression neutral, Fenris took a single step back.  “Think nothing of it.  But you are… clearly busy.  I will not keep you.”

As if suddenly remembering the room wasn’t so vacant as Fenris might have liked it to be, Amelle looked back at Cullen, then again at Fenris, seeming to read his irritation with the Knight-Captain’s presence as mere curiosity.  “Oh… Cullen came by earlier to see if he could sense anything in this illness I might’ve overlooked.”

He gave nothing away, either in tone or expression.  “Ah.”

She rocked back on her heels, and he recognized the building excitement in the way she couldn’t quite keep still, the way energy imbued every movement — and in the way she _smiled_ at him.  “We may have uncovered something useful.  It appears the same illness manifests itself differently in children as opposed to adults.  The children develop fevers, but the adults begin to exhibit erratic, even violent, behavior.  I hadn’t thought the two were related, but that seems to be the case.  And with the increased traffic in the clinic, it seems to make the most sense.”

As Amelle spoke, enthusiasm growing, Fenris regarded Cullen steadily.  His own eyebrow twitched, the slightest hint of a challenge.  Amelle continued speaking, entirely oblivious.

“Cullen thinks there may be some books in the Circle library that will help me develop a potion so—”

 _That_ caught his notice and Fenris wrenched his attention back to Amelle, now pacing the library with barely contained excitement.  The _Circle library_?  Was she _mad?_

“Fenris?”  Amelle paused by the fireplace and was watching him closely.  “Are you—”

“You are planning on doing this, then?”

She gestured at the books lining the walls, most of which, he knew, a mage would have had no practical use for. “The resources there outstrip anything I’ve got here.  If I can craft a potion that’ll cure these people and doesn’t give me a nosebleed in the process, all the better.”

“And you expect to gain entrance to the library of the fallen Circle of Magi _how_ , exactly?”  He hated how pointed and almost bitter he sounded; he hated even more the way he noticed Amelle’s almost-imperceptible flinch, the hurt in her eyes.  Instinct screamed at him to apologize and screamed louder at him to _leave._

Cullen shifted slightly in his seat, the creaking wood breaking the silence that had settled over the room.  “I have a number of library access points in mind.  Amelle should be able to get in and out again without notice.”

“And there are no patrols in that portion of the Gallows overnight—”

“Overnight?”  Fenris sent a sharp look Cullen’s way.  To the templar’s credit, which Fenris only grudgingly allowed, the Knight-Captain appeared not to comprehend the full implication behind Amelle’s words until that moment.  He twitched suddenly, his face going red; Fenris found it difficult not to gain the slightest enjoyment in the other man’s discomfiture.

“Yes — so I’ll have plenty of time to research.  I hope.”

“And who will be standing guard while you…” a pointed pause, “…research?”

His question seemed to puzzle her.  “I… had hoped you might consider it, Fenris.  Or better yet, help me search.  Cullen will remain nearby; the Knight-Commander’s office,” she said, gesturing at what he saw now were maps strewn across the table, “is en route to the library.  If anyone’s headed that way, he’ll be able to run interference for me.  Us.  If you decide to come with me.  So… will you?”

It was such a _simple_ request, and yet Fenris felt himself tense.  He was perfectly aware Amelle knew of the… arrangement he and her sister had.  Reading was no longer a mystery, and it was in fact even a pastime he _enjoyed_ , but he was hardly equipped to assist Amelle in any sort of real capacity.  Surely she knew that; Fenris didn’t think she’d have made such a suggestion just to be cruel or to mock him, but…

No, he decided.  If Amelle was suggesting it, she was suggesting it honestly.  

Granted, that didn’t mean he was going to take her up on it.

“I would prefer not.”

Surprise, confusion, then disappointment flashed by in rapid succession, and the last was his undoing.  “…Please?”

Setting his jaw, Fenris turned with a jerk, facing the hearth and closing his eyes against the brightness and heat of the flames.  “ _Festus bei umo canaverum,_ ” he muttered softly under his breath.  She would indeed be the death of him, he was certain.

“Fenris?”  He could feel the warmth of her as she inched closer.  “Was that a y—”

“Yes.  _Fine_ ,” he finally said, turning briskly to face her.  “If you wish it, I will accompany you.”  Despite the brightness of her smile, tension pulled at Fenris’ shoulder blades and he found himself stretching his fingers out simply to keep them from tightening into fists.

“Excellent,” she said, clasping her hands together.  “Tomorrow night, then, after—”

“If you’ll forgive me, Amelle, I must take my leave.  We will speak more on this later.”

Amelle stopped mid-sentence and blinked at him; behind her, the Knight-Captain’s expression remained neutral — maddeningly so.  Without another word, Fenris turned on his heel and left.  

He found he suddenly had the strangest desire to put his fist through a wall.

#

As agreed, Cullen got Amelle and Fenris into the Circle library.  Amelle hadn’t expected it to be easy — and a good thing for that, too.  This was a place people weren’t supposed to be able to break out of, after all.  Breaking _in_ had every reason to be difficult as well.  The plan depended on Cullen adjusting the duty shifts just-so, and then ushering Amelle and Fenris — both of them cloaked, for they were both far too easily identified — through the Gallows courtyard, into Templar Hall, and from there to the library.  Amelle’s heart pounded somewhere in the vicinity of her throat as they darted from corridor to corridor, relying on silent signals from Cullen as he strode along ahead, indicating that they should wait, hide, or _hurry._

It was enough to make Amelle decide— _firmly_ —that espionage was not her forte.  

The library, as promised, was deserted and dark.  Cullen set his lantern down on a table.  “I will only be at the top of the stairs and down the hall should you need me.”

Fenris cast an eye around the room as if planning contingency escape plans.  “Do you believe that’s likely?”

A thoughtful frown creased his forehead.  “I hope not.  But in any event, I will be keeping an eye and ear out.”  He kept his voice low and fixed Amelle with a grave look.  “You should have until dawn, but I urge you, Amelle, not to take that long if you can manage it.”

She nodded.  “I’ll do my best.”

Cullen started to say something, then hesitated and settled for giving her a small nod.  “I… I know you will.”  He turned and started for the door, leaving the lantern behind.

“Cullen, you take that one,” said Amelle, picking up the lantern and offering it to him, letting a light flare to life in her other hand.  “You need it more than I do.”

The templar only shook his head at her.  “Keep it.  Maker forbid, if you get caught, you don’t want to be caught _using magic._ I hardly believe that sort of display would go over well.”

Amelle looked skeptical, but let her own light wink out and she didn’t argue.

Once Cullen left, all was still and dark; no lanterns save one were lit, and the only moonlight managed cut through the gloom poured through high windows in narrow beams.  Even in the dimness, the library at the Kirkwall Circle of Magi was grand, no matter the state of the Circle itself.  

The books of the Kirkwall Circle, most of them ancient, nearly all of them priceless, were housed in a high-ceilinged room with walls stacked from floor to ceiling.  Free-standing bookcases, also impossibly tall and loaded down with books, segmented the large room into aisles.  Dusty step stools were scattered about and ladders leaned against walls, a means to reach those higher tomes.  Amelle stared at it all, trying to take everything in, unable for a moment to comprehend just how _many_ books were kept here.  It was quiet and cavernous as a tomb; Amelle tried to imagine it full of light and people, the sounds of whispers and turning pages filling the air, but that seemed only to enhance the stillness in her own ears and she couldn’t quite control the shiver that went down her spine.  

Amelle picked up the lantern; the flickering light within illuminated the marks of age upon the table — scratches and scorches stood out against the wood and Amelle had to wonder how much of the damage was incidental — spells gone awry, perhaps? — and how much of it was done in that one bloodstained night.  Given the carnage they’d all seen, Amelle dared not think this room or those in it had been spared.  She turned and stepped closer to one of the shelving units when her eye caught a dark splatter against the stones, the room itself giving silent credence to her thoughts.

Fenris’ low whisper broke into her thoughts and Amelle couldn’t say she minded the distraction.  “I hope you know where to begin.” 

She turned to reply, but when she looked over her shoulder at Fenris, she was met with the sight of him bathed in pale, silver moonlight that caught his hair and markings, making them seem as if to glow, even as most of his features were cast in shadow so dark it was nearly black.  Her breath caught and she looked away, quickly, striding to the nearest shelf of books, lifting the lantern, and peering at the titles.  “According to the library index, the herbalism section should be around this area, here.”  She scanned the shelves, looking up… and up and up and up.  “If I understand correctly, every mage is expected to have a basic understanding of potions.  They aren’t going to _hide_ the herbalism books.”  She handed Fenris the lantern and pulled a step stool free, climbing upon it.

“And when you find them?”

Amelle’s hand stilled as her fingers drifted over the dry, smooth leather-bound spines of each book.  “Then the fun starts,” she murmured, pulling one thick, battered book halfway out — _A Compendium of The Arcane by Prymm Bastlock: First Fellow at the College of Magi, Cumberland —_ and slid it home again.  

“…Fun.”

“Well, for a certain definition of fun, I guess.”  Smirking, Amelle looked over her shoulder at Fenris.  “What, do you have a hot date I don’t know about?”

Fenris shot her a glare but said nothing.  Amelle turned her attention back to the books upon the shelves.  “We aren’t looking for necromancy potions or mind control or potions for world domination — we’re looking for something geared toward a healer with an impossible illness to cure.”  Amelle _hoped_ , at least, she was telling the truth and that she wouldn’t discover the only way to cure this particular illness was with a mind-control-world-domination-necromancy-blood-potion.

“How, exactly, did you think I could help you?”

The question took her by surprise.  “What do you mean?”

Fenris didn’t reply right away and Amelle looked down.  He still held the lantern aloft, but was looking somewhere else down and to the side as if lost in deep thought.

“Fenris? What’s wrong?”

His brows knitted together for a moment before he looked up, before he even spoke.  “I am not certain I am the best candidate to assist you in this portion of your search.”

“Do you care to tell me why not?”

The look he shot her was so frustrated and yet so _embarrassed_ that Amelle understood at once and hopped down from the step-stool to face him.  “Maker’s Blood, Fenris — did you honestly think…” she looked up at the books and felt suddenly and intensely foolish.  “That’s… that’s why you didn’t wish to come.”

He inclined his head with a defiant jerk.  “I doubted my usefulness to you.”

“You doubted your…”  It took a few moments for that statement to sink in — surely she hadn’t heard him correctly — and Amelle looked around them again at all the _books._   Together on an errand that required _reading._   She winced, her gut twisting sharply.  Amelle was all too aware of the progress Fenris had made with his reading, and she was all too aware how proud Kiara was of her pupil.  Amelle shared in that sentiment, and yet as she thought over what she’d asked of him — to come with her, here; to help her research…  

“I… I’m sorry.” She clasped her hands in front of her, head bowed.  “It was never my intent to make you feel… uncomfortable.  I… for what it’s worth, I didn’t doubt your usefulness for a moment.”  The look Fenris gave her was incredulous, but she pressed on.  “I… wasn’t intending to present you with anything you couldn’t do, Fenris.”

“Because this is _easy_ to you?”

She flushed harder and shook her head, taking care to keep her voice down.  “No, it’s — I hoped you’d come with me because I knew… I knew you’d keep me from lingering too long, and I knew you’d…” Amelle dipped her head, a self-deprecating smile at her lips, “and I knew you’d tell me the moment someone was coming — I… tend to get rather… lost in things, when I’m reading.  And I knew I could steer you in the right direction if you were _inclined_ to help with the going-through-dusty-dull-books part.  I never — I _would_ never put you in a position to make you feel…”  She flung her hands out in a helpless gesture.  “I’m sorry.  I—it was thoughtless of me.  I apologize.”

Fenris was still for a moment, a sort of preternatural stillness which seemed entirely at home in a room such as this, and Amelle realized even she was holding her breath.  “I… understand,” he finally said.  Amelle let out that breath.  He shook his head briskly and lifted the lantern again, frowning at her in its light.  “Come.  We should not waste any time.”

They found the section on herbalism and potions in good time, referring several more times to the index and finally finding — in neat, but nearly invisible writing — a long-ago note written by a long-dead librarian indicating the entire section had grown too large and would be moved to the west wall.  

The entire west wall.  Amelle looked up and took a step back, then pushed up her sleeves and dragged over a ladder.  “All right.  I’m going to start at the top, and you’re going to start at the bottom.”

“I beg your—”

“Anything with the word ‘Heal’ or ‘Healer’ in the title will do, Fenris.”  He steadied the ladder as she climbed it.  “But as you’ve already pointed out, we’ve limited time, and I need to get started.”

It took no time at all for the two of them working together to collect a pile of books to search through; searching through them, however, was another story entirely.  Amelle found a few promising volumes, which she slipped into her bag, sending up a silent apology to whoever had watched over these books before the world went sideways.

“Amelle.”  Fenris’ voice slipped through the shadows at her and she looked up in time to see him approaching her workspace with brisk, determined strides. 

“Is someone coming?” she breathed, ready to douse the lantern and run for it.  She’d lost all track of time, and only Fenris’ perimeter checks gave her any indication that night was slowly running out.

“I… have found something I believe you will find interesting.”  She lifted her eyebrows at Fenris, silently inviting him to continue.  He looked once over his shoulder then back at her again.  “There is an alcove with locked cabinet housing a number of books.”

Her heart beat a little harder as she swept two more slender tomes into her bag.  “See if you can get the cabinet unlocked — I’ll be along in a few seconds.  We may have all we need, but you’re right: that _does_ sound interesting.  Let me take a look at what you’ve found, and then we can leave.”  

Fenris nodded and vanished into the shadows.  Amelle looked at the books littering the table and fought back a flash of worry.  Nearly everything she’d looked at tonight had _some_ sort of potion to cure fever, but nothing that seemed tailor-made for what she _needed_ right now.  Pursing her lips and frowning hard, Amelle picked up _The Practical Herbalist’s Companion: An Illustrated Glossary of Thedas’ Useful Weeds, Flowers, and Sprouts, by Ines Arancia_ and flipped through it.  She didn’t want to take any book she didn’t absolutely _need_ , but in the event she _did_ have to develop her own potion, it would be invaluable.  

 _Better take it_ , she thought, finally adding that book to the rest and pushing her chair back; the sound of it scraping against the stone floor was loud and jarring enough to make her jump — but what truly sent her heart pounding was the far-off jangle of armor growing closer—

_Please let it be Cullen, please let it be Cullen, please let it be Cullen…_

Dousing the lantern, Amelle looked around wildly and saw Fenris move quickly out from between the stacks —  he’d heard it too; someone was definitely coming — but she waved him back, shaking her head.  Even in the dimness she saw the way his eyes widened as he stared at her and for a terrifying moment Amelle thought for sure either they’d _both_ be caught, or Fenris would have no choice but to shed blood on her behalf — _enough_ blood had been shed in Kirkwall; she would not be responsible for more if she could help it.  Again she waved Fenris back with a furious gesture.  He set his jaw, but nodded, and melted into the shadows once more.

“Hallo!” an unfamiliar voice called out; the voice that belonged to the armor, no doubt.  “Anyone in there?”

Amelle took a silent step away from the table, hoping she might have time to slip back and hide, but the glow of the intruder’s lantern was already easing into the library.  She clenched her sweat-soaked hands around the leather strap of the bag slung across her chest, glad at least she’d left her staff behind.  She took a second step back and willed her heart to stop pounding so.

She’d barely shifted her weight from one foot to the other when a templar in full armor walked in, carrying a lantern much like the kind Cullen had left for her to use.  The templar saw her almost immediately, and she him.  He looked at her for a moment, blinking hard, as if the very last thing he expected to find in the library in the dead of night was a young woman.  It didn’t take long for his surprise to subside, and he arched an eyebrow at her.

“Right then.  Who are you and _how_ in all the Void did you get in here?”

Amelle’s pulse seemed only to race faster as every instinct in her head _screamed_ at her, _Templar!  Templar!  Run! Run! Run!_   Swallowing hard, she took in a deep breath and let it out again.  “I…”

Somewhere behind her, Amelle heard the slow, soft, metallic rasp of Fenris’ sword being pulled carefully from its sheath.  Her pulse sped to a full gallop.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her hands coming together, fingers winding tightly around each other.  “I didn’t—”

“You _do_ know where you are, don’t you?”  At Amelle’s silent, jerky nod, he came a step closer.  “So, who let you in?”  Amelle drew in a deep, shuddering breath, but before she could speak, the templar closed his eyes and tipped his head back.  “Maker’s _breath,_ you’d think they’d learn.  Bloody recruits…”

“I… I’m sorry?” Amelle managed, her voice soft and faintly strangled.

“Listen, whoever it is you’re waiting for—”

There came more footsteps, more clanking, jangling armor, and the fear twisting in Amelle’s gut warred with the shock and incredulity that was surfacing in light of the realization that this templar appeared to be under the impression that she was _meeting_ someone.  She was torn between laughing out loud and running for her life.  But more footsteps meant more templars, and the possibility that a second would be even less amused than the first.

Another lantern came through the open double doors, bringing with it more light.

“What in the Maker’s name is going on in here?”

The templar whirled.  “Knight-Commander!  My apologies for disturbing you, ser, but I have everything under control. I’ve just found this young woman and was questioning—”

The look Cullen gave the other templar was entirely readable.  “You’ve just happened to find a young woman lurking about in the library a week after we’ve removed overnight library sweeps from the duty roster?  What exactly do you take me for, Ser Morten?”

The templar realized at once what Cullen was implying and even in the dim lantern-light, Amelle saw the man go pale.  “By the Maker, Knight-Commander, I give you my word I-I was not the one to… to _lure_ this young woman here for any manner of secret assignation—”

“And yet you seem to know at once that she is _here_ for a secret assignation,” replied Cullen, disapproval clear on his features.  “I am shocked you’d speak so unflatteringly of any young woman, Ser Morten.”

Ser Morten choked.  “B-but I don’t know _why_ she’s here, ser!”

“So you say.  Consider yourself confined to quarters until dawn, at which point you and I will revisit this matter.”  

“Y-yes, Knight-Commander, ser.”

Cullen’s gaze settled on Amelle, his disapproval abating not a single iota.  “And you, young woman.”

She dropped a quick curtsey. “Yes, messere?”

“I highly recommend you take your leave and think heavily upon your actions here tonight.”

The anxiety that made her voice quiver was no act.  “Y-yes, messere.”

Without looking away from Amelle, Cullen cleared his throat pointedly.  “Ser Morten, are you not supposed to be confined to your quarters?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”  

With that, the templar bowed his head and hurried from the library, the scuffing sound of his footsteps and jangling armor growing fainter with every passing second.  Amelle looked over her shoulder, silently indicating to Cullen that Fenris was still in the library.  He gave her only the briefest nod and moved forward, placing a hand upon her shoulder and gently turning her about.

“Now then, young woman,” he began, and Amelle saw him glance over his shoulder in the event Ser Morten was of a mind to return and attempt to defend his wrongly impugned reputation, “I recommend you go out whichever way you came in and be quick about it, for dawn is nearly upon us and surely that is far too late for anyone to be about.”  With that, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and leaned down to whisper in Amelle’s ear:  “Go quickly and for Andraste’s sake, _be careful._ ”

Amelle nodded and rushed into the shadows where she knew Fenris was waiting.  She could see he held something against his chest, and Amelle wondered for a wild moment what he’d found in the locked cabinet, but their time had run out, and whatever it was could wait at least until they were safely ensconced in her own family’s library.

#

Her eyes burned.

The morning sun was now well over the horizon, and Orana had come in with tea and a light breakfast — the sight and smell of any food, however, was enough to make Amelle’s stomach lurch, leaving her feeling queasy.  She declined any food — much to the elf girl’s obvious dismay — but urged Orana to keep the tea flowing, leaving the entire pot if she wished.  There was only so far one could take rejuvenation spells, but the scalding hot liquid did a fair job of jolting awake her sluggish mind.

She turned another page, the rasp of paper loud — louder, even, than the fire burning in the hearth — in the quiet room.  Smothering a yawn, Amelle glanced over at the divan; Fenris had refused to leave until Amelle agreed to get some sleep, but the warmth of the fire and the coziness of the divan had proved an adversary Fenris couldn’t quite defeat.  Amelle had thrown a quilt over him some hours before.  He still slept on.

 _Good,_ she thought, turning another page as she rolled her shoulders.  _At least one of us is getting sleep._

The books they’d brought from the Circle library all turned out to be useful in various ways, but it was the book Fenris had liberated from the locked cabinet was the most promising.  It was a huge, black tome easily four times the size and three times as thick as any normal grimoire.  More than that, it was _old._   It was the sort of book you’d wish to have in your arsenal in the event you had to hunt down an obscure potion to treat an obscure illness.  The cover was ornately decorated, the leather embossed with twisting vines and strange, not-quite-human faces, and each brittle, yellowed page within was covered with handwritten potion recipes using some plants she’d never even _heard_ of — leaving her doubly glad she’d taken the reference text.  

Not that a potion requiring ingredients she’d never seen and could not identify was any sort of improvement, but first Amelle had to find a potion that fit the bill.  Then she could worry about the rest of it — namely the _origins_ of such a book.  Old magic didn’t seem problematic on the surface, but one had only to meet Flemeth a single time to experience a reshuffling of opinions.  Recipes within gave her pause; strange wordings made her wonder.

She yawned again, widely, and turned another page, propping her head up in her hand.  The spidery writing made her sit up and blink, first rubbing and then pressing her fingertips against her burning eyelids only to discover she had in fact read the title correctly:  

_Dragon’s Sight: A Potion For Curing Brain-Sickness._

A rush of sudden energy wiped away her lethargy and Amelle leaned forward, squinting at the ingredients and instructions.  Given that the book was clearly a hand-written heirloom, Amelle imagined the original owner didn’t need much description for what a brain-sickness _was_.  It didn’t sound like the sort of thing one forgot easily.  Maker knew _she_ wouldn’t. Still, she wished for a little more by way of explanation.

It was a potion built and improved upon elfroot potion, which made sense, given elfroot’s natural healing properties.  The recipe also called for a generous measure of spindleweed.  The rest of the ingredients were somewhat more difficult to come by: the pulverized root of Andraste’s Grace, a flower easy enough to find in Ferelden, where it grew wild around every corner, but one Amelle had never _seen_ anywhere since arriving in Kirkwall; the leaves of Harlot’s Blush — Amelle knew where one _used_ to grow, but she’d long since pulled it up and brought it so dutifully to Solivitus; and pollen scraped from five Ozmidiannum blooms.

“Oh, you’re making _that_ one up,” she whispered to the book.  

She ran her finger down the list of ingredients once more — two items she had on hand; one she’d never known to grow in Kirkwall or anywhere else in the Free Marches; one she’d given away for some coin — and how that stung, now — and the final ingredient she’d never even _heard_ of.  But there was no _blood_ in the ingredient list.  Insofar as the directions went, Amelle saw nothing there she couldn’t — or wouldn’t — do.  It was clearly a concentrated potion, using the most potent parts of each plant.

Pulling the Arancia botany glossary closer, Amelle first looked up Harlot’s Blush — rare indeed, as she’d already known, but said to like rocky, arid soil and high elevations.  Where one grew, others were not far behind, and so Amelle made a mental note to return to the Wounded Coast in the very near future.

Andraste’s Grace was a slightly different matter — according to Arancia, the cold and wet climate of Ferelden created ideal growing conditions for the plant.  She sighed, closing her eyes and bowing her head.  _Is anywhere in Kirkwall green and lush and_ wet _?_

But before the question could fully form in her mind, Amelle’s head jerked up, her tired, burning eyes widening.  _The Viscount’s gardens_ , she thought madly, remembering Merrill’s ill-conceived visits to the spot, which she’d rhapsodized about to no end.  Clearly if Andraste’s Grace could thrive anywhere, it would be in a privately tended garden — even if the garden wasn’t precisely _tended_ these days, as far as she knew.  But still worth a look.

Indeed, it would be worth checking all the private gardens in Hightown, but the Viscount’s gardens were walled off and stood the best chance of avoiding destruction after the explosion in the chantry.  The smaller gardens in Hightown were nowhere near their former glory, roses and other blooms either killed by fire and heat or smothered by dust.

Two potential problems with two potential solutions, which only left Ozmidiannum — the final problem ingredient.

Amelle turned again to Ines Arancia’s expertise. 

_Ozmidiannum is a wild-growing, climbing vine so profligate in Thedas, it is viewed by many as a weed to be destroyed, for it chokes and overtakes any vegetation in its path.  Its use as a medicinal herb has been debated largely over the years; though Ozmidiannum is rumored to possess strong — to say nothing of mysterious — medicinal properties, the vine is riddled with thorns enough to discourage all but the most stubborn and determined herbalists.  While reports differ on which part of the vine can be used, it is widely agreed the pollen of the Ozmidiannum bloom is the most potent part of the plant._

_The pollen must be collected while the bloom is on the vine, if it is to be collected at all.  Removing the flower prior to collecting the pollen kills it immediately, rendering the pollen useless._

Amelle sighed.  “Thorny vines and temperamental flowers.  All right.  Difficult but not impossible, so far.”

She read on.

_There is some mystery regarding the flowers themselves, as there appears to be no set schedule upon which they bloom.  They are nearly always a closed bud, as shown in the sketch below.  Lore has it that the plant is sentient, and that whispering it to it what you need will induce it to open.  That has, however, been proven false time and again._

_The vine requires a catalyst to open its buds, though that catalyst has been a matter of some debate among botanists.  My own theory follows, however heavy with anecdotal evidence it may be._

_The buds upon the Ozmidiannum vines bloomed only once I had pricked myself on its thorns.  Thinking this mere coincidence, I turned my attention to another section of vines, along which buds still slept.  After pricking myself on the thorns again, the blooms awoke, petals unfurling immediately.  I repeated this leg of my impromptu experiment several more times, to identical effect.  It is the theory of this botanist that the specific catalyst required for this event is blood.  Whether the event depends on blood itself or merely specific pressure upon the thorny portion of the vine is open to interpretation…_

The article went on and Amelle stared at the words until they went blurry, then very quietly closed the book and rested her head upon folded arms, closing her eyes.  Blood.  Again with the sodding _blood._   _Damn it._

“Amelle.”  Fenris’ voice.  He sounded as if he’d been awake for some time.

“Yes?” she answered, her voice muffled.

“I… apologize.  I did not mean to sleep… quite so deeply.”

“It’s all right.”  Amelle lifted her head and regarded him.  He stood by the divan, the quilt folded neatly at one end, and she wondered just how long he’d been awake and how long she hadn’t noticed.

He seemed to read the question in her eyes.  “I have been awake for some time.  Though not nearly as long as you, I’d wager.”

He was right, of course.  She rubbed briskly at her face. “I’ve found a… possibly viable recipe,” she said, looking down again at the cover of the botany book and telling herself it wasn’t so she could avoid looking him in the eye.

“That is good news, is it not?”

“The ingredients — some of them — might be… difficult to acquire.”

“I see.”

She bit her lip, wanting to move, to stand, to stretch muscles stiff from inactivity and pushed to her feet. “I should…”

“What you should do is get some sleep, Amelle.  Whatever it is, it can wait.”

He wasn’t wrong and Amelle knew it.  Still she shook her head.  “I should at least let Cullen know I’ve found something so he doesn’t think last night’s search was fruitless.”

Fenris’ expression went carefully blank, his eyes cooling slightly and Amelle wondered if Fenris was displeased with her after all about being asked to accompany her on that particular errand.  She had _thought_ he understood she hadn’t intended to make him feel uncomfortable, but perhaps she’d failed in that regard no matter her intentions.  The possibility stung.

“I’ll… just write a quick note—” After a brief search, Amelle found parchment and quills and began scribbling.  “— And I’ll get Orana to deliver it.”  She kept the message short and did not sign it — neither did she bother with sealing wax, choosing instead to simply fold the note into fourths.  “And thank you, Fenris,” she said as she folded the parchment.  “If you hadn’t come with me, I’d never have found that book in the first place.”

“I’m sure you—”

“And I’m sure I wouldn’t have.  So thank you.”

Fenris hesitated, then nodded.  “Do you intend to rest, then?”

“I ought to.”  She grimaced.  “My head feels… fuzzy.  What about you?”

Fenris cast a look at the divan and made a face she couldn’t quite read.  “I have had sufficient rest.  I believe I may call on Aveline—”

“Oh, let me come with you—”

But he was already shaking his head.  “Amelle—”

“No, I want to speak with her — see if she’s noticed anything odd around the city.  I need to get an idea of whether this thing is spreading and how quickly.”

“I will ask on your behalf.  You are clearly exhausted. Do not be foolish about this.”

“I’m _not_ being—” She bit off the heated words, stopping herself; she was tired and her mind was _still_ processing what she’d read about the Ozmidiannum vine, and not liking what she was coming up with.  “Listen,” she began again. “It’s still early.  Aveline’s probably busy with guard meetings and last-minute duty changes. Things will have slowed down later in the morning, and she’ll have patience and time to speak with us.  Why don’t you go home or… something, and I’ll stay here and get a few hours of sleep — then come back for me and we’ll go together.”

It took far longer than Amelle would have anticipated for Fenris to acquiesce, but eventually he gave her a slow nod and left, no matter how displeased he seemed to be about the prospect.

#

Three hours of sleep weren’t much by any estimation, but Amelle found even such a scant amount helped.  Her appetite still hadn’t returned, but she imagined after a brisk walk to the barracks and back again she’d be more than ready for lunch.  Three hours plus a rejuvenation potion and another cup of tea were enough to make her feel human again.  She was, in fact, feeling refreshed and optimistic, particularly after discovering the Dragon’s Sight recipe.  The small matter of collecting ingredients still remained, which cast an entirely different shadow over everything, but Amelle was determined not to let that dampen her enthusiasm.  Indeed, by the time Fenris returned, her spirits were quite lifted. 

She paused a moment by the weapons rack in her room, considering.  She hadn’t had much use lately to carry a weapon around — in a lot of ways, going without a staff was _better_ right now.  In fact, anything that didn’t immediately identify her as a mage was generally better and safer.  And Maker knew she didn’t need a staff to channel her healing energy down in the clinic — in fact using a staff often felt like it achieved the opposite of its purpose when she used her healing energy.  It made things feel… too far away, too distant.  

But Amelle wasn’t going to the Rose or to the clinic; she was going to the Viscount’s Keep.  She perused each and every staff in her arsenal, frowning at them as she examined which runes were embedded in which staff, augmenting which particular feature. Unfortunately, they were all utterly and unapologetically staff-like.

All except one.

The red jewel lashed to the top of the Staff of Parlathan glowed dully as she ran thoughtful fingers along its smooth top.  She remembered carrying that staff and no other during those early days in Kirkwall.  It was almost too powerful for her to manage at first, but she’d come to know the staff, and how best to wield it, allowing it to complement her natural inclination toward fire.  She’d had Sandal infuse it with runes, bolstering its power, and it had remained her favorite weapon over the years, despite the many others they’d found on their journeys.  And with such a blade at the end, it looked very little like any sort of _mage’s_ weapon.

Amelle took hold of the staff, smiling faintly at the warmth and power that hummed against her hands as she handled it, murmuring to the weapon as she placed it upon her back, “If you weren’t an inanimate object and if I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.” 

Fenris was waiting for Amelle in the great room, crouched by Cupcake, who was sprawled happily by the fire as Fenris ran his hand over the short, smooth coat.  Amelle watched the exchange for a moment or two, caught the elf’s faint smile as the animal rolled indulgently onto his back, baring a tummy for scratching.  Amelle felt her own smile form as Fenris huffed a soft breath of laughter and obediently scratched the canine belly presented him.

“Ah, you’re one of the family now,” she teased.

Fenris clearly hadn’t heard her approach, for his entire body started with surprise, his hand jerking back as he stood and turned.  “I… did not hear you,” he said, inclining his head and casting an accusing eye at the stairs she’d just come down, as if they were somehow to blame for Amelle taking him by surprise.

She grinned and descended the last few steps.  “When Kiara comes back, you’ll have to tell her I managed to sneak up on you.  She’ll never believe it.”  Tilting her head, her grin widening, she added, “I hardly believe it myself.”

Several beats of silence passed and Amelle realized that Fenris looked strangely… annoyed.  “I was… preoccupied.”

“Yes.  I saw.”  Amelle looked pointedly at Cupcake, who was looking inordinately put out over having lost Fenris’ attention.  He cleared his throat and straightened, squaring his shoulders.

“If you’re ready, we shouldn’t waste any more time.”

The unspoken implication hung in the air that they’d been wasting time _until_ now stung slightly.  Amelle swallowed against her suddenly-dry throat and adjusted her grip on the banister.  “I’m ready,” she said, the earlier flare of playfulness fizzling out.

“Come, then.  I assured your sister I would watch over you.  No matter what that… entails.”

The longer he stood there, the clearer she saw it — something was… _off_ in Fenris’ demeanor.  He was a far cry from the talkative, easygoing Varric, but right now, standing before her, Fenris seemed strangely … _cold_ even by his usual standards, and Amelle felt an uncomfortable memory wiggle to the surface in the back of her mind, reminding her clearly, almost painfully, of those early days when his anger and irritation with her were much more frequently vented.  She shifted her weight from foot to foot and resisted the urge to fidget.

“Right.  Well.  We probably ought to hurry along.  See if she or the rest of the guard have encountered any… strange behavior?”  _Strange behavior like the sort you’re demonstrating right now?_  

They left in silence and continued onward in silence, and as they made their way to the Keep, Amelle found herself wondering if something was ailing the elf — he hadn’t behaved this coldly toward her for years.  Strange behavior _was_ a hallmark of this illness, evidently, and Fenris was _certainly_ behaving oddly. There was also the chance she’d managed to offend or irritate him without realizing it.  Whatever the problem, _this_ was not the same Fenris who’d met her every morning at the clinic without complaint, handing out potions and quietly standing by as she coaxed illness out of young children, their cheeks unnaturally ruddy with fever.  This was not the same man who’d insisted he _wanted_ to be there with her.

It took the entire trip to the Keep for Amelle to find her voice.  Fenris’ hand was upon the door, preparatory to opening it when she said, “Fenris.”

He stopped, but only barely, making no effort to hide his irritation as he asked, “What is it?”

“I… I’m sorry,” Amelle blurted, pressing her hand against the door just as Fenris tried to open it.  He stopped short and looked at her, nothing in the line of his mouth or the crease between his eyebrows giving anything away.  He just… looked at her, and then rather pointedly at her hand, which she then let slowly drop.

“You are… sorry,” he repeated slowly, his eyebrow lifting only a fraction.  When Amelle nodded, he still gave nothing away.  “For what reason?”

The question made her mind stumble and she bit back what she wanted to say — _I’m sorry for whatever reason it is you’re angry_ — and she discovered, to her horror, _no_ words were forming.  Finally, after far too much hesitation, she managed, “The trip to the library. I’m sorry.  You were uncomfortable with it and… and you went anyway — at my urging —  and I should have been more understanding.  I—”

“Think no more of it. It is done.”

His words did very little to make her feel better and she followed him into the Keep.  “Fenris—”

But anything Amelle may have said was cut off once they stepped inside, only to narrowly avoid a stampede of armored and armed city guards — Donnic leading them — rushing past.  Amelle realized with a sick jolt they were heading up to the barracks and she ran after them a few steps, yelling Donnic’s name.

Aveline’s husband stopped only long enough to identify them, and then continued on.  “There’s _no time,”_ he yelled over his shoulder, shaking his head and starting for the wide staircase _._   “We haven’t any time — _follow me_.”

A brief, bewildered look passed between Fenris and Amelle before they broke into a run after Donnic and the guardsmen, following him — Amelle realized as bile rose in her throat — to the barracks.  They’d only reached the top of the staircase, rushing to the wide double doors on the right, when a noise snapped through the air, sharp enough to make Amelle stumble.  She caught herself at the last, though that did nothing to keep nausea from clenching her gut.  The sound was one she’d never expected to hear in the guard barracks, and one she hoped never to hear again: it was the wound of a whip cracking, each snap followed by the anguished, painful cries of a man.  From the corner of her eye she saw Fenris’ steps stutter slightly.  

They followed the guards into the barracks, but as Amelle passed through the doors, she froze the top of the stair, unable — _unwilling_ — to believe the tableau playing out before her eyes.

Aveline, red-faced and _furious,_ stood over one of her own guardsmen — the man’s name was Renlan, if Amelle recollected correctly — her arm raised. As she swung her arm in a wide, powerful arc, that same horrible, _snapping_ sound filled the room.  So utterly _dumbfounded_ was she at the sight that it took a moment for Amelle to truly comprehend what Aveline was doing:  she was _flogging_ one of her own men.  

The rest of the guard stood by, too horrified, too _shocked_ to step in.  And so clearly someone had sent for Donnic to calm his wife, to speak sense into her.  He was the first to recover his wits despite all unfolding before them, and he began to approach the pair, preparatory — Amelle dearly _hoped_ — to stopping his wife and captain, but when Aveline looked up at him, there was something wrong — something foreign and nearly _rabid_ — in the guard-captain’s usually calm green gaze.  That look alone was enough to make Donnic hesitate.  Amelle didn’t blame him.

“Aveline!” Amelle cried, Donnic’s hesitation galvanizing her to action as she rushed down the rest of the stairs.  “Aveline, what in the Maker’s name are you _doing?_ ”

She looked at Amelle then, but the mage saw nothing but twisted anger in her friend’s face.  Perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip, but whether it was a result of illness or simply exertion, Amelle was not willing to contemplate.  

“I will _not_ tolerate insubordination in my guard,” Aveline snarled, spittle flying from her lips.  “Not from this dog; not from _any of them._ ”

With the guard-captain distracted, there was a slight movement just outside the cluster of guards: Brennan — a friend of Aveline’s since her early days in the guard — began creeping closer.  But the very moment Aveline spied the slightest whisper of movement from the crowd before her, she drew her sword with her other hand, leveling it at Brennan. The rest of the guard stared on helplessly; Aveline was their _captain,_ their _leader_ , and such behavior went beyond the pale.  It was Aveline, and yet it… most certainly _wasn’t._ It was not — _could not_ — be Aveline, her sword trained on the unarmed Brennan, whose hands were up as she slowly skidded forward, her eyes darting between Aveline and Renlan.

“One more step, guardsman, and it’ll be your last.”

With her heart thudding rapidly against her ribs, Amelle exchanged a quick look with Fenris, who sent her a short nod, and began inching toward Aveline while she was distracted by Brennan.  Her target wasn’t Aveline, but Renlan, bleeding and trembling upon the ground. The others could handle Aveline — Maker, she _hoped_ — but Renlan was clearly in pain.

All she needed to was pull him to the safety of his comrades, allowing Donnic and Fenris — and anyone else armed and in control enough of their wits — to deal with Aveline.  But though Amelle’s movement was slight, Aveline whirled away from Brennan, angling her sword now at Amelle.  Fear iced over her insides as she lifted her hands, showing Aveline they were empty.  Amelle was perfectly aware how much of an advantage Aveline had over her — Amelle didn’t have time enough gain enough distance between them so she could pull her staff free.  A paralysis glyph would have been the most useful, but they required a great deal of mana to cast without a staff — a staff she didn’t have the time to draw, and she wasn’t sure she could manage the spell without one, given the state of her spellcasting lately.  Could she summon a glyph, or even a sleeping spell before Aveline could lunge forward with her sword?  It wasn’t a gamble Amelle was willing to take — not with the way Aveline’s face was contorted with mindless fury, her chest heaving with ragged breaths that sounded too much like a growl.

From behind her, Amelle heard Fenris draw his sword.  

Aveline’s lip curled as her eyes darted madly from Amelle to Fenris.  “Are you taking their part, Amelle?  Fenris?  Are you _both_ against me, too?”

“I’m not taking _anyone’s_ side, Aveline,” Amelle said as soothingly as she could.  She took a slow step closer to Renlan, but Aveline lunged and swung as Amelle jerked back — she felt a breeze as the blade passed, just barely missing her. “I’m not taking anyone’s side,” she said again, waiting a moment before making another attempt to creep toward Renlan.  “I’m just here to help.”

“Oh,” Aveline said, fairly baring her teeth at Amelle, “I _know_ your kind of _help._ ”

She was nearly there — nearly within arm’s reach of the beaten man, who was even then trying to inch closer to Amelle, his muscles trembling with effort.  She snuck a calculating look at Aveline, whose eyes were still darting warily between Amelle and Fenris.  When Aveline looked once more at the elf, Amelle rushed forward, grabbing at Renlan’s arms — but Aveline saw and swung into action, her blade coming down with such speed and force it seemed to sing as it cut through the air.  Amelle struggled with Renlan, and she heard the quick shuffle of booted feet as several of the guard moved forward to help, but it was all happening too fast, and she knew — she _knew_ Aveline was quick with her blade.  

But Fenris was quicker.

There was a dark blur and a clash as Fenris’ sword met Aveline’s, giving Amelle and the guards enough time to pull Renlan to safety.  From the corner of her eye, Amelle saw Fenris deftly block every one of Aveline’s attacks.  The more she parried, the more he evaded; the more he blocked every advance, the more Aveline’s face grew red and livid with rage.  Finally, she gritted her teeth and pulled her shield free, letting loose a furious cry that sounded more animal than human as she slammed her shield into Fenris who, once more, evaded the attack.

“I do not _wish_ to fight you, Aveline,” he said over the sound of clashing metal.

“Then what are you trying to prove, Fenris?”

“I am trying to _prove_ nothing; I merely—”

Another ringing clash cut off whatever Fenris was about to say and the two moved around the common area, Fenris evading and Aveline advancing, the guard-captain’s wildly-swinging longsword cutting gouges in the walls.  Amelle closed her eyes and focused her mana, keeping her ears trained on the sounds of metal hitting metal and Aveline’s snarled epithets.  They moved haphazardly through the common area, like some strange, horrible dance, Aveline’s advances growing more erratic — and dangerous — the longer they fought.

The welts on Renlan’s back, though numerous and deep, were quickly healed, at which point Amelle scrambled to her feet, but before she’d fully drawn her staff, before she could gather mana for even the most basic spell, Aveline swung her shield with quite possibly every ounce of force she possessed, knocking aside Fenris’ blade and _lunging_ , her longsword plunging into him, angled just so.  Just below his breastplate.  Surprise spread across Fenris’ features as he took a wobbly step back, sinking to his knees.  He placed a hand over the wound, but it did nothing to staunch the flow.

A wound identical to Sebastian’s.  One that had nearly killed him.

Amelle felt her scream tear from her throat, but couldn’t hear her own voice above the rush of mana.  Mana that had felt nearly depleted before now rushed to the surface and pulsed down to her hands.  Aveline’s strike had somehow jolted the rest of the guard into action — the unarmed rushing to Fenris’ aid, and the armed distracting Aveline with their own swords and shields.  Amelle slammed her staff into the ground, casting two glyphs, one after the other, and faster than she’d ever cast in her life — the first knocked Aveline back against the wall, startling her and knocking the wind from her lungs.  The second _kept her there._  

“What did you do?” Donnic asked, eyes going wide as he stared at his wife struggling against the paralysis glyph.  His gaze held wariness, but Amelle wasn’t sure it was directed at her.

“Put her in time out,” Amelle said through gritted teeth as she turned to where Fenris lay.  She’d seen him injured countless times before, but this time _Aveline_ had done the damage, and that gave such an unreal slant to the incident any detachment Amelle could have hoped to have was washed away by disbelief.  “It’s not going to last, so get her weapons and, for the love of the Maker, she needs to go somewhere she won’t hurt herself or anyone else.”

“What about a cell?” asked Brennan.  

Amelle nodded briskly.  “Yes.  Do it, and quickly.”

The look Donnic gave them both was a mix of disbelief tinged with betrayal.  “You would put her in a _cell_?”

Despite frustration and fear, Amelle kept her voice steady despite feeling as if she were trembling all over.  “It is a temporary measure, Donnic.  _You must._ ”

The guards looked terrified enough to acquiesce, and even Donnic pushed aside his reservations as they led Aveline — strong, brave, kind, _loyal_ Aveline — struggling and screaming out of the barracks.  Her voice, ragged with madness, echoed off the walls, the sound ringing in Amelle’s ears long after they were gone.  She gave her head a shake and scolded herself — _can’t think about that now_ — and turned her attention to Fenris.  Another breath of mana called the healing magic forward, and the blue light was already glowing to life as she dropped to her knees next to him.  A  quick-thinking guard — Brennan, Amelle distantly realized — pressed a bedsheet snagged hastily from the guards’ quarters against the wound. 

“You’re all right,” Amelle whispered to him, trembling hands blue with light, so _much_ light that threads of it were starting to twist and twine up her arms.  “You’re going to be all right.”  Normally the rush of magic was enough to steady her hands, but she could see the way they still shook and she worked harder to calm herself, to steady them.  “You’re going to be just fine, Fenris, I promise…”  _Maker, please.  Please be all right.  Please.  Please._   The threads of blue light grew brighter, glowing as high as her shoulders.

_Please._

Brennan pulled away the bedsheet and Amelle placed both hands over the wound as Fenris’ blood, hot and slick, covered her hands.  She closed her eyes tightly against the sight of it.  _Don’t look,_ she told herself.  The feverish thought ran through her head, over and over again, like an echo. _Just heal him.  Focus.  Heal.  He’s been hurt worse than this.  You know he has been.  You can fix this. You_ can.  _He’s going to be fine.  Just focus.  Think.  Breathe._

But behind closed lids, Amelle saw Sebastian, who’d been left to bleed out far longer than this — his blood had pooled beneath him, slowly creeping outward like a grisly tide coming in.  Her eyes flew open and the magic flaring at her hands grew brighter, the hotcold thrum of it tingling down to the tips of her fingers.  She felt the wound begin to acquiesce under her ministrations, knitting back together, torn flesh mending from the inside working out and, rather than seeing Sebastian’s pale face, she focused on Fenris’ tanned one, until she felt the topmost layer of skin once again whole and smooth beneath her fingers.  There was only the faintest red line where the sword had entered, but that too would fade — the chances it would scar were slim; there had been no poison on Aveline’s blade, and Amelle had tended Fenris immediately. 

She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, bowing her head.  “There.”

Fenris sat up, placing a hand over where the wound had been, an unreadable expression flickering across his features as he fingered the tear in his jerkin.  

“Better?” 

“Yes,” replied Fenris quietly, pushing to his feet.  “Thank you.”

For as long as Amelle could remember, Fenris had always seemed so strangely awkward after receiving healing.  She wasn’t sure if it was some lingering dislike of magic he couldn’t quite reconcile, or if he was simply annoyed with himself over needing to be healed at all.  Something about it was almost… charming, and she would have smiled had Fenris’ blood not been drying stickily upon her hands, had Aveline not only moments before been dragged kicking and screaming from the barracks after attempting to mortally wound him.

“I hope to the Maker you’ve got some idea what’s done that to the captain,” Brennan said, getting to her feet and frowning up the stairs leading out of the barracks.

“I know _something’s_ going around,” replied Amelle.  “It seemed to have been sprouting up in Darktown and Lowtown, mostly, but this… this is a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one,” Fenris added.  He turned his attention to Brennan.  “Have the guard noticed instances of strange behavior on their patrols?”  

Brennan’s expression told all.  “We thought at first it was just people feeling the… stress, after everything.  A whole city, trying to deal with all of that?  It’s worse than it was after the Qunari — and you remember how bad _that_ was.”

Amelle made a face.  “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

Brennan gave a commiserating nod.  “At first it seemed like we were just breaking up a few more brawls than usual.  Nothing that strange at The Hanged Man, as well you know.  But then there were strange things — one of the potion merchants in the bazaar—”

“Maker, tell me it wasn’t Elegant,” asked Amelle.

“The very same.  She went mad, screaming at the trinket merchant that she was selling some of Elegant’s potions.  But poor Linnie just sells what people bring in for trade — couldn’t say whether it was really one of Elegant’s potions or not.  It was just a little bottle of elfroot potion anyway — hardly the sort of thing Elegant could’ve claimed as proprietary.  But she still went mad over it — tried to claw Linnie’s eyes out.”

Fenris asked, “Where’s Elegant now?”

Brennan cast a doleful look in the direction the other guards had taken Aveline.  “Still in one of the cells.  She’s got plenty of company.”

Amelle and Fenris exchanged a look and Amelle felt a sick twist of fear in her gut the moment the next question formed in her mind.  “Have any of the other guards been acting strangely?”

“A fair few,” Brennan answered.  “Captain was beside herself with it — when she started in on Renlan, a few of us weren’t surprised.  He’d been blowing off duty shifts, so it was just a matter of time until he got a dressing down, but…” she shook her head.  “None of us expected that.”

“And still you did nothing to stop her,” remarked Fenris.

“That’s why we sent for Donnic.  Figured he could talk sense into her if anyone could.  She was armed and no one wanted to risk Renlan getting hurt worse than he already was.”

Guardsman Brennan departed for her own shift shortly thereafter, leaving Amelle and Fenris alone in the barracks common area.  The blood was now nearly dry on her hands and had begun flaking off her nails.  She frowned down at them.  “Something is _very_ wrong here, Fenris.”

“I concur.  You… said the Knight-Captain could… sense this illness in the adults?”

“More clearly than I could,” answered Amelle.  “I haven’t figured out _why.”_

“Right now the reason why matters little.  If he can, then he should be brought to see Aveline.”

“I agree.”  She sighed, began to pinch the bridge of her nose, but upon catching sight of it, let her hand drop suddenly and turned, starting up the stairs.  Without a word, Fenris did the same, keeping pace with her the whole while.  

Why did this have to happen while Kiara was gone? _Why?_   And Aveline — why _Aveline?_   Of all the people in Kirkwall for _this_ to happen to—

Fenris’ voice cut into her thoughts.  “Amelle, stop.”

Her body stopped, but her mind kept churning.  How in the Maker’s bloody name was she going to fix this?  And there was no other option — she _had_ to fix this.  Kiara was long gone and Amelle didn’t have the first idea of how to contact her.  And even if she could get in touch with her sister, what in blighted blue blazes was Kiara supposed to do about any of this from bloody Starkhaven?  No, if Aveline was compromised, then the _guard_ was compromised — and they were compromised _right now_ ; there was no _time_ for letters and couriers and crying to her sister.  Because without the city guard, the remaining option for law in Kirkwall fell to the templars _,_ and no matter her opinions about Cullen, Amelle dared not think of Kirkwall under templar control for any extended period of time, even with Cullen commanding the ranks.  No, _she_ had to do something.

“We have to do something,” she blurted, turning to Fenris.  “We…” she looked down at her hands, still red with Fenris’ blood.  Her whole _dress_ showed evidence of battle — there were smears up her sleeves and across the bodice; even her skirt was stained red-brown, as if she’d been kneeling in blood, which was entirely possible.  The wild fear that had sliced through her breast at the sight of Fenris on Aveline’s sword surged up again and she pushed it down resolutely, setting her jaw.  “We have to do something.”

“Agreed.  What do you suggest?”

“The Gallows,” she answered promptly.  “Cullen can sense something about this illness that I can’t.  He’s the best person to look in on Aveline right now.”

Raising a dark eyebrow at her, Fenris asked sharply, “And what do you hope to accomplish by barging into Templar Hall?  Though you may have an… association with the Knight-Captain, charging into the Gallows is—”

“ _To the Void_ with the templars,” she interrupted, her voice low.  “Aveline is _sick._   This illness is _spreading._ ”

“Going directly into the belly of the beast is unwise,” he countered, shaking his head. “There are yet templars who stood alongside Meredith.  We have been given no reason to believe otherwise.  Should you go directly to Templar Hall, you may find yourself no longer in a position to help Aveline, or anyone else.”

She frowned.  Fenris was right, of course.  “All right,” she said, glancing again at her bloody hands and then folding her arms across her breast to hide them.  “You go to Templar Hall and bring Cullen back here.  Have him look in on Aveline and whoever else they’ve got in the cells so far.  If they’re all the same _type_ of sick, it… may help me figure out how to treat them.”

Fenris nodded once.  “Very well.”

“In the meantime…”  She drew in a breath and blew it out.  “In the meantime, I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

“You truly believe you’ve found a viable potion?”

“I’ve found… a possible possibility,” she answered.  “I’m going to keep looking in the event we need a contingency plan.  Merrill can keep an eye on the clinic — she’ll come and find me if anything’s disastrously wrong.” She glanced down at her bloodstained clothes.  “ _More_ disastrously wrong.”

Nodding once more, Fenris turned to leave and pushed open the door, then hesitated as sunlight streamed in.  Turning his head without quite _looking_ at her, he said, “Do not overtax yourself.”

“Maybe I’ll even get some sleep.”  But Amelle doubted that was anything more than a remote possibility.

“That… would be wise,” Fenris replied, heading into the daylight and jogging down the stairs before she could say another word.  

Amelle watched him go, a new frown pulling at her brow as she wondered just how far the illness had already spread.  

 _No time to worry about that right now,_ she chastised herself, stepping out into the blinding sunshine.  Blood-spattered as she was, Amelle noticed more than a few people trying not to stare, and even more than that making no such effort at all.  She shook off the discomfiture.  

 _No time to worry about that, either._   _Too much work to do, not nearly enough time to do it._


	38. Chapter 38

Although Kiara suspected Varric and Isabela’s notion of “checking the lay of the land” actually translated to something more accurately called “pub crawl”—especially after two weeks at sea—she let them go. She and Sebastian sat in the inn’s dining room, devouring food every bit as delightful as they’d imagined in their wild fancies aboard ship. The innkeeper even managed to find her strawberries, which she ate with a gratitude bordering on hysterical. They weren’t as good as the Hercinian berries, perhaps, but they didn’t fall _too_ short of the ideal. Sebastian smiled and pushed his portion across the table.

Afterward, bellies full to distended, they settled into a comfortable sort of silence. Without even the entertainment of many other patrons to eavesdrop on, at last Kiara said, “I was wondering…”

“I’m really not going to run off to the palace and demand an audience, if that’s what you’re worried about. It… hasn’t been safe for me to do so for a very long time, Hawke. I’m willing to wait for Varric to do the information gathering he does so well. I had reason to fear I’d only be able to retake Starkhaven at the head of an army.”

She raised an eyebrow at his defensive tone. “I wasn’t going to ask about that.”

“My injury feels fine. All but recovered. Surely you’ve seen that for yourself—”

Kiara’s cheeks heated when she remembered how intensely she’d worried about him only weeks earlier. Sebastian was, indeed, much recovered, and had even begun practicing with his bow in recent days. “I wasn’t going to ask about that, either.”

“You… weren’t.”

She shook her head, not quite willing to meet his gaze. “I was… maybe it sounds… I was wondering if you might take me to the chantry. Show me where it is.”

Incredulous, he echoed, “The… chantry.”

Kiara traced the grain of the wood with a fingertip, following its swirls and knots. Swallowing, she nodded and looked up at him. His brow was furrowed in confusion. “Yes,” she replied. “I have respects to pay.”

She didn’t miss the subtle flinch, but he nodded, she paid, and they stepped out into the streets he knew well and she didn’t know at all.

After the first few minutes, Kiara couldn’t help noticing Sebastian’s agitation. He walked quickly, eyes constantly scanning, the crease between his brows only deepening the farther they traveled. The city itself was beautiful, all white buildings and graceful streets and squares with fountains, but an air of neglect lingered. Piles of refuse dotted the squares. Market stalls were shuttered tight, and the streets were oddly quiet. The few townsfolk they passed kept their eyes firmly on the ground before their feet.

Though she’d been afraid someone might recognize Sebastian, even in his nondescript clothing, the fear was allayed somewhat by the fact that no one so much as looked at them when they passed.

Softly, Kiara asked, “I know you said Starkhaven’s no Kirkwall, but… is this _normal_?”

His expression was dark and his tone even darker when he replied, “Not in the slightest.”

When they turned the corner and Kiara saw the great white walls of the Starkhaven chantry rising toward the blue sky, she couldn’t help the pang of dismay that struck her. It was nothing to do with too-empty, too-quiet streets and everything to do with remembering a rush of red magic obliterating the sky. Sebastian was halfway up the steps before he noticed she had not followed, and when he looked back at her, she saw her own pain echoed in his expression.

The chantry was empty when they entered it. This, too, gave her pause. Since her arrival in the Free Marches she’d heard Starkhaven spoken of as a pious place, so the lack of worshippers struck her as odd. Even with all Kirkwall’s flaws, with its seedy underbelly and its murky world of slavers and politics and mages and templars, she’d never seen the Kirkwall chantry as empty as this one. She wrestled with sudden tears when she looked toward the altar and only the lonely statue of Andraste looked back; for half a heartbeat she’d imagined she would somehow see Grand Cleric Elthina smiling down at her.

“Sebastian?” she asked.

Even in Kirkwall’s chantry there had always been noise—templars speaking to one another, brothers and sisters moving about their business and talking of the day, worshippers murmuring prayers—but the Starkhaven chantry was _silent._ That she could not hear even one voice raised in the Chant was more distressing than she had words to admit.

“I don’t understand it.” His voice emerged troubled, and oddly loud in the all-pervasive silence of the vestibule. “I… perhaps I did not spend as much time here as I ought to have done when I was young, but I have never seen it like this.”

Kiara was just about to explore further— _someone_ had to be around, after all—when a nervous young sister appeared from the upper floor. She was very pale, and her reddish hair was unbrushed. She glanced at them only quickly before fixing her eyes carefully on the ground at their feet. When she spoke it was hardly louder than a whisper, and the words emerged so mumbled Kiara had to strain to make them out.

“You are… welcome to the chantry of Starkhaven. The… the Maker’s blessings upon you both.”

Stunned, Kiara realized the woman sounded petrified, and a little as though she’d drawn the short straw in having to speak with them at all. Nothing about the tone was welcoming, and Kiara fought the urge to immediately turn and leave. Before Sebastian could speak and give himself away by his accent, Kiara’s hand darted out and closed tightly around his wrist.

“Thank you, Sister. We have only just arrived in Starkhaven,” Kiara said, trying not to cringe as the silence threw her words back at her in an eerie echo. “Your… welcome is appreciated.”

The sister raised her eyes but only long enough to glance around shiftily, as if expecting something to burst from the walls at any moment—an abomination, an army, Andraste herself. She looked so edgy Kiara could hardly keep from feeling jumpy herself.

“I must admit,” Kiara said, “I am… unfamiliar with the city’s customs. It seems quiet.”

“Oh,” the sister said. “Aye. Of course. _Of course_. You are not from here. That makes… Well. Aye. It is a… special day. Though of course you would not know.”

“Like a feastday?” Kiara asked, dubious. “Where I come from feastdays are noisier, not…” She drifted into silence, and a gesture the sister did not look up to see took in the empty expanse of the chantry.

Sebastian shook his head, a muscle in his clenched jaw jumping.

“You are unfamiliar with our customs. As you said. Perhaps… perhaps it is best you leave.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows sharply. “Leave the chantry? Are we not welcome to pray here?”

The sister looked up then, meeting Kiara’s baffled gaze. The woman’s eyes were bright with fear. Adamantly, she whispered, “Leave the _city_.”

Kiara very nearly reached out to the woman, but the sister wrapped her arms tightly around herself and glanced away again. “Why?” Kiara asked. “Is there something wrong? Perhaps something a… concerned visitor might help with?”

The sister laughed nervously, and took a backward step toward the altar and its lonely Andraste. “Oh, no. Nothing wrong. You’ve happened upon a day of… prayer. That’s all. It’s bound to be quiet. On a day of prayer.” As if realizing the ridiculousness of her words, the sister glanced around the empty nave. Stuttering slightly, she added, “A-all residents of the city are encouraged to… to stay home. To p-pray. On this day.”

Kiara felt Sebastian tense the instant before he spoke.

“You are _lying_ , Sister. Before the very eyes of Andraste? In the house of the Maker Himself? My friend may be unfamiliar with Starkhaven’s customs, but I assure you I am not, and I have never known the city to hold a day such as the one you’ve dishonestly described just now.”

The sister visibly cringed at the sound of Sebastian’s voice—the Starkhaven accent was unmistakable, of course. Then the woman looked at him—truly looked at him—for the first time. Her eyes widened and whatever faint color her cheeks had held completely drained away. Shaking her head, she stumbled another step backward, nearly falling. “Those _eyes_ ,” she gasped. “Are _all_ the Vaels come back from the dead?”

Then, without preamble, she fainted. Sebastian managed to catch her before her head hit the stones.

“What in the Maker’s _name_ is going on here?” he growled.

No one answered, of course. The woman stirred almost at once, but squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she looked up and saw Sebastian hovering above her. “Please,” she begged. “Please, go. Before they come. Before they take me. Please. Before they think it’s me who raised you.”

“Before who—?” Kiara began, but before she could finish, the sister shakily got to her feet and stumbled away. Before Sebastian could follow, Kiara shook her head. “No,” she said. “The poor woman’s terrified. Leave her be. Let’s… let’s see if Varric and Isabela have learned anything we can use to make sense of this.”

For a moment Sebastian looked prepared to argue. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gave a reluctant nod and they left, followed by the sound of their own footsteps on the flagstones, echoing in the chantry’s silent rafters.

#

Apart from the silent streets and the terrified sister and the empty chantry, Kiara knew something was wrong—terribly, horribly wrong—because Sebastian was drinking. Sebastian _rarely_ drank. She suspected it had a great deal to do with the role alcohol played in his oft-alluded-to but rarely-explained-in-detail wild years. Even on the rare occasions Sebastian joined them for a night at The Hanged Man, he might play a hand or two of cards, but he rarely took more than a single glass of wine over the course of the evening.

It wasn’t even that he was drinking copiously, or that he was in any way drunk: he wasn’t. But upon their return to the inn, his first action was to order a bottle of wine from the innkeeper, pour himself a glass, and begin drinking it. For ten minutes, Kiara watched him slowly sip the ruby liquid. He said nothing at all—not a single word—but his face darkened and his brow furrowed and he… _drank_. She watched a war rage across his face, and was afraid because she did not know the stakes, or even which sides were fighting for dominance.

Kiara helped herself to a glass of wine from his bottle and sat down opposite him. For another ten minutes, they nursed their respective drinks in absolute silence.

After a time, he finally looked up at her and asked, “Why would she _lie?_ So blatantly? So _badly_?”

Kiara shrugged a little helplessly. “Fear makes people do… strange things, Sebastian. And she was clearly terrified.”

Shaking his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Of what?_ Even the coup that killed my entire _family_ did not silence the streets or empty the chantry.”

“We’ll figure it out—”

Sebastian’s voice rose to drown hers out, “And a Chantry sister! Starkhaven is a pious place. To see the _chantry_ empty? To see its people too frightened to turn to Andraste? To hear lies fall from the lips of the Maker’s servants? It is an _atrocity_ , Hawke.”

After a fortifying gulp of wine, Kiara said, “Perhaps… perhaps it is only distress about… about what happened in Kirkwall.”

Sebastian pushed his glass away and put his head in his hands. “Perhaps. Perhaps it is only that. Perhaps it is only… repercussions.”

She said gently, “We knew there would be.”

Peering up at her, the torment in his eyes was all too visible. “But where is their leader, Hawke? Who reassures them?”

“Sebastian…”

Slamming his fists to the table, the bottle of wine wobbled but remained upright. His glass was not so lucky and it tumbled, shattering, as a red stain spread ominously across the white tablecloth. “Something is _wrong_ here. Something is beyond wrong. This is not the Starkhaven I know. This isn’t even the Starkhaven I saw under Goran. It is _wrong_.”

The innkeeper waddled over, looking around nearly as shiftily as the poor sister in the chantry had done. In a very quiet voice, he said, “I’m afraid I… have to ask you folks to clear out.”

Baffled, Kiara huffed an incredulous laugh. “I’m sorry?”

“Can’t have this kind of thing,” the innkeeper said, though his wave took in nothing more serious than the spilled wine. “Can’t have the attention.”

Strangled, Sebastian half-rose from his seat, “ _Attention_?”

Kiara reached across the table and covered his fist with a soothing hand; after a moment he subsided and sat again, though his expression remained rather closer to murderous than serene.

She said evenly, “It was an accident, serah. We’ll replace the glass. I’ll even clean the mess, if I can borrow a rag.”

The innkeeper rubbed his hands against his apron and shook his head. “Can’t do it. Like I said. Afraid you folks gotta leave. Now, if you please.”

Kiara tilted her head and fixed him with one of her more persuasive glares. “We’ve paid through the week, serah.”

The innkeeper was having none of it. He shook his head again, this time more firmly, and crossed his arms over his substantial chest. “And I’ll gladly return the coin. I-I just can’t have you here. It’s not safe.”

Sebastian’s fist was trembling under Kiara’s hand, and anger brought high color to his cheekbones. “Do you have any idea who you’re—”

The innkeeper interrupted before Sebastian could finish, “I do, messere. It’s—forgive me, but it’s why you need to go.”

Through gritted teeth Sebastian growled, “You would dare insult the rightful—”

And this time it was Kiara’s turn to interrupt. Fixing Sebastian with a look positively drenched in meaning—where the meaning ran something like _shut up right now_ —she said pointedly, “Ahh, forgive him. He _doesn’t know what he’s saying._ ”

It was the pointedness that brought Sebastian’s gaze up to meet hers, and whatever he saw there silenced him at once, though his color remained high and his anger was barely— _barely_ —held in check.

“Perhaps we have had enough,” she said to him, before looking once again to the innkeeper. “Forgive us, serah. We will be out of your hair momentarily.”

Not quite trusting him—or his anger—to be left alone with the evasive innkeeper, Kiara dragged Sebastian behind her as they retreated above stairs to gather their belongings. After a brief internal debate, she also gathered Varric and Isabela’s things—the man downstairs seemed unlikely to allow _anyone_ connected with them to stay in his establishment, and she didn’t trust him not to simply abandon the packs as soon as they were out the door.

She made a point of getting the full amount of coin back from the damp-palmed innkeeper, and he cringed away from her when she glowered.

Just as they moved to exit, the door pushed inward and Varric and Isabela spilled into the taproom. By their flushed cheeks and bright eyes, their mission appeared to have met with some success. Varric, however, noticed them right away, and his brow furrowed as he took in their faces, the piles of packs, and the discomfited innkeeper.

“Don’t tell me,” he groaned. “We’ve got to go back to the sodding boat.”

Kiara grimaced; she was no more looking forward to a return to the gently rocking beds on board than Varric. “Might be the best place to regroup, yes.”

Varric sighed, plucked his pack from Kiara’s arms, and swung it over his shoulder. Once they were outside, he asked, “Do I want to know what you did back there?”

“Nothing,” snapped Sebastian. Kiara glanced at him, but he was not looking at her. His gaze scanned the empty streets, as though expecting an ambush.

Isabela snorted. “ _Nothing_ doesn’t get you barred from respectable establishments, Princess.”

Kiara shook her head. “What did _you_ learn? Other than how ale tastes in Starkhaven, of course.”

It was telling that Varric didn’t so much as smile. “Honestly?” he said. “I think we have trouble.”

“I _know_ we have trouble. What variety?”

“Oh, the standard. Terrified town, grumpy government, mysterious mysteries.”

“Mmm,” Kiara murmured. “Sounds something like the trouble we encountered. Although ours got Sebastian recognized in the chantry by a lay-sister. And we got kicked out of the inn. As you see.”

Isabela gasped. “We didn’t _seriously_ get kicked out of the inn, did we?”

Kiara raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re carrying around all our worldly possessions for fun?”

Isabela shrugged. “You do have strange notions of fun, Hawke.” She kicked at a stone that had the misfortune of being in the path of her foot. “Dammit. I didn’t even get to have _dinner._ ”

Kiara watched as every word from Isabela’s mouth wound Sebastian tighter; his face was a thundercloud and his right hand clenched and unclenched at his side. Lightly, Kiara said, “Perspective, please, Isabela.”

“Screw perspective. I’m _hungry_.”

To Kiara’s surprise, it was not Isabela who bore the brunt of Sebastian’s anger when he finally snapped. “Why did you stop me back there, Hawke? He would not have acted so… so _impertinently_ had he known my identity.”

Kiara sighed. “Really, Sebastian? And you think that’s the wisest, most level-headed course of action to take just now? You’re absolutely ready to declare yourself and deal with the consequences? Because I assure you I am _not._ ”

Behind Sebastian, Isabela nudged Varric with one elbow insistently. “You owe me five sovereigns, Fuzzy.”

Varric whistled. “Does someone hear a Rivaini speaking? Or is it just a gull squawking? So hard to tell the difference.”

“Nice try. You can’t wiggle out of this one.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “You said you liked it when I wiggled.”

Isabela almost blushed. “I _said_ less than a day. You gave it two. Obviously I win. Pay up.”

Kiara winced. “Dare I ask?”

Isabela rolled her shoulders and smirked. “Just a little wager on how long the pretty princess would be able to stay incognito, of course.”

Sebastian rounded on the pirate, jabbing a finger in her direction. It didn’t quite land, but Isabela’s face went carefully blank, and Kiara feared—just for a moment—she would be called upon at any moment to break up a duel. “These are my people!” Sebastian shouted. “This is my _home_! Is this a _joke_ to you?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Isabela jutted out her chin and stood her ground. “I sure as shit wish it  _was_. You think I don’t know hostility when I see it? There’s a reason I avoid half the ports in Thedas and this kind of animosity is pretty much it. With one  _little_  difference. Here?  _I_  didn’t earn it. So either you haven’t been straight with us, at which point I think it’s about time we cut our lines and run for the sea, or there’s something big and shitty going down.” Isabela gestured toward Kiara with a thumb. “I can already tell  _she_  thinks it’s the latter. And we all know what  _she_  does when she thinks there’s something big and shitty going down—she sticks around to get to the bottom of it, regardless of how much it stinks. So, Princess, might I suggest you kindly pull your head from your arse and stop shouting at the people who have your back. Save it for someone who deserves it. And just in case you're feeling particularly  _stupid_  today? That’s  _not me_. Far as I see it? I’ve been busting my balls for you for  _weeks_.  _This_ is how you repay me? Andraste’s  _tits_! You’re lucky I didn’t throw you overboard back at the Wounded Coast.”

Sebastian visibly deflated, and the color staining his cheeks was now clearly embarrassment. Isabela’s smirk broadened as she tossed her hair and led the way toward the docks without bothering to wait for a response. There was even more of a swagger than usual in the pirate’s hips, now, and Kiara found herself almost smiling.

Varric blinked. “That was… so hot.”

Amusement, however, did not last long. As they approached the docks, all the hairs on the back of Kiara’s neck rose and she found herself torn between drawing her bow and keeping it safely at her back—no one had threatened them yet, and she didn’t want to be the first to draw blood and make enemies. Too much relied upon their keeping a low profile. The ship was docked where they’d left it, sailors climbing in its rigging.

Sailors. Kiara shook her head and blinked, as though blinking might change what her eyes saw. The people crawling all over the ship were not Isabela’s hired crew; they moved too loudly, too awkwardly. And they wore uniforms.

Isabela bristled, reaching up over her shoulders to loosen her knives in their scabbards.

“Isabela,” Kiara warned. “Only if provoked.”

“What more provocation can there be? There are _strangers_ touching my _ship._ ”

Varric patted the back of Isabela’s hand. She slapped his sympathy away and he grimaced. “Hawke’s right, Rivaini. Won’t be able to do much if we’re locked in cells. It’s looking a lot like we’re outnumbered.”

Kiara was glad she didn’t know the meaning of the curse Isabela uttered; even the sound of the syllables on her tongue was particularly vile. Perhaps alerted by the commotion, one of the guards separated himself from the others and approached them warily. His eyes glanced over each of them in turn before landing squarely on Sebastian. Sebastian, Kiara was pleased to notice, kept his own gaze downcast.

Nevertheless, the guard directed his attention to Sebastian and called, “You there! Is this your ship?”

Isabela scoffed and swaggered forward, hands on her hips. “You’re walking the wrong plank there, sweetheart,” she declared. “It’s _my_ ship.”

The guard immediately drew his sword, his stance ready. “Then by the authority of the Royal Guard of Starkhaven, you, serah, are under arrest.”

Raising her hands defensively, Isabela shifted a step backward, away from the gleaming blade. Kiara almost groaned—she knew very well how often Isabela used the gesture of false surrender to bring her hands closer to her own blades. “Did I say _my_ ship?” Isabela demurred. “I meant his ship. It’s his ship.”

Isabela’s hands inched a little closer to the hilts peeking over her shoulders.

“No,” snapped Kiara, raising her hands in more genuine surrender. “Hold. That’s an order.”

The first guard startled, and the point of his sword shifted slightly. He’d clearly underestimated her worth in the hierarchy. Before Isabela could land them all in a mess of trouble, the guard called out and several of his fellows joined him.

Isabela scowled, but didn’t move any farther toward her blades. Sebastian shot a wary glance Kiara’s way and Varric looped his thumbs through his belt, feigning nonchalance.

Kiara cleared her throat and asked, “Excuse me, ser. Could you… explain the charges?”

The look he gave her indicated he clearly thought her insane. Or stupid. “This is a pirate’s ship,” he said.

“But… the charges?”

Disconcerted, the man’s blade wavered. “Pirate? Ship? I… would think it’s… pretty self-explanatory.”

Kiara tapped her lips thoughtfully with one fingertip. “Well, ser, although I do appreciate the position you find yourself in—duty, and all—you’ve actually got no evidence we have anything to do with this boat.”

“Maker’s balls, _ship_ ,” Isabela hissed.

The guard opened his mouth to speak, frowned, and scratched his head with one hand. “We were told to look out for a vessel matching this description. Which one of you is the pirate Castillon?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Isabela gasped. “Castillon.” 

Kiara affected a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and replied, “None of us, ser. We’re honest folk.”

Isabela’s lips trembled with barely contained mirth, and Varric took to examining the boards of the dock very closely.

Continuing blithely, Kiara added, “We’re simply here to take in the sights of Starkhaven. You have some… very nice… fountains.”

“You’re… tourists?”

“ _Exactly_!” Kiara cried, with a bright smile. “Tourists!”

The guard was not quite taken in. His eyes narrowed, lingering overlong on Isabela’s outfit—no surprise there—and then on Bianca. Kiara tried to make herself small and unthreatening, widening her eyes and shrugging.

“From?”

“Ferelden,” she replied at once.

Kiara knew the moment the guard decided they posed no threat. His stance shifted subtly and a faint smile cracked his stern demeanor. Though he didn’t go quite so far as to sheathe his blade, his posture was more at ease. “Whereabouts? I’ve got a cousin down Denerim-way. Told me he saw the Hero once.”

Isabela cocked a brow. “Your cousin ever frequent a fine establishment called The Pearl?”

“The… Pearl?”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t know him.”

Before the guard could follow this thought too far into confusion, Kiara said easily, “We’re just off to meet our friends, ser. May we go?”

A stern expression replaced some of the momentary affability. “Sorry. Don’t know about _that_. I mean, this is still a pirate ship.”

“Distinctly lacking in pirates,” Kiara remarked. “Did you find contraband aboard?”

“Well, not as such…”

“Slaves?”

The man flushed slightly and said sheepishly, “Ahh, no. Messere.”

But Kiara was far too amused to let it rest. “Vast stores of illegal lyrium? Orlesian chocolate? Jewels from Orzammar? Ooh, the queen of Antiva?”

A second guard piped up, his voice hesitant but nonetheless certain he might have damning evidence. “Uh, I, uh. I found some lacy underthings, ser. Belowdecks. Fancy ones.”

“Dammit,” Isabela cursed. Varric glared at her, and even Kiara could parse the dwarf’s meaning. It was very clearly a _shut up_.

Evidently oblivious, Isabela whispered furiously, “Well, I looked _everywhere._ And they were _expensive._ ”

Kiara wanted to glare at her too, but instead she only smiled harder at the confused guards. Her voice was calm and even a little amused as she asked, “Are… underpants a crime? Even… lacy ones?”

The second guard was now furiously red, and his superior not faring much better. They exchanged a glance, and the accuser stepped backward, scrubbing an embarrassed hand through his hair.

The senior of the officers straightened his shoulders and shook his head. “No, messere.”

“Then… may we go?”

He coughed. “Let ‘em go, men.” With a hiss of steel, the blades all around them slid back into their sheaths. Kiara resisted heaving the sigh of relief she was holding back, keeping her smile plastered across her face. Before they could take more than a step or two, the guard added, “But, uh, just so you know? We _are_ going to have to impound the ship. Even if you, uh, aren’t Castillon.”

“What?” Isabela cried. “ _No!_ Not another one!”

Sebastian aimed a low kick at her shin and she yelped before sullenly falling silent once again. The glare she shot at first Sebastian and then the guard was murderous. She lasted an entire block before she moaned, “I can’t _believe_ this. My ship!”

“Castillon’s ship,” Kiara reminded her.

Gloomily, Isabela replied, “It was mostly mine. Besides, what are we going to do now? Sleeping in the gutter is only acceptable if you’re falling down drunk. And from the look on his face, I’d say the princess doesn’t accept that it’s _ever_ respectable. Or that he’s planning on letting us attain optimal gutter-sleeping levels of drunkenness.”

Varric grinned, his gait jaunty, his pleasure so infectious even Sebastian almost broke a smile. “I’m just glad we don’t have to go back on the boat. Maybe ever!”

Isabela frowned at him, but the expression was somehow fond. Then a shadow passed over her features and she paused, mid-step. “Ugh. I can’t believe that creep kept my _underwear._ ”


	39. Chapter 39

It was a sunny, cloudless day and the brisk breeze coming in off the ocean left the tang of salt upon Amelle’s lips.  There were certainly worse days to come to the Wounded Coast, but today wasn’t one of them.  Amelle examined the map a moment, trying to remember which of the many paths had led them to the first Harlot’s Blush — it had been some time ago, which was bad for Amelle’s memory, but good for the likelihood of another having sprouted up in its place.  Merrill walked alongside, glad to be away from the alienage for the day — gladder still, Amelle was sure, to be out of Kirkwall for the day.  Fenris walked a few paces ahead of them both — though Amelle had tried to reassure him that her sister had done a more than adequate job of clearing the Wounded Coast of danger, Fenris had pointed out she could not make such assumptions, and then reminded her of his responsibility to Kiara.

Something about the reminder had stung, and still did, even now as she watched him walk ahead, dark shoulders straight, pale hair glinting in the sunlight.  With effort, Amelle wrenched her attention to Merrill, whose face was tilted upward.  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. 

“It really is beautiful here. Don’t you agree, Amelle?”

Folding the map, Amelle shook her head as she sidestepped a pile of bones picked entirely clean.  “For a certain definition of ‘beautiful,’ I suppose.”

“Well, beautiful aside from the dead things.  Which, I suppose, makes a place somewhat less beautiful.”  She paused.  “It’s quite pretty if you just don’t look at the ground.”

Amelle chose not to remind Merrill that the ground was where traps tended to be, grimacing yet again over the fact that Kiara had taken along everyone who showed any sort of knack _for_ pointing out traps.  So perhaps it was good Fenris had come along — despite his obvious displeasure, she did trust him to point out any dangers that lay on the road ahead.  Granted, there was no way for Kiara to know Amelle would need to make a trip to the Wounded Coast at any point during her absence, therefore requiring someone adept at pointing out traps.  Not that her sister would have _approved_ of such a venture, either.  But Amelle found herself with a dearth of options.  This was where they had to be to find what they needed to find.  It was depressingly simple.

Amelle tried not to think about what she was going to do if they didn’t manage to find another Harlot’s Blush.  She’d already scoured every one of the books she’d liberated from the Circle library and she wasn’t keen on spending another illicit night in the Gallows if she could help it (indeed, Amelle was cured of ever again trying to sneak anywhere she wasn’t meant to be).  The sad fact of the matter was the potion for Dragon’s Sight was the only potion that seemed as if it could reasonably _work._   Even if she did have the whole of the Circle library at her disposal for as long as she needed it, searching for a new potion recipe would take time she simply didn’t have.  

They paused at a fork in the path and Amelle nodded at the winding trail that led up and to the right.  “I think we found the first one up there.”

Fenris continued silently ahead as Merrill kept pace with Amelle, and seemed even to move easily despite the rough terrain.  “Do you think this will work?” she asked, nimbly dodging a rock stuck halfway out of the ground.

“I _hope_ it will,” she replied, rolling her shoulders tiredly.  “I suppose if it doesn’t I may have to develop my own potion, but I’d rather it not come to that.”

After a thoughtful pause, Merrill sent her a sidelong glance and asked, “Do you not think you can?”

“I… don’t know.  I think that whatever is making people ill is too strange and too… _fickle_ for me to craft something to cure it.”

“It does seem… _odd_ , doesn’t it?  Some people aren’t affected at all.  Have you noticed that?  You and I, for instance.”

Amelle nodded and paused to examine the map again.  “I _had_ noticed — it was enough to make me wonder if mages were somehow protected from it, but that hardly explains Fenris or Cullen.”

“Neither of them have been acting strangely?”

Amelle thought for a moment, sneaking another look at Fenris’ back, remembering his behavior the night he’d come back from dealing with one of Varric’s suppliers.  He’d been strangely temperamental since then, but nothing… extreme.  She shook her head and lowered her voice, murmuring, “I think something’s bothering Fenris—”

Merrill made a soft, resigned sound.  “That’s usually the case, isn’t it?”

“No, this is… something different.  I don’t know — maybe he’s not happy about being left behind on babysitting duty.  He’s been a bit… prickly lately.”

Merrill paused, tilting her head and furrowing her brow.  “You can tell when he’s _not_ prickly?”

Amelle went silent, navigating a patch of loose sand and taking advantage of the distraction to organize her thoughts.  “No,” she said, still taking care to keep her voice down, “there’s something wrong with him, but I don’t think it’s related to this… whatever it is.”  She thought again of Kiara’s strange behavior the day of the memorial — Amelle seemed to be unable to _keep_ from thinking about it — and felt yet another pang of guilt for not realizing sooner something was very wrong.  To say nothing of some of the things _she’d_ said to her own sister.  And whatever was wrong with Kiara was going untreated now, leaving Amelle particularly anxious to hear from her.  

She didn’t want to think about what it meant if Kiara didn’t write at all. 

“And you still have no idea what’s causing it?”

Merrill’s words pulled Amelle’s mind back to the present and away from that horrible, horrible morning before the memorial.  “No,” she replied absently, stopping and crouching to examine a small cluster of brush — the move was only half evasion.  “How has the alienage been?”

“Tense,” said Merrill, soberly.  “Fearful.  And I can’t tell if its because of what happened or because of what _is_ happening.”

“Well, send them down to the clinic if anyone seems to be acting particularly out of character.”  After a moment, she gave Merrill a speculative look.  “You know, things have been pretty busy down there lately.  If  you… wanted to come down and help…”

“What, _me_?  Help _you_?  In the _clinic_?”  Her eyes went almost comically wide.  “I— I can’t.  Oh, no, Amelle.  I _couldn’t_.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’m not a healer.”  There was more than that left unsaid — Merrill had been attempting to wean herself off of the blood magic she’d grown so dependent upon, but that left her wary of her _other_ magical abilities as well.

“Neither is Fenris,” countered Amelle, “and he’s been helping me quite a bit.  I can tell you most of what you need to know as far as potions and poultices go, and, really, the way things have been going and how people have been acting, a well-placed paralysis glyph has been a more helpful treatment than anything else.”

“Oh.  Well, _that_ I can do.”

They walked a little farther, finally reaching the cave entrance where they’d found the flower the first time.  Fenris stood near the cave entrance, presumably in case something came barreling out of the cave, giving the two mages room to search.  Merrill knew what they were looking for; moreover, she knew _how_ to look for it, and the two of them searched in silence for some minutes, the only sounds the rustling of brush and the cries of birds whose nests they disturbed.

“Elgar’nan, I don’t remember these bushes being half this prickly,” Merrill observed, sounding more amused than annoyed.  

“We weren’t knocking around in the bushes last time — the silly little bloom was right there, waiting to be found.”

“They are temperamental that way, aren’t they?  Never growing in convenient little spots — _except_ if you’re not looking for them.  If you’re not looking for them, they’re _everywhere._   Like socks.”

This made Amelle stop and straighten, peering over the tops of the bushes to where Merrills dark head bobbed around as she searched.  “You… wear socks?”

“Sometimes,” came the simple reply.  “When it’s cold.”  There was a pause and the rustle of leaves as Merrill peered beneath another bush.  “The Knight-Commander—”

“Acting,” Amelle called over her shoulder.

“The acting Knight-Commander _really_ let you use the library in the Gallows?  What was it like?”

Amelle chuckled and stood, stretching her back.  “More books than I’d ever seen in the whole of my _life_.”

“Do you think you’ll go back?”

She moved around a cluster of brambles, taking care not to stumble into it.  “I’d rather not if I can help it.”

“But the Knight-Commander helped you in, didn’t he?”

“And out again.  But those were very unique circumstances.  He wants to find a cure for this illness as badly as I do. Of course he’d offer his help.”

There was another stretch of silence, this one longer than the last, and filled with conspicuously less brush-rustling.  Finally, Merrill said, “I think he likes you, you know.  The Knight-Commander.”  A pause — another one.  “In a way that has nothing to do with shackles and chains, of course.”

“ _Vendehis,_ ” Fenris growled.  “If you plan to continue this prattle, I will check the perimeter while you _search_.”

Amelle stopped with a jerk, straightening and then nearly stumbling into the very brambles she’d been taking pains to avoid.  She opened her mouth to call after Fenris, but he was already gone, and heat was already flaming its way up her back and neck before arriving at her cheeks.  She looked once at Merrill, then again in the direction Fenris went, as creeping discomfiture unfurled in her stomach and crept outwards under her skin.  She turned to find Merrill staring at her, her face was utterly and completely without guile as she watched Amelle over the tops of the bushes.  

Merrill then blinked once, owlishly, which only added to the effect.  “Amelle, are you all right?  You look unwell.  Oh.  Oh, did I do it again?  Say something dirty?”

Amelle’s attempt at a response came out somewhat strangled and she was _sure_ her face was still uncomfortably and blotchily red.  “I… um.”

She winced.  “I did, didn’t I?  What was it?”

Glancing once more at the path Fenris had stalked down, she pushed aside her discomfiture and… strange sort of _disappointment_ she couldn’t quite understand.  “You… honestly don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you now, would I?”

“I suppose not.”

“So what was it?”

“…The — you _really_ don’t know?”  At Merrill’s look, Amelle sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Merrill, when we get back to Kirkwall, remind me I’ve got a book you need to borrow.”

“A book?”  The worry had suddenly vanished from Merrill’s expression.  “Oh, I do love to read, Amelle.  What’s it about?”

“It’s called _The Circle Blackguard_.”  Isabela’s earliest banned-by-the-Chantry contribution to the Hawke library had been dogeared when Amelle first found it.  Now the spine was splitting and, if dropped, the book fell open to one of three very particular, very _memorable_ scenes.  It was a favorite for all that no one would admit to reading it.

Her eyes widened, but not for the reasons they _should_ have, considering the book’s plot… or lack thereof.  “ _My_ , that sounds thrilling.”

“It’s very… educational,” she replied, dryly.

“Ooh!”  

Merrill’s wide smile lit up her eyes and Amelle felt the vaguest twinges of guilt for planning to contribute so thoroughly to corrupting the elf’s naïveté… if such a thing were even _possible,_ and the longer Amelle knew Merrill, the less she thought it so.

“But he _does_ like you,” Merrill said again.  “I’m nearly certain of it.”

She shook her head, focusing hard on the foliage around her.  “You’re daft.”  

But even as she said the words, Amelle thought of Cullen’s various displays of solicitousness.  The way he’d offered her his arm on the walk from the clinic to Cassia’s, the way he’d helped her sneak into — _and out of_ — the Circle library, the way he’d stood up to Gamlen — granted, that last one wasn’t terribly difficult to do, but still, they were all things Cullen didn’t _have_ to do.  It had been nice, of course, but Amelle had simply chalked it up to Cullen simply being… _kind_.  

“I’m not,” Merrill insisted, and now she was watching Amelle with a sly little smile that teased about her lips.  “And now you _know_ I’m not.”

“He’s just being nice,” Amelle insisted weakly.  

“You only think that because you don’t see the way he smiles when you aren’t looking.”

 _Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask._ “…And how is that?” she asked in a small voice, hating herself for asking.

Merrill’s smile went from pleased to positively gleeful.  “Oh, now you’re blushing!  By the Creators, that’s positively _darling_.  I’d never known you could turn so pink!”

“I was blushing _before_ ,” grumbled Amelle.  She stopped a moment to check their progress — a welcome diversion from Merrill’s conversation and Fenris’ troubling behavior.  

The first Harlot’s Blush had been right _here_.  If Ines Arancia was correct — and Amelle was led to believe she was a woman not well acquainted with being _incorrect_ — there should be more near where the first had been found.  It was also an excellent excuse to turn away and try to gain some control over the burning color at her cheeks.

“I’m not teasing! I’m completely serious, Amelle — don’t you… don’t you see it?”  She stopped to peer beneath a cluster of promising bushes and — despite their conversation — Amelle was glad once again to have Merrill along.  If nothing else, she was particularly gifted at finding where things grew.  “Unless you don’t _want_ him to be smiling like that.”

Amelle muttered darkly, “Considering I’ve never seen this supposed smile you’re talking about—”

“Oh, it’s a very nice smile.”  Merrill straightened, letting the bush’s branches fall back into place with a rustle.  “Tender, but a bit… bewildered sometimes.”

“…Bewildered?  That’s hardly flattering.”

“Well, I should think I’d be bewildered, too, if I were a templar with a secret crush on an apostate mage.”  They went a few feet farther into the brush.  “That might be why he hasn’t said anything yet.”

Amelle shook her head. “Or because he’s concerned the Maker Himself might send down a bolt of lightning for admitting tender feelings for one.”

Merrill looked up, alarmed.  “Do you think that’s _likely_?  That could be why, you know — it’s been so long and he still hasn’t said anything.  But if you think there might be lightning involved, that would explain it!”

“No, it was just an expr— “ She stopped suddenly, Merrill’s words taking a moment to settle in her brain.  “Um, what exactly do you mean by that, Merrill? ’It’s been so long’?”

This time Merrill looked at her as if she were the daft one.  “That he’s had a crush on you.”

Amelle wasn’t sure how to react to _that_ , particularly the matter-of-fact way Merrill shared that bit of information.  “Merrill, Kiara hasn’t been gone _that_ long.”

The elf just shrugged.  “Oh, I’m nearly sure he liked you _before_ Hawke left.”

Amelle gaped, her mouth working silently for a moment until she finally found her voice.  “You’re completely _mad_ , Merrill,” she croaked.  It wasn’t possible.  It _wasn’t possible._  

“I’m quite serious!  You’ve really never noticed?  I didn’t think I was the only one who…  Oh, oh, no, what if I’m wrong?  What if… what if he wasn’t smiling at you at all?  What if all this time he was just thinking about something pleasant?  Like— like pie?”  Her hands flew up to cover her face, wide green eyes peeking through her fingers.  “I hadn’t thought about _that._   It just seemed so… so _obvious,_ you know?”

Whether Cullen was behaving in this manner at all, Amelle wasn’t prepared to comment one way or another — though she was still inclined to believe Merrill was mistaken.  She couldn’t wrap her head around the other possibility.  She believed Cullen was kind and fair, and she knew he held her sister in high regard, and Amelle knew she enjoyed his _company_ , but…

The memory of her arm tucked securely in his on the walk through Lowtown flashed again through Amelle’s mind and she blushed.  It _had_ been nice.  She’d thought so even then, but she never would have _imagined_ —

“Oh, dear.”  Merrill’s voice broke into her thoughts.  “Now you’re worrying about it.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s— it’s fine, Merrill,” she told the elf, fingertips rubbing hard at the crease between her eyebrows.  Like you said, he’s probably just… thinking about something else.”  Her smile went crooked.  “I’m sure he’s counting the days to her return so he can wash his hands of me.”

“You should ask him.”

“Since when did _you_ get to be so forward?”  Isabela’s influence, no doubt.  Her _bad_ influence.

But Merrill only shrugged.  “Would it be so awful if you did?”

Her fingers began twining around each other until she pulled them away and smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt.  Her… vaguely sweaty palms.  “I… hadn’t… thought about it.”

“I wonder if he has.  He seems the type to —Oh! _Oh!_ ”  Merrill suddenly disappeared, her braids flinging upward as she ducked down, hidden by the bushes.

Amelle went on tiptoes, trying to peer over the greenery.  “Merrill?  Are you all right?”

There was a flurry of rustling as the bush shook with Merrill’s movement.  “I found one!”

She appeared again, the familiar blue flower clutched triumphantly in her hand, roots dangling in twisting, soil-caked curls. She shot a teasing grin in Amelle’s direction as she made her way out of the overgrown bushes.  “Don’t you think you might consider letting the Knight-Commander—”

Amelle shot her a glare, breaking in with a stern, “ _Acting._ ”

“—Know you’ve found one of the elusive ingredients?”

“We should probably wait for Fenris to come back, first.”  They made their way back out of the brambles and onto the path, allowing Amelle to see just how many prickers and thorns were clinging to her clothes.  She brushed off what she could, shaking her head at Merrill.  “ _You_ have been spending too much time in The Hanged Man with Isabela.”

Merrill sighed, handing Amelle the flower.  “She still hasn’t told me what a ‘body shot’ is,” she said, glumly.

“Merrill, I think you might be better off not knowing the answer to that.”

#

Though the conversation with Merrill still lived in Amelle’s memory, she had already _quite firmly_ decided she wasn’t going to broach… well, _any_ of Merrill’s suspicions.  Primarily because she thought they were ludicrous.  And next because she had no idea how to bring up a subject like that in the first place.  What, was she supposed to saunter up to Cullen and say, _So, I hear you have a thing for apostates._

No.  Just… _no._

But now that she had Cullen standing over her in the library as she sat at Kiara’s desk, poring over the potion recipe and other books and even _scrolls_ on each ingredient, now that she was feeling desperation creeping up on her that there could be a chance the potion did not get made _at all,_ the words that wound up coming out of her mouth were… maybe only marginally better than ill-conceived pick-up lines.

“Can you get me into the Viscount’s private gardens?”

Cullen blinked.  “I… probably could.  But why?”

“It’s this blasted recipe,” she sighed.  “I thought the Harlot’s Blush was going to be blighted difficult to find, but Andraste’s Grace…  it doesn’t seem to be _anywhere,_ and I need to find some.  One, actually.  One little flower that used to grow everywhere back h—” Amelle caught herself with a jerk; she hadn’t referred to Lothering as _home_ in years.  “It grew everywhere back in Ferelden,” she amended.  “I know it doesn’t grow wild anywhere I’ve looked — and I _have_ looked — but there’s still hope that maybe it’s the sort of thing people might have tried to grow simply _because_ it’s not found growing wild anywhere.”  She gestured at the potion book, lying open on the table.  Several sheets of parchment covered with Amelle’s notes were spread out nearby.  “It’s a hunch at best, I’m afraid.  If the flower isn’t there, I’m going to have to get even more creative with my search. Though somehow I doubt the good citizens of Hightown will be terribly pleased to have an apostate rummaging through their private gardens. What’s left of them.”

Cullen let out a soft laugh, as if he too were picturing such a thing.  “They… might become rather upset about that, yes.  Shall I check the templar gardens as well?”

“Speaking of places I wouldn’t exactly be _welcome,_ yes, that would be excellent, thank you.”  She ran her fingers through her short hair, taking care to smooth down the disordered ends.  “For the moment, though, I can’t help but think the Viscount’s garden is the best place to look.  Maybe because it’s walled off, maybe because I’ve never _been_ there, but… it’s a possibility, and I’m going to have to exhaust _every_ possibility until I find it.”  She noticed then that a strange look had settled upon Cullen’s face; his lips were pressed in thought and his brow was furrowed; he appeared to be having a hard time meeting her eyes.  Amelle hesitated before asking, “What is it?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw.  “…There was a patch of Andraste’s Grace in the Chantry garden.  It… flourished there.”

Something twisted deep in her gut and a rush of frustration made Amelle hate Anders all over again.  “I see.”  Her mouth worked silently for a few seconds before she finally managed, “Well, that… isn’t an option available to us, then.”

“No.  It isn’t.”

Anger — more anger — at this stage was pointless.  It was a waste of energy at a time when her resources, her _personal_ resources, were needed elsewhere.  “Then I’ll look everywhere else I possibly _can._ It grew _someplace_ — surely it could have grown somewhere else as well.  But the fact remains, if I don’t find that flower, Cullen, this potion can’t happen.  I… there are other places I think I might be able to look, but—”

“Time is of the essence.  Yes, I understand.”

“Then you’ll help?” she asked, pushing out of her chair.  At his perfunctory nod, her smile was immediate, answered — also immediately — by a warmth of color at Cullen’s cheeks as he ducked his head, coughing into his fist. The gesture was both earnest and… _endearing_.  The word “darling” came to mind and Amelle felt her own cheeks grow warm.

Merrill’s suspicions rushed back to her, and now Amelle found herself looking a little more closely at the Knight Commander, suddenly curious to see for herself whether he _did_ happen to look at her any particular way.  But then he lifted his head and in an instant she realized she was staring rather intently into his eyes — they were green with flecks of gold and it struck her suddenly how _pretty_ they were.  But with that realization, Amelle jerked back, averting her eyes as chastised herself _and_ her burning cheeks.  In fact, she was nearly sure the color she was turning matched the Knight Commander’s perfectly.

_Lovely.  We match._

“Yes.  I-I’ll… I — it would be… for the best if I accompanied you to the gardens,” he finally stammered out.  “As far as I know it’s still guarded, which might cause you trouble if I don’t go along.”

Amelle nodded.  “Seneschal Bran still isn’t one of my sister’s greatest fans, you mean.”

“Indeed,” he sighed.  “And it is still a particularly… sensitive area, after everything that’s transpired.”

“I understand.”

“Why don’t you return to the clinic?” he suggested.  “I’ve some duties I must attend to, but they shouldn’t take long and I can meet you there as soon as I’m finished.”  There was an awkward pause as he shifted his weight slightly, metal plates clanking softly together.  “Unless you think my presence in uniform might cause unrest among your patients.”

“Ah, but that same suit of armor might gain us an easier entry into the Viscount’s gardens.”  She reached out, hesitating for barely a heartbeat of a moment before laying her fingers against his gauntleted hand; Cullen started as if he could feel the touch of her skin even through the thick layer of silverite, but he said nothing.  “You’ve nothing to worry about — I’ll vouch for you, Cullen.  You…” she bit her lip and stared at her hand still resting upon his armor, “you aren’t the enemy — I know that, and others deserve to as well.”

He looked stunned, his eyes dropping to her hand.  After a moment, she pulled it away, feeling faintly foolish.  “I…” Cullen cleared his throat, then straightened slightly.  “Thank you, Amelle.”  His smile grew, then went slightly crooked.

“Oh, dear,” she chuckled.  “What is it?  What have I done now?”

“The Maker indeed works in mysterious ways.”

The eyes she’d been admiring only moments earlier were now fixed upon _her_ and the color that had only just faded from her cheeks flooded back with a vengeance.  “I…I’m not sure I know what you mean, Knight-Commander.”

He _was_ smiling at her now, laughing outright.  “ _Amelle._ ”

“Acting — I know.  _Acting_.”  She linked her hands behind her and took a hesitant step back. “Yes.  Well.  Then I will… see you when you…  Yes.”

Cullen stepped back as well and cleared his throat, inclining his head as he offered her a brief bow. “ I-I’ll come find you as soon as I’m able to get away.”

“Thank you.”  She stood still and watched as Cullen turned, making his way to the Hightown bridge; though his armor clanked with every step, Amelle wondered if his step didn’t seem a little lighter than he had before.

#

“Oh, but that’s so _romantic_!”  Merrill clasped her hands and beamed at Amelle.  “ _And_ adorable.  See?  I told you.  He likes you.”

“Merrill,” Amelle said, keeping her voice down as she cast a furtive glance around the clinic.  It was a reasonably busy day so far — but there was a lull in the activity, as most of the patients in the clinic were resting or simply waiting for various potions and poultices to do their job.  She’d healed another fever earlier, but a flask of lyrium potion and a rejuvenation spell was enough to keep her from getting too wobbly. “Do keep your voice down, _please._   He’ll be here any moment.”

“And you’re quite sure you want to leave me alone here while you’re looking?”  She looked worriedly around the clinic.  “…Maybe I should come along.  I could help you look.  I’ve visited those gardens before, remember.”

Amelle couldn’t help but smile at the memory and Varric’s exasperation with Merrill’s utter lack of understanding when it came to such things as _private_ gardens.  “Indeed.  Do you recall ever seeing any Andraste’s Grace?”

Merrill sighed and shook her head.  “There— there _could_ have been, Amelle.  It was such a lovely, lush garden — and there were so _many_ flowers.  There were some I hadn’t seen since leaving the Brecillian Forest, so I do think it’s possible.  But it’s all quite vast, you know. You may have quite a task ahead of you.”

“Be that as it may, I’d really rather not leave the clinic entirely unmanned.  And you won’t be alone for too long — Fenris should be here in a little while.”  At Merrill’s painfully obvious discomfiture, Amelle laid a hand on her arm.  “It’s going to be _fine._   Just tell him I’ll be along soon and—”

“You’ll be along from where?” a deep voice asked.  Fenris.  Amelle felt her pulse quicken as a guilty flush rushed to her cheeks and she wondered for a moment what on earth she had to feel _guilty_ about.  “I’m— I may have an idea where there’s some Andraste’s Grace.”

“You do?” dark brows lifted.  “That is good news, is it not?”

“Oh, it’s very good news.”

“Very well,” he said with a decisive nod.  “Let us depart.”

Smoothing down the skirt of her dress in order to tamp down on the urge to fidget, Amelle said, “I’ve… it’s — I’m only checking the Viscount’s garden.  It shouldn’t take too long.”

Several expressions flickered rapidly across Fenris’ features, but he seemed to settle on curiosity.  “The Viscount’s private gardens?  How do you expect to gain permission to enter?”  He looked slantwise at Merrill, who fidgeted even more under his glare.  “Unless you _don’t_ expect such a thing…”

“Amelle?” It was Cullen, standing in the doorway to the clinic, still in full templar regalia.  “Are you ready?  If we’re lucky we may miss the seneschal entirely.  He usually takes his tea this time of the day.”

“I see,” Fenris said quietly.  “ _That_ is how you expect to get in.”

She shrugged and waved a hand at Cullen.  “Having an official consort does tend to make some things easier.”

Fenris expression went completely neutral as he inclined his head.  “Of course.”

“It shouldn’t take too long.  I do know what I’m looking for, after all.”

“…Yes, I suppose you do.”

Amelle tilted her head at the strange note in Fenris’ voice.  It… wasn’t quite _sadness,_ but perhaps… well, it sounded like _resignation,_ but she had no idea what Fenris had to feel resigned about.  She reached out to touch his arm, but he moved smoothly away.  “…Fenris?”

“Go, Amelle,” he said briskly.  “The sooner you collect the ingredients, the sooner we can begin distributing it and put an end to this wretched epidemic.”

His words and that strange tone left Amelle feeling vaguely unsettled, but finally she nodded.  “Right.  You’re… you’re right.  Of course.” She turned to Cullen, still waiting in the doorway.  “Lead the way, Knight-Commander.”

He bowed slightly and offered his arm again; Amelle took it, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.  Merrill was positively beaming, while Fenris had turned away and was examining the contents of one of her supply crates.  

 _I’ll ask him what’s wrong when I get back,_ she vowed silently.

#

It was one thing to walk arm in arm with the acting Knight-Commander when he was in civilian clothes, but it was something else entirely to walk alongside him in full templar armor.  In fact, walking _alongside_ him seemed in itself too presumptuous.  As they walked, Kiara’s words started slithering back to Amelle, accusations about flaunting her magic, the sharply-worded observation that Amelle was little more than a responsibility to be taken on.  A burden.  Before long, she started walking a step or two behind Cullen; why walk beside him as if they were equals when they were clearly not? Not with Cullen in his armor polished to a brilliant sheen, walking along with a quiet sort of confidence that made Amelle proud to be in his company, even as she envied it a little.

Cullen turned to say something to her — then, upon realizing that she _was_ walking behind him, stopped and turned, giving her an openly curious look.

“Amelle?  What are you doing?”

She coughed and shrugged.  “…Keeping my distance?”

His brow creased in further confusion.  “Why?”

She grimaced.  “It’s… the armor, I think,” she said with a sheepish gesture.  “It makes you look… important.”

Making a face, Cullen muttered, “Maker, anything but _that._ ”

“You were important when you were the Knight-Captain, Cullen.”

“I am only myself, Amelle.  Now… really, of anyone I wouldn’t expect _you_ to willingly walk _behind_ me.”

Now it was Amelle’s turn to make a face.  “Thinking myself above my station, no doubt.”

“Amelle, really.”  He almost laughed, but then seemed to think better of it.  “What in all the Void are you talking about?”

“Just… something someone said to me once.”  She wasn’t particularly inclined to go into too much detail, and as she reached up to rub awkwardly at her neck it struck her how odd that was — perhaps she _trusted_ a uniformed Cullen less, too.

“Someone said you should follow two paces behind a templar at all times?  If so, someone was having you on, Amelle.”

“No, no, it’s—” She sighed and then raked the hand at her neck through her hair.  “Before she left, my sister and I… quarreled.”  She paused, then wrinkled her nose.  “No, I suppose that’s not accurate: we fought.  She accused me of… of ‘flaunting’ my magic.  Of being… indiscreet with it.  Walking along with you like this…”  She clasped her hands, fingers twisting and turning the plain rings with their subtle-but-powerful enchantments that lived there.  “It…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

“Reminds me of an outcome I’ve tried all my life to avoid.  And makes me wonder if she wasn’t right.”

With that, Cullen arched an eyebrow and just _looked_ at her.  Amelle felt a gathering wariness as he continued giving her such a look, but went on saying nothing.  “What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Wondering how anyone so bright could be so utterly daft.”

“ _Excuse_ —”

“Come, Amelle — walk with me.”  He held his arm out, inviting her by his side and, though scowling, Amelle went to his side and the two continued on, their pace matching exactly as they came upon Viscount’s Keep.  They climbed the stairs slowly and as they did, Amelle looked around — something seemed strange, but she wasn’t quite able to put her finger on it.  There weren’t as many people around, but that was more or less normal these days.  The chantry explosion had been more than enough to keep people away and afraid, but this… _whatever_ it was seemed to be having an affect as well.  Children were falling ill and adults were falling prey to madness — and there wasn’t even a chantry for those inclined toward prayer to go for faith and reassurance.

But no, it wasn’t the lack of _people_ Amelle finally noticed, it was the increase in _templars._   She hadn’t seen this many taking up posts in Kirkwall since the height of Meredith’s madness and paranoia.  She sent a sharp look to Cullen, but he was looking resolutely forward, nodding at those templars who addressed him or bowed — which was most of them, frankly.

They went into the Keep and Amelle suppressed her shudder — the last time she’d been through these doors it was to discover Aveline had also succumbed to the madness that seemed to be infecting Kirkwall.  Now, though, she saw it — if the templars stationed _outside_ was noticeable, the templars _inside_ the Keep was more than enough to send a cold chill down her spine.

“…What—”

Cullen, to his credit, saw her looking around, saw her reaction, and anticipated her question.  “More of the guard have fallen to this… illness,” he explained.  “There was little else I could do under the circumstances.  I disagreed with Meredith’s inclination toward replacing the guard with templars, but both entities are so shorthanded right now.  We _must_ assist each other.  And with the guard-captain… incapacitated…”

Without really meaning to, Amelle walked a little closer to Cullen.  If he noticed, he didn’t say anything about it.  

“Well,” she said, with slightly more confidence than she really felt at that moment, “the sooner we find those ingredients, the better.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he replied, leading her past the vast staircase and through a set of long corridors. Finally, though, he pushed open a door that revealed not another room — or, worse, another hallway — but a veritable forest of _green._  

The Viscount’s private garden — even when there was no viscount to speak of.  Amelle’s breath caught as she looked around.  The grass was lush and soft beneath their feet, broken up only by twisting and twining stone paths crafted of what looked like smooth river rocks flush with the ground.  Flowers and bushes and _trees_ were thriving here and for a moment Amelle was entirely overwhelmed by the _green_ of it all.  It was, in fact, easy to forget for a moment what they were _there_ for.

“This is… amazing,” Amelle breathed, tilting her head back to see birds flitting from tree to tree, singing sweetly.  There was nothing broken or damaged here; _here_ it was easy to forget, almost, that anything had gone wrong in Kirkwall to begin with.  Here she could close her eyes and imagine a chantry, whole and gleaming.  She could imagine her sister, home, tending her bow with painstaking care.  

But the illusion shattered the moment Cullen said her name, reminding her why she was there in the first place.

“Amelle,” Cullen said again from behind her.  When she turned she saw he’d closed the door quietly behind him.  “We… _can_ speak freely here.”

She bit her lip.  “I… don’t want to speak freely, Cullen.  I want to lay hands on some Andraste’s Grace — ideally enough to transplant for myself — and I want to work on finding the next ingredient.  All the better if I can spot it _here_ , but I don’t want to get greed—”

“Hawke accused you of… indiscretions with your magic?”

She closed her eyes and blew out a deep breath.  “Healing too many people and letting too many people see it, I suppose.  It’s — there was just so much… _carnage_ , Cullen,” she said, looking up at him.  “I couldn’t… walk away from those who looked like they could have been helped.  And… well, when your own sister reminds you if not for her you’d likely be dead or imprisoned fifty times over…”  She pressed cool fingertips against her eyes.  “I… don’t want to talk about it.”

“Amelle.”

She pulled her fingers away from tired eyes and looked at him.  “I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, I quite doubt that.”  He pointed to a carved stone bench — several such benches were peppered throughout the garden.  “Sit.”

She sat, nonplussed when Cullen settled down next to her, half surprised he could _sit_ at all in that armor.  But sit he did, though by virtue of sheer bulk alone he took up most of the bench.  “You… argued.  With Hawke.  Before she left?”

Looking down at her hands, Amelle nodded.  “We’ve… bickered before.  It’s sort of an… occupational hazard when you’re family.  But this was… nothing like anything we’ve ever—” Pressing her lips together, Amelle fell silent a second or two before finally exhaling through her nose and saying, “She drew her weapon on me.  Accused me of having a death wish even as she offered to… _relieve_ me of it.  I don’t…  She— I _know_ she worries, especially after what happened to Mother; I’m the only family she has left other than Gamlen—”

“And from what I’ve seen of him, he’s hardly a shining addition.”

A tired chuckle passed her lips.  He was trying — she had to credit him with that.  “We said…” her throat closed and she tried again. “We said horrible things to each other.”

“And she… drew her weapon on you?  Truly?”  When Amelle nodded glumly, Cullen’s features settled into a very… _thoughtful_ sort of frown.  “So you would say it’s a… fair estimation to suggest Hawke was behaving… out of character.  Possibly even somewhat… mad?”

“Yes, she was—”  A realization _jolted_ through Amelle and her head shot up, eyes going wide.  She stared at Cullen, her mouth falling open before clapping her hand against it and shaking her head.  Once again the worst things she could have said to her sister ran around and around her mind until her head pounded with the hateful words— 

 _If you really wanted to keep me safe, you’d stop being my bloody_ sister _._

Tears filled her eyes and she bowed her head, hands clenching into tight fists.  Her heart was beating too hard, too fast, and though she tried to keep her breathing even, her lungs felt as if they were burning.  “Oh, Maker.  Oh, _Maker,_ she was sick.  That’s… that’s _why._   She was _sick_ and I didn’t _see it.”_

“We must… accept it as a possibility, Amelle.  But—”

“She was _sick_ and she left for _sodding Starkhaven._ ”  Amelle raked her hands through her hair, fingers winding around the short strands and pulling as she slouched forward again, resisting the urge to rock slowly.  Kiara had been _sick_ with this… madness, and now she was so far away it would be weeks — or, Maker forbid, _more_ — before Amelle could even _hope_ to treat her for it.  

“She’s… what if she got worse?” she asked, her throat tightening with tears and fear and oh, so much _guilt_.  “What if— we don’t… we don’t know what this _is._   What if—”  The words stopped as her mind raced faster and faster — how quickly could she mix a batch of the potion?  How quickly could they distribute it — and how quickly could she catch up with her sister in Starkhaven?  Would it be too late?  Would she be too far gone?  They had no idea what this illness did to adults if left untreated.  Children _died_ , but what of adults gone mad?  And what of those Kiara had left with?  Would they be likewise infected?  Or, worse — would Kiara turn on them like she’d turned on Amelle?  Her head swam with a host of unpleasant possibilities.

 _“Blast_ her for leaving _without me_ ,” she finally managed, gritting the words out through her teeth as tears full of frustration, worry, and no small amount of fear spilled.

“Amelle.”

She raised her head and looked at Cullen, startled to see calm reassurance in his eyes, tempered with determination.

“Whatever this illness has wrought, we will deal with it.  We will find the ingredients you require, and you will mix this potion, and we will test it.  That is all we _can_ do right now.”

She nodded, hating that the tears kept coming; the water pooled in her eyes and slid forward, tracking wet paths down her cheeks.  She didn’t speak — she didn’t trust her voice.  

“It’s… not true, you know.”

“…What isn’t?” she managed despite the tightness in her throat.

“You are many things, Amelle Hawke, but… reckless with your magic is not one of them.”

A harsh bark of laughter passed her lips, squeezing a fresh deluge free.  She dashed them away and sniffled, shaking her head.  “Oh, if you only _knew_.”

He looked at her for a long while; even mere minutes seemed endless when they were full of silence — worse when it was a thoughtful silence.  “You… are a _healer_.  One who aids those hurt, regardless of which side they’re on.  Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice how many of my own brethren you healed — how many of them owe the fact they are alive today to you.  And do not think for a moment that I don’t realize that it is… thankless work you do.”  He looked up at the blue sky above them.  Somewhere a bird cried out.  “Especially now.  …That you continue to heal and do the work you do _now_ is…” he frowned, searching for the words.  “I do not think you act… recklessly, when you heal those who need it.  Do you… truly believe the very templars whose lives you saved, whose wounds you mended have forgotten how much they owe you?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him before retorting, “So you’re saying they’d very likely feel _bad_ while they were dragging me off to the Gallows.  Well, that’s a relief.”

“Amelle,” sighed Cullen, “I’m being quite serious.  Your… actions have been noted.  Though I would urge you to be _cautious_ — for your own safety, particularly while this madness seems to be running so rampant.  But you are…”  

He pressed his lips together and Amelle could _see_ how difficult it was for him to find the right words.  She waited, barely realizing that she was holding her breath.

“You are a good example for mages.  Would that others could learn by your example.”

Her laugh was mirthless even as she felt twin flashes of embarrassment and exasperation, despite the fact she knew Cullen’s words were _meant_ to be a compliment, and the words flew past her lips far more sharply than she would have liked or ever intended.  “Now all you have to do is convince the Divine that I’m really just a harmless fluffy bunny and everything will be fine.”  

The look he gave her was so sharply bewildered, Amelle felt a faint flush of guilt creep up her neck.  She pushed to her feet and began examining various flower beds — the whole reason they’d come here in the first place: Andraste’s Grace — and the irony of _that_ wasn’t lost on her, either.  Taking her cue, Cullen got up and began searching as well.  

“I… fear I have offended you,” he said, sending her a slantwise look as he perused a flowerbed that had not been so carefully tended — or at all — in recent months.  Amelle wondered whether the gardeners were among the dead and missing, and then decided she didn’t want to wonder about that.  Cullen coughed softly and she looked over again as he added,  “That was not my intent, I assure you.”

“It’s just…”  Sinking down to her knees, a sigh escaped Amelle and she began her close examination of a long, raised flowerbed.  “It’s an argument I am so very tired of.  In fact, I’d rather heal another of those blighted fevers — complete with nosebleed and fainting — than hear it again.”

“I apologize,” he said quietly, clearly chastised.  “I… meant no disrespect.”

It was while she was rifling gently through various blooming bushes a white flower caught Amelle’s eye, sending a euphoric flash of hope spiraling up through her chest; she reached for it immediately, but upon closer examination, the pristine petals were missing the blood-red marking unique to Andraste’s Grace.  She let her hand fall.  “And I do believe that — truly, I do.  But… well.  You and my sister had a conversation once, about mages.  More to the point, about how mages needed to be watched every second of every day, because of what they _might_ do.”  She crept farther back, trying to look at every flower, every blossom, every sodding _petal._   “They _might_ go mad, or they _might_ resort to blood magic or consort with demons or Maker knows what else.  Do you know, can you even _imagine_ what that feels like?”  She looked up, but Cullen was himself so occupied with searching that he didn’t see her expression.  “Being looked at by people who are all just wondering if you’re going to snap and kill everyone — and if so, _when?_ ” 

His expression darkened then, and she saw his gauntleted hands tighten into fists.  “But mages _are_ tempted by all the demons and spirits in the Fade.”  His words were curt and clipped, and not only could she hear something more lingering beneath his tone, she _felt_ the change in the tone of their whole conversation.  “It is a simple matter of resisting constant temptation.  Mages are still human — _only_ human — and how long can _any_ human continue resisting constant temptation?”

The conversation had suddenly veered into territory Amelle tended not to speak about… with anyone.  Not _even_ Kiara.  She found a cluster of white flowers — the wrong white flowers — at the base of a particularly fragrant vine sprouting exotic yellow and purple blooms; the heady perfume would have been pleasant under different circumstances.  Today, however, she found it cloying — too sweet, too thick, and too likely to mask the scent of the flower she was actually looking for.  One flowerbed down, countless others to go, Amelle got up and brushed the dirt from her hands and clothes.  

“Well,” she said, keeping her voice carefully steady, “if we’re going to be entirely honest about it, it isn’t _constant_ temptation.”

Cullen’s movements froze, but only for the barest instant.  “…That is hardly reassuring.”

Amelle stole a glance at him; the dark look was gone, but in its place was an expression cautiously, studiously neutral.  Amelle wasn’t sure that was an improvement.  She sighed and shook her head.  “It’s… it’s at its worst when we… _want_ something,” she admitted.  “When we’re feeling weak and vulnerable and… and wanting something that feels so very far out of reach that even considering it feels hopeless, fruitless, _pointless_.  That… that’s when they — the demons… um.”  She found another section of dense foliage and flowers to hunt through and knelt down in the dirt, thankful for such a distraction.  “That’s when they…”

“Attempt to…”

Amelle swallowed hard, filling in all the words Cullen wasn’t saying:  _Take you.  Use you.  Possess you._

“Yes,” she finally said.  And though she herself had never _accepted_ what those voices offered, she felt a flush of shame regardless, as if she were guilty for something simply by virtue of the fact they spoke to her at all.

“But you’ve…”

“Resisted them — as my father taught me.  But don’t mistake that for them never speaking to me, never whispering in my ear.  They’ve come to me, Cullen.”  And, oh, how she hated the way that admission tasted upon her tongue.  “They’ve come more than once.  And they’ve _tried._ ”  _Recently,_ she added silently.

“But, as you said, you resisted.”  That strange, detached coolness in his tone had abated.  Cullen still sounded as if he were working to maintain his neutral tone, but they were both picking their way around an impossible topic of conversation — and one Amelle was fairly certain no templar and mage had engaged in, ever.  

“Yes.  I have.  I, a mere apostate, am better equipped to resist the temptations of demons than some Circle mages.  I beg you to remember that —  _I am an apostate._   According to the Chant, I should not be qualified to resist the call of demons and spirits, or the lure of blood magic, and still I manage what even the First Enchanter could not.”  She looked at him pointedly. 

For a span of time that felt almost _too_ long, there was nothing but the sounds of clanking armor and rustling plants, and the occasional twitter of birdsong above. 

Finally:  “This has… not escaped my notice, Amelle.”

“Do you ever wonder why?”  When he nodded once, his expression strangely guarded, she went on:  “Because I consider the consequences of my actions.  Because I was _taught_ to consider the consequences of my actions.  I…”  She swallowed hard and got up, brushing the soil from her hands and moving to another flowerbed.  The change in location was little more than an excuse to reorder her thoughts, but if Cullen noticed, he didn’t say anything.  “Do you know what it’s like to live in the Champion’s shadow?  My whole life I’ve had to keep my mouth shut and my head down and _for the Maker’s sake,_ don’t use magic where anyone might see it, Mely.  I’ve been… lost in Kiara’s shadow for most of my life, trying _so hard_ to be… invisible.  But never more so since coming to Kirkwall.  I had nothing of my own — nothing I could do that would let me stand out, because it was too important that I _don’t_ stand out.”

He straightened and regarded her, leaning lightly against a tall shade tree.  “You… have the clinic, do you not?”

“Now, yes.  But that wasn’t always the case.  And… well, demons aren’t stupid.  Let’s just say that.”

“You were tempted with… notoriety?”

Her smile was as sharp as it was wry.  “Oh, you’re thinking too small.  I was offered limitless wealth and fame and power beyond all comprehension.  If I joined with one of them, I would never be lost in the shadows again.  I would have the respect of my sister and everyone around me.  I would command the awe and respect of the entire Free Marches, of the whole of Thedas.  Oh, they made it sound like _quite_ the party.”

“But you… didn’t accept.  Obviously.”

“Because I love my sister.  And… despite everything, I know we _need_ each other.  I don’t want to live in her shadow forever, but I want how I _do_ live to be on _my_ terms.  I… not only did I not trust what promises they were making, because… well, _demons_.  But I didn’t like the future being painted before me.  I could never hurt Kiara — I don’t _want_ to hurt her.  I would rather _die_ than hurt her.  And there was nothing about those scenarios being painted for me that wouldn’t hurt Kiara.  So I… turned down the offers.  Repeatedly.  In sum, I was taught to _think_ , Cullen.  I was taught to imagine repercussions and consider whether mine was an action I could live with.”  She sighed.  “If I… heal too recklessly and too openly, it’s because I do not want a death that is a consequence of my own inaction to rest upon my conscience.”

“Your… father taught you all this.”

She went still suddenly, looking at her hands in the soil and remembering tending the modest garden back in Lothering, kneeling  in the dirt much like this, by her father’s side.  “He did.”

“He must have been very wise indeed.”

“And an apostate, no less.”  She looked up, lips quirking into a smirk.  “A wise apostate.  Quite the scandal, wouldn’t you say, Knight-Commander?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s scandalous.”

“It isn’t as though you could say you know many who fit that particular description.”

His smile was small, though genuine.  “I might know one.”

Amelle’s answering blush was sudden and hot.  She looked down at her hands, half buried in the cool earth as she parted clusters of flowers — no Andraste’s Grace here, either.  “I don’t know about _wise,”_ she muttered _._   “I suspect my sister would disagree with that estimation — even on a day she wasn’t mad with illness.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time Hawke was mistaken, illness or not.”  He looked at her from across the garden path.  “And the fact remains you are a good example for mages to follow.  I… I still believe that.”

“And the fact _remains_ , Cullen, that I am an apostate _taught by_ an apostate.  I know nothing of a Circle life, other than I am fairly certain it wouldn’t have agreed with me.  By saying that I am a good example, you are essentially saying that… apostates aren’t all that bad, that the Circle might be… wrong.”

His sigh was deep and troubled.  “And yet it was an apostate who destroyed the chantry and murdered hundreds in one fell swoop, because he felt the need to remove all possibility for compromise.”

Amelle nodded.  “We are but human men and women, Cullen, as you said.  And recall that Anders _was_ a Circle mage for a while, and still he succumbed to a demon.”  She sat back on her heels and looked up through the canopy of tree limbs above.  “I don’t understand what makes some mages give in while others don’t.  I don’t know what makes me … different from Anders or Orsino or Tahrone or Grace.  But maybe… maybe a Circle education isn’t… enough.  Maybe it was sufficient years ago, but… perhaps it isn’t any longer.  I was taught to respect my power, to understand its consequences — to neither fear nor abuse it.  So tell me, why did Malcolm Hawke succeed where countless Circles and Enchanters and Andraste knows who else have failed?”

When she looked over she saw that he knelt, and seemed to be looking at something that existed far beyond the flowers directly before him.  Something unpleasant.  “Would that I could answer that,” he answered, his voice low and strained.

“Would that any of us could,” Amelle sighed in return.

They combed through the rest of the garden in near silence — but that silence grew not because of the tenor of their conversation, but rather due to the disconcerting _lack_ of Andraste’s Grace anywhere in the vast, lush gardens.  Oh, there were some that looked very much like the flower upon first glance, but either the number of petals was wrong, or the color, or the shape of its leaves or the color of the pollen clinging to its stamen.

Amelle stood, shoulders aching, the back of her dress soaked with sweat — she didn’t dare think of how Cullen was suffering in a suit of _armor_ as he’d helped — staring at the countless flowers they’d looked through.  Her clothes were smudged with dirt and pollen and grass-stains, but her hands were empty.

“It’s not here,” she breathed.  “I don’t see it.  Cullen, I don’t— it’s not _here._ ”

No, that wasn’t possible — it _had_ to be here.  Amelle refused to believe the _only_ Andraste’s Grace in _all_ of Kirkwall had been crushed and buried beneath tons of rubble and ash.  But as Amelle cast around her, she saw no corner of the garden that had gone unexamined.  Her stomach began to twist and lurch unpleasantly, her pulse kicking up in her veins until Amelle gave in to growing lightheadedness and sat heavily upon a stone bench.  

He joined Amelle at the bench, standing before her.  “We will keep looking, Amelle.  You have my word.”

“Where?  _Where?”_ she asked again, hysteria tinging her words.  “It doesn’t grow wild — the climate’s not right.  It… it was at the chantry, so _why_ isn’t it _here_ , too?  That doesn’t make sense — it… it ought to be here.”  She could feel everything inside of her growing tight with anxiety, as if she were being squeezed from the inside out.  Her breaths were coming too shallow, too fast — _too much_ hinged on this potion for her to fail _now_.  “It _has_ to be here.”  

She looked up into Cullen’s face, but the sunlight behind him cast most of his features into shadow.  She blinked suddenly, though whether it was because of the sun or a sudden onslaught of tears — possibly both — Amelle wasn’t sure.  She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut.  Aveline was sick — _Kiara_ _was sick_ and hundreds of miles away — and this stupid, _bloody_ flower that grew _sodding_ _everywhere_ in Ferelden seemed not even to exist in Kirkwall.

Well, aside from where it _had_ existed having been completely demolished.  Bloody _Anders_.  _Again_.

 _Think, rabbit.  All is not lost; you must_ think _._

She couldn’t think — or, rather, she couldn’t think _clearly._ Her thoughts were coming too quickly for her to latch on to.  Time was too much of the essence, and the fact that she was poised on the precipice of failure was pounding too loudly in her ears.  She didn’t have _time_ to be wrong.  She didn’t have _time_ to wander through every garden in the Free Marches, _hoping_ she tripped across a blighted flower.

There was a soft jangle of armor and Amelle looked up through damp lashes to see Cullen had sunk to his knees, putting them both nearly eye to eye.  

“Amelle, you must listen to me.  We will figure this out.  I will assist you in any way I can.”

“ _How_?”  She hated the way desperation and worry and _fear_ made the word come out so very _strangled._

“However I must,” he told her, firmly.  “There are more gardens than this in Kirkwall.  If I must order every templar and city guard to search every flowerbed in the whole of the city, _I will do it_.”

The mental image his words evoked were so absurd, she could not help but laugh, even if that laugh was little more than a teary hiccup of a chuckle.  Cullen also smiled faintly at her soft laughter, as if he too realized how silly a picture it was he’d painted.

“You’re right,” he said, and Amelle could not help but marvel how soothingly he spoke.  “It _must_ grow somewhere else.  In the garden at Templar Hall, perhaps, or— or _somewhere_.  We will look.  You place your focus on finding the remaining ingredients.”

But the panic welling up inside of her would not be calmed so easily.  Amelle shook her head, rubbing at her face with dirt-streaked hands, feeling the grit grind against her cheeks.

“And what if I don’t find _that_ , either?  I need — we need a contingency plan.  Something else, in case—”  Her head was spinning with the consequences of her potential failure and she felt sick all over again.  She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, trying to think through her options.  She could try healing people one by one — or perhaps a group heal would work, if she focused her energies enough and had enough lyrium on hand.

 _Excellent idea,_ a soft voice — one that sounded _far_ too much like Kiara — remarked wryly.  _You’ll just kill yourself trying — or maybe just spellcast yourself into a coma.  Brilliant, really._

“Amelle…”  There came the sound of armor clinking softly and falling to the grass with a muffled, metallic thud.  When she once again opened her eyes, a pair of gauntlets were on the ground between her feet, and Cullen held her hands in his warm, rough ones.  “You will figure this out.  I have faith that you will — I have faith in _you._ ”

“ _Faith_?  In me?  Maker, you _are_ at the end of your options, aren’t you?”  She laughed again, and this time it sounded slightly unhinged, even to her own ears; for a sliver of a moment, Amelle wondered if _she_ were going mad, too.  If her initial estimation was wrong and mages _weren’t_ somehow protected?  What if—

Amelle felt her mana rise with every pounding heartbeat and every hitching breath.  She shook her head stubbornly, telling herself to _calm down_.  Cullen looked down at their joined hands and Amelle knew — _she knew_ — he could feel the arcane energy tingling beneath her skin.

“Cullen, I can’t—”

But then his hands were cradling her face, his thumbs wiping away tear tracks, despite the trails of grime across her cheeks.

“I have faith in you, Amelle Hawke,” he said again, and his tone was one that brooked no argument.  “We will find this flower — or another potion, if it comes to that — and if that is the case, we will find every blighted ingredient on that list as well.”

It struck her how frequently he was using the word “we.”  It also struck her she rather liked the sound of it.  After a few moments, her tongue snuck out to wet her lips, which were feeling too dry by half.  At this close distance, she couldn’t miss the way Cullen’s eyes dropped to her mouth.  And though he blinked, his gaze didn’t waver — even when a flush that likely had little to do with the heat of the day began to spread slowly across his cheeks.

“We?” she asked softly.

“We,” he answered, his thumbs still slowly stroking her cheeks.

Gradually, Amelle’s heartbeat slowed from its panicked gallop, but neither of them moved away from each other just yet.  She reached up to brush shy fingertips over the tops of his hands; he started slightly with the tentative contact and she knew without looking that something — some tingling bit of magic — had escaped when she’d touched him.

“Did it hurt?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cullen shook his head.  “No.  But you’re… still upset.”

She was still worried, it was true.  “I’m trying.  Truly, I am.  I’m… I don’t know if I can do this — if there’s no potion, I don’t think I can heal them all…“

Slowly, though the bare movement was still enough to settle Amelle into silence, Cullen tilted her face up a fraction.  With a soft breath of a sigh, she leaned ever so slightly into his touch.

“May I?” he murmured, and she felt the warm tickle of his breath against her lips.  When Amelle nodded, he moved closer.  Her eyes fluttered closed just as his lips brushed once, experimentally, against hers, before settling gently against her mouth.  At the same time, a slow, cooling ripple of energy coursed down her spine and into her limbs.  Her breathing slowed, and her mana settled.

A most unusual application of cleansing energy, she had to admit.

She’d read all the books, of course — fantastic stories of star-crossed love between mages and templars, or tales of sultry, seductive apostates winning over the most devoted, stalwart templar — and they all had one thing in common: the first kiss between a mage and a templar was meant to be a startling, earth-shattering, heart-pounding moment of unbridled _passion._   She wondered for a moment when it would escalate — when their pounding hearts would overwhelm all sense, and when she would fall into his arms.

…It wasn’t happening.

Then, as gently as it began, the kiss ended, leaving Amelle and Cullen, blinking slowly at each other.  For her part, Amelle felt vaguely confused, but when she saw that same puzzlement reflected back in Cullen’s gaze, she realized that it hadn’t been what he’d been expecting, either.  And for some strange reason, that knowledge left Amelle feeling a vague sense of relief.

Slowly, his hands came down from her face, finding her hands again and holding them warmly.

“I… didn’t think that was supposed to… happen that way.”  She cringed a little at her lack of eloquence.

His smile was… rueful.  But that he was smiling at all was also a relief. “Not what, ah… you expected, then?”

What could she say?  That she’d been expecting something _more_ than a perfectly pleasant kiss?  “Well… I haven’t much, um… scope for experience.  But I get the feeling I did something… wrong.”

“I… am fairly certain you did not.”  His eyes dropped to their joined hands.  “Perhaps, we…”  He trailed off, then let out a soft, rueful laugh.  “I am… fond of you, Amelle.  But… perhaps this isn’t…”  He gave her hands a squeeze.  “Perhaps we are not…”

“I… ah, I think I understand.”

“Well,” he said on a dry chuckle, “that _is_ a relief.”

Her own smile was crooked and rueful.  “This… isn’t what I’d expected to happen.”

“The kiss at all, or… afterward?”

She blushed.  “The kiss was… a surprise, I’ll warrant, but not an unpleasant one.  I was just… expecting something… else, I think.”  Something _more._

He nodded once, looking down at their hands again.  For a moment, Cullen seemed almost… disappointed.  Amelle knew all too well how he felt.  She respected him — _liked_ him, even — and it seemed entirely normal that things could… progress between them.  

“As was I, I fear,” said Cullen, quietly.  A beat of silence passed.  “Well.  This is somehow strangely less awkward than I’d feared.  That’s something, isn’t it?”

She let out a choking little laugh.  “You were… _expecting_ this?”

He grimaced a little and looked down.  “One does consider all… possible outcomes — even worst-case scenarios — before ventures such as this, yes?”  Amelle only arched an eloquent eyebrow at Cullen, whose eyes went suddenly wide.  “Oh, _Maker,_ I didn’t mean it that way.  _This_ was _not_ a worst-case scenario, Amelle—”

She sent him an arch look.  “Dare I ask what would have been?”

“…Being struck by a storm of lightning for having the audacity at all did come to mind.”

Her lips twitched.  “And were you more afraid of me striking you with lightning, or the Maker Himself?”

“I would not put it past you to conjure it yourself and let me _wonder._ ”

Laughter bubbled up inside Amelle, escaping as she ducked her head sheepishly.  “Maker, you know me better than I’d thought.” Another little laugh passed her lips as she regarded him.  “I do… _like_ you, you know.”  Her smile suddenly tilted mischievously.  “Imagine that: an apostate actually enjoying the company of a templar.  Maker, what _will_ the neighbors say?”

Closing his eyes and shaking his head at her, Cullen breathed a soft huff of laughter as well.  “Indeed.  And I am… not indifferent to you, either, Amelle.”

“‘Not indifferent’?” Amelle echoed, mockingly, making no effort to hide the teasing grin at her lips.  “Such a shining recommendation!  Why, Knight-Commander—”

Cullen didn’t have to _say_ anything — the _look_ he gave Amelle was enough to cut her off and send her dissolving into laughter.  It felt… _good_ to laugh — as if all of the stress and all of the worry and _everything_ was finally releasing its hold on her.  Cullen had faith in her, believed in her, and it was enough to awaken a spark of similar faith in Amelle.  All would yet be well.  She wasn’t entirely sure _how,_ just yet, but… all would be well.  Somehow.  Eventually.

“Very well,” Cullen said, attempting — and failing — at maintaining a stern tone.  “I might admit to tolerating you — even _liking_ you — provided you learn my bloody title and stop giving me this premature promotion you seem intent on bestowing upon me.”

“If _that’s_ all it’s going to take,” Amelle riposted, eyes fairly twinkling, “I think I’ll settle for you being just ‘not indifferent’ to me.”

“You’d sacrifice my good opinion, then?”

Her grin widened.  “Well, you _are_ great fun to vex.”

This time he laughed outright.  “And the truth comes out.  Maker help me.”


	40. Chapter 40

After the third inn declared they had a complete lack of vacancies and closed its door in their faces, Kiara started to think perhaps it was not simply a coincidence. She could tell Sebastian certainly thought it was not; he grew ever more unhappy, until she was half-certain a glance at his face was what was inducing the innkeepers to turn them away.

“This is ridiculous,” she said.

Varric snorted. “Oh, I’d say we passed ridiculous two inns and an impounded boat ago, Hawke. This is firmly walking the road to disturbing and leaving ridiculous in its dust.”

Isabela groused, “I hate this city.”

Sebastian glowered at her.

“What, I do. I’m just telling the truth. I thought you approved of always telling the truth, Princess.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

She winked. “If the pretty little high-heeled shoe fits…”

Kiara glared them both into silence. “What I’d like to know is how in the Maker’s name word spread so fast.”

Isabela’s laugh rang out. “Oh, Hawke. Never underestimate the network between bartenders and innkeepers and whores. Slight one and you’ve slighted them all.”

Dryly, Sebastian said, “You know this from experience, I take it?”

Rather than showing embarrassment, Isabela only laughed again. “Are you kidding? There’s not a single establishment in Highever that’ll let me past the door.”

“Sounds like a charming place.”

“Not particularly,” Isabela replied before realization of his meaning struck. “Oh. Yes. Well aren’t you funny, Princess.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to launch another volley just as a second patrol of guards turned the corner and interrupted them. These looked somehow even more stern and serious than the patrol at the docks; they all had hands on weapons and their posture bordered on aggressive. The leader said, “Curfew at sundown. Get where you’re going.”

Whatever insult Sebastian had been preparing for Isabela died on his tongue, and instead he frowned and turned slightly to face the patrol leader. Isabela applied a swift kick to _his_ shin and whatever damning words Sebastian had been about to speak in his Starkhaven accent were lost instead to a yelp of pain.

“We… were just on our way, ser,” Kiara said, turning to walk in the opposite direction. The guards watched them go for a moment before continuing their rounds; as soon as they were out of earshot, Kiara paused.

“Curfew?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Isabela declaimed, “Yes, yes, we get it. Never in your lifetime, not in my city, indignation, etcetera. I think we’ve established things are _weird_. But where are we going to _sleep_?”

With no small amount of trepidation, Kiara said, “I suppose… I suppose we could try Shira and Tad. Even if they don’t have room, perhaps they could… point us in a more friendly direction.”

A trio of confused expressions met her gaze when she glanced up and she sighed. “They’re friends of my mother’s. They’re originally from Kirkwall, but have been here a decade at least. Mother always kept in touch. It was… they who sent the letter informing me of the change in Starkhaven’s rulership. I admit I am concerned I didn’t receive a reply to my last letter, but it’s entirely possible it arrived after we left.”

Isabela found her voice first. “We couldn’t have just gone there _first_?”

Kiara gave an embarrassed, awkward shrug. “I’ve never met them. It seems… presumptuous. I intended to visit, certainly, but… but we seem to have exhausted our other options.”

When she told Sebastian the direction, he nodded thoughtfully and guided them through deserted city streets. Just as the sun was setting, they arrived in a pleasant district that seemed to house mainly wealthy merchants. Large houses fronted a grand central square, though the square’s fountain was silent. Approaching the house Sebastian indicated, Kiara raised her hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, knocked decisively.

She knocked twice more, and was just about to give up when the door opened a crack. An eye appeared, though nothing else could be seen of the eye’s owner. It blinked at them.

“Pardon me, messere. I am looking for Mistress Shira? Or Master Tad? I am… a friend.”

At this the door opened a little wider—wide enough to see the blue eye matched in the face of a pleasant looking woman about her mother’s age—about the age her mother would now have been. The woman planted her hands on her hips and glared up at them. “You’re no friend of mine. Or my husband’s. Unless there’s something he hasn’t told me.”

Very softly, Kiara said, “You… knew my mother. Leandra.”

Recognition tinged with fear— _of course_ , Kiara thought, _everyone_ else _in Kirkwall is afraid, why should she be different?_ —flitted across the woman’s face. “Are you the elder? Or the…?”

The word _mage_ was left unspoken, but Kiara heard it loudly nonetheless. It was accompanied by another troubling twinge of fear. Kiara tried to remember what her mother had _said_ about these friends, but nothing about mage-prejudice came to mind. In fact, Kiara had believed the family to have a mage child of their own—though one who’d gone to the Starkhaven Circle instead of leading an apostate’s life. Even in the few letters exchanged since her mother’s death, Shira had always asked after Amelle. Her tone had always been kind, concerned, and had contained nothing like the slither of fear Kiara witnessed now.

“I’m Kiara,” she said simply, extending her hand. The woman waited a moment too long before clasping it in greeting, and then she pulled away too suddenly. “I was somewhat surprised by the information you related in your last letter and thought to come see for myself, but… I am afraid the city’s hospitality has been found somewhat wanting.”

After an uncomfortably long pause, and with a glance beyond them into the gloaming, Shira said, “Please. Do… come in. Forgive my rudeness.”

When they were all safely inside, Shira seemed even more skittish. Kiara did not miss the way the woman balled her skirts in her fists, or how brittle and false her smile appeared. Her husband came to stand behind her, arms crossed and face impassive. Kiara almost glanced at Sebastian to see if he could indicate if she’d broken some horrible law of Starkhaven etiquette. For an instant she thought about turning and walking out again, but the threat of patrols and curfews and consequences hung over them and she found it was a risk she was not quite prepared to take.

Shira said, “The… Champion of Kirkwall. In our home. What an… honor.”

She did not sound honored in the slightest.

“I am sorry, Mistress, to trespass upon your hospitality, but we find ourselves rather short on options. We will compensate you generously.”

“No, of course, of course. Do come in. Leandra’s daughter—and her friends, of course—are welcome here. Of course.”

Varric chuckled mirthlessly. “That’s a lot of courses.”

Isabela moaned, “I’m hungry.” On Varric’s scowl, she added, “What? You said _courses_.”

Evidently startled—begging for food rather went against the etiquette of _anywhere_ civilized—Shira said, “I’ve stew, if you want it. Not much. But you are… welcome to what we have. Of course.”

“Of _course_ ,” Isabela echoed, tone just shy of mocking. Kiara frowned, but the pirate only smiled brightly and gestured for the woman to lead the way.

It was the quietest, most strained meal Kiara had ever eaten. Shira and Tad shared glances every time they thought no one was watching.

Kiara and Sebastian shared similar glances. Only she was _certain_ no one saw these.

Later, the four of them retired to the spare room Shira provided. Isabela immediately flung herself face-down on the bed—the only bed—and began to snore lightly. Varric pulled a chair near the fire and began to tend so lovingly to Bianca that Kiara knew at once he was truly distressed about something. Sebastian stood at the window, staring out into the night, his knuckles white against the window ledge.

Kiara paced. At last she paused and said somberly, “We should sleep in shifts.”

Varric glanced at Isabela and said wryly, “I guess she gets to go first.”

Sebastian, however, frowned, and his words held no trace of humor, “You think these people mean us harm?”

Kiara replied, “I think I don’t trust them. Something about the way… they seemed so concerned about me being _me_ and not being Amelle. I’ve never once gotten the impression they had anything against her before now; they had a mage-child of their own. Shira has always asked after Amelle politely in her letters. And you saw how nervous they were at dinner. It’s just enough to make me feel unsettled. So we set a watch. And we have an escape plan.”

Sebastian nodded unhappily. Varric shook his head, and fiddled with Bianca’s trigger. Isabela snored.

#

She woke to a hand over her mouth. Before Kiara could bite it or scream or struggle, she recognized Sebastian’s face close to hers, his eyes intent and concerned. When she nodded, he released his hand and she took a deep breath, raising her eyebrows in silent question.

Sebastian tapped his ear, and when she listened carefully she heard what he was alluding to. Beneath the faint sounds of her companions sleeping, she heard the sound of booted feet on the stairs, and the telltale clink of mail and armor and weapons. If their company was attempting to be quiet, it was certainly failing; she feared this meant they had come in numbers, and were cocky about success. Throwing a glance at the window, she saw the sky was still completely dark, but that the moon had shifted position. A couple of hours, then. She supposed she ought to be grateful for what sleep they’d managed, but mostly she was just… angry.

Kiara turned to Isabela. The pirate woke as instantly as she’d fallen asleep, but she rolled her eyes in disgust as soon as she realized it was not simply her turn at watch she was being woken for.

Sebastian silently slipped to Varric’s side, but Varric only mumbled in his sleep, wrapping his arms more tightly about Bianca. He didn’t wake entirely until Sebastian attempted—very gingerly, Kiara noted—to remove the crossbow from his grasp.

The room was on the second floor, but the window opened into the garden—Kiara hoped they had not thought to send men around the back, and was grateful at least they did not have to jump into the main square to escape. Sebastian, by dint of being tallest, was the first to go. By hanging out the window, he was able to simply drop the rest of the distance, landing with only the faintest sound of gravel crunching beneath his feet. Kiara spared a moment to worry about his wound, but he didn’t so much as wince. She supposed if he was able to draw his bow, hanging from windowsills was nothing. 

With a glance around the room—the guards were speaking in the hall now, but not loudly enough for Kiara to make out their words—Isabela followed, also hanging from the window ledge before dropping silently into the shadows below.

“You next, Hawke,” Varric whispered, jerking his chin in the direction of the window.

Kiara shook her head, but since he already had Bianca locked, loaded and trained on the door, it only made sense and she reluctantly left him. Dangling from the window ledge, her knees banged into the stone wall beneath and she winced. The garden beneath was in darkness; she knew Sebastian could see her better than she could see him, but still she hesitated, inhaling deeply, before releasing her hold and dropping. She spared a brief thought for how much more challenging an escape would be with a broken ankle or cracked skull, but then Sebastian’s hands tightened about her waist and settled her firmly on the ground. She smiled her thanks up at him, but he was already looking to the window above, where Varric had yet to appear.

The unmistakable sound of shouting rose from within, followed by the thunk of a crossbow firing. Kiara had her own bow in hand and was prepared to shoot if anyone _not_ Varric appeared above them. The shadow that materialized in the window, however, was Varric’s. “Choir Boy,” he shouted. “Catch!” Bianca fell into Sebastian’s waiting hands.

“Varric!” Isabela cried, “What do you think you’re—”

Before she could finish, Varric flung himself from the window, dropping into a neat roll and coming up lightly to his feet. He grabbed the crossbow from Sebastian’s hands and grinned.

They all _stared._

“What?” he said. “You’ve never seen me do the flying dwarf trick?”

Isabela feigned a swoon. “Why, Fuzzy, that was almost _heroic._ ”

Varric chuckled. “Aww, shucks. I tell you what, it’ll ruin the finale if we’re caught _now_ , so maybe we save the raptures for later?”

Isabela smiled.

As they moved through the garden, Varric added, “There will be raptures, though, right? I mean… that was definitely deserving of raptures.”

“Varric,” Kiara hissed, “I will write you a bloody _song_ if you’ll pipe down until we’re safe.”

“Better be a rapturous song,” he mumbled under his breath.

#

They followed Sebastian through the empty, darkened streets, always listening for—and fearing they’d hear—the crash of soldiers behind him. Three times they had to wait out patrols, and Kiara was forced to acknowledge that without Sebastian’s intimate knowledge of the city’s layout, they’d have been caught many times over. After what felt an eternity, they took refuge in a warehouse whose lock was obliging, and which seemed to be unguarded.

A thin cut to one of Varric’s shoulders proved their escape could have gone much worse. Isabela was quiet as she tended to it.

“You gonna kiss that better, Rivaini?” Varric quipped.

Kiara, rooting through her pack looking for a bandage, half-expected Isabela to retort in a similar vein, but when she spoke the pirate’s voice was uncharacteristically serious. “I’m not sure if what you did was brave or stupid.”

Varric patted her hand reassuringly, but responded lightly, “I’d prefer we went with brave, if it’s all the same to you. It’ll make a better story. Singlehandedly fought a legion of darkspawn—ooh, ogres! Everyone loves an ogre story—to give his companions a chance to escape! Grievously injured, with no other recourse, the lionhearted dwarf flung himself from the rooftop whilst arrows rained down all around him! Then—”

Isabela rolled her eyes, finished tying the bandage Kiara had handed her, and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to the binding. Varric instantly fell silent, staring down at the bandage and the top of Isabela’s head. And he blushed. Just a little.

Isabela smirked up at him. “Rapturous enough for you?”

After a moment of amused silence, Sebastian said seriously, “We have to consider the worst-case scenario. The guard should have excellent descriptions of us, and names to go along with them.”

“So much for incognito,” said Varric.

Isabela raised her eyebrows hopefully. “Does that mean we can leave?”

Sebastian clenched and unclenched his hands before staring down into his palms. Then he said softly, “I will not stop you from going. You owe me nothing. You owe Starkhaven nothing.”

Isabela said, “Well, _you_ sort of owe _me_ a ship, actually. If we’re talking about owing.”

Kiara elbowed her sharply and shook her head, then said to Sebastian, “You want to stay.”

“Of _course_ you want to stay. Ugh. Heroes,” Isabela griped.

Kiara watched Sebastian make the decision to ignore the pirate. He said, “This… all of this… this isn’t the way things are done here. I have a responsibility—”

But Isabela was not content to be ignored. She said, “Didn’t you have a responsibility years ago?”

There was something open about the statement, and though the words were hard, Kiara could tell Isabela was not aiming to be cruel.

“I did,” Sebastian agreed. “If you think I don’t blame myself—”

“Oh, Princess, it’s pretty obvious you’re blaming yourself all over the place. I’m just not sure what you want to _do_ about it.”

“Isabela, please—”

“No, Hawke,” Sebastian said. “She’s right.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Might I offer a suggestion?” They all looked at him. “Before anyone goes haring off into danger, as certain fearless dwarves have already _done_ once this evening, perhaps we might spend a couple of days trying to gather information. No one wants a repeat of… Kirkwall.”

“And you think slumming about in taverns for a week is going to help us?” Sebastian asked, his tone bordering on cynical.

“Information helps us, Choir Boy. I know it. You know it. Shit happens when there’s a lack of it. You want to make things worse than they are already? I tell you what—we find out _why_ your people are so damned scared, and that’ll let us know where you can point that fancy bow of yours. Don’t shoot blind. Someone innocent’ll get hurt. We’ve all seen it happen.”

Sebastian bowed his head. Kiara touched the back of his hand lightly, and was relieved when he didn’t immediately jerk away.

“Get some sleep,” she said. “All of you. Something tells me we may find it in short supply. First watch is mine.”

#

Kiara woke to the sound of rain. She’d been asleep just long enough and in just awkward enough a position to have a terrible crick in her neck, but not at all for the length of time required for her to feel in any way rested. Shifting, she rolled onto her back on the hard, packed-earth floor. Her back protested by creaking unpleasantly. Turning her head, she saw Isabela and Varric curled on their sides, still sleeping, facing each other with Bianca between them. Her lips twitched in a smile. A glance in the other direction revealed Sebastian sitting near the door, keeping watch and checking his arrows one by one for flaws. The smile died. Every line of his body screamed the truth of his torment, and she realized he was taking the strange events since his return to his homeland more badly even than he’d let on.

Pushing herself to one elbow was enough to send Sebastian’s attention her way. Then he returned to his task. She sighed and crossed the floor to sit next to him, lifting an arrow to the light afforded by the opened door. The greyness outside was a little lighter—somewhere above the cloud-cover it was dawn.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, pitching her voice low so as not to disturb Varric and Isabela.

Sebastian shook his head, setting a slightly-warped arrow to one side before picking up another and examining the fletching carefully. One of the feathers was askew. He set this arrow aside, too.

“You’ll be little help if you’re exhausted.”

His fingers tightened around the shaft of a third arrow before he dropped it lightly back into his quiver. Even in the rainy dawnlight, the pinched lines and the dark circles at his eyes were starkly evident. He looked older than his years. “What if I can’t help?”

“Sebastian…”

He looked away from her, out into the silvery rain. The heavy pounding was slowing, retreating to a drizzly mist. “One sleepless night hardly matters, Hawke. It will not be the first I’ve spent awake in prayer and contemplation. Nor will it be the last.”

She huffed a sigh and set aside an arrow whose fletching was ragged and needed replacing. “I don’t suppose the Maker provided any great insight?”

She didn’t mean the words to sound bitter, but the tone was unmistakable and he flinched. Putting one hand to her forehead, she rubbed ineffectually at the headache building there. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he said softly, “you did. I understand. Perhaps it is justified. I ask the Maker for answers and He sends only more questions. Waiting… waiting so often looks like wavering. I suppose… I suppose I never considered how foolish my indecision must have seemed to you all those years.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his legs and settling his chin on his knees, staring out into the morning. She was glad to see the left moved as easily as the right.

“Sebastian, if you’re thinking about what Isabela said—”

He turned his cheek and gave her a rueful half-smile. “What did she say that was not the truth? Whatever has changed this city from the place I knew, I think I might have prevented it. But instead I dithered. For years I did nothing.”

Kiara raised her hand to comfort him, but at the last moment froze. Her hand hovered in the space between them briefly before falling back to her lap, useless. “Not nothing,” she insisted. “Perhaps you were neither Chantry Brother nor Prince, but you were… you _helped_. Whatever you did, it wasn’t _nothing_ , not to me. And not to the people we helped.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, clearly mulling something over. A rogue lock of hair fell across his brow, but he did not raise his hand to push it away, and she found herself distracted by wanting to do so herself. She almost missed it when he said, very softly, very seriously, “Why do you do what you do?”

“What?”

He compressed his lips and shook his head, the lock of hair trembling. “Why do you _care_? I cannot fathom… time and time again, Kirkwall betrayed you. Time and time again, you attempted reason and were met with madness. You did not let it defeat you. Still you struggled. Still you lost and fell and were pushed down. Each time you pulled yourself to your feet and fought on, long past the point anyone, _anyone_ else would have given up. _Why?_ I know it wasn’t for coin or prestige; you seem indifferent to both. Nor could your motive have been political power, or you’d have shown interest in the Viscount’s position when it was all but offered you. What _drives_ you, Hawke?”

Taken aback, she blinked and nervously wrapped a strand of her own hair round and round her index finger until the tip throbbed with trapped blood. When she glanced up, Sebastian was still staring at her, his eyes hawkish and sharp, searching her face. “I… suppose I wanted to protect my family. My mother. Amelle. Even bloody Gamlen, on those rare occasions I didn’t want to kill him.”

He shook his head again, as though this wasn’t a good enough answer—wasn’t the _right_ answer—as though she’d failed some test she hadn’t been aware he’d set. “Certainly,” he said, without sounding very certain at all. “But why help _me_ , so many years ago? You did not know me. You owed me nothing. I am not… family. Those mercenaries were murderers, aye, but you put yourself—and Amelle—in unnecessary danger to fight them. If your motivation was truly to keep your sister safe, would you not have avoided confrontation altogether?”

She held her hands wide in mock surrender. “I-I don’t know if I have an answer, Sebastian. I—perhaps I did not yet know you, but… they were _your_ family, and your grief was…” Kiara shrugged. “I suppose wanting to protect my family often translated— _translates_ —into wanting them to live in a world that… doesn’t require so much _protection_ for them to be safe in it _._ ” She scuffed the heel of her boot against the hard floor. “I don’t like bullies,” she said finally. “You know that. And sometimes I’m strong enough or clever enough to stop them. Isn’t that motivation enough?”

Sebastian pushed his hands through his hair and stared up at the ceiling; she wondered if he was offering up a brief prayer. Instead, he said, “I look in the mirror you hold up and I find myself wanting, Hawke.”

“I’m… not sure I want to ask what you mean by that.”

“You don’t hesitate.”

“Ahh,” she said lightly, “what you mean is I act first and think later. My mother always insinuated it was a flaw.”

Even now, the memory of her mother stung. No matter what Sebastian said, she’d hesitated then. She’d hardly listened when her mother spoke of her sudden suitor; she hadn’t been clever enough to put the pieces together; she’d let herself _not think_ about the dead girls she hadn’t saved, Mharen and Ninette, never thinking their deaths would come back to haunt her. Stupid. Slow. Behind her eyelids she saw her mother’s face on the patchwork body Quentin had built, and oh, the years had done _nothing_ to dim that image, to make it anything but the most horrifying thing she’d seen in her life. Her stomach threatened to turn over, but Kiara mimicked Sebastian’s gesture and wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into herself.

“I meant no offense,” Sebastian said gently, as though he knew the turn of her thoughts, but his gentleness somehow only made the pain worse. She swallowed the rising bile. “I _admire_ you, Hawke. You… make me want to be a better man.”

Breathing deeply, she blew out a frustrated exhale. “Careful,” she replied. “Don’t want to make Andraste jealous.”

The joke fell flat even to her own ears, and Sebastian smiled sadly.

Across the room, Isabela sat up and growled something in Rivaini under her breath that Kiara knew couldn’t be complimentary. Varric mumbled and rolled over, throwing an arm over his head. 

“ _Honestly_ ,” Isabela snapped. “Could you two take the heart to heart elsewhere? It’s too bloody _early_ for admiration and jealous gods. Some of us are trying to _sleep_.”

“Fine,” Kiara said. “We’ll go find food. It’s on you if you sleep through an attack, though.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Isabela growled.

By the time Kiara retrieved her own bow and closed the door, Sebastian already stood outside. He nodded once to indicate the street was quiet, the coast clear. Mist beaded in his hair, but the rain had mostly stopped. Kiara inhaled deeply; the world never smelled so clean as it did in the moments just after a hard rain. Sebastian began walking away, but she touched the back of his hand and he halted.

“May I speak frankly?” she asked. He canted his head, clearly taken aback, but nodded.

She said, “You wavered. You were indecisive. There are those who would say you shirked your responsibilities—whether it was your responsibility to your homeland or to the Chantry, there are those who would condemn your choices. You have made mistakes, and it’s possible those mistakes have caused harm. Who _hasn’t_? I’m not a princess or a lay-sister, but apart from that? I’ve been guilty of all those things, at one point or another. The thing is, Sebastian… the thing is, you _blame_ yourself, and that blame eats at you, and it makes you ineffectual. It makes you weak.”

Sebastian stiffened and the color rose in his cheeks, but he inclined his head to accept her criticism. 

Kiara continued more gently, “If you have enemies—in Starkhaven, or elsewhere—you must know they want you weak. Don’t let them have it. You cannot change what has happened. _Nothing_ can change what has already happened. Everyone… _everyone_ has things in their lives they would wish undone. Fight what you can fight _now_. Be stronger than this. Be stronger than they expect you to be.”

She watched him absorb her words. Gradually his brow lost the hard line of dismay, his color returned to normal, and his lips softened. After a moment, he nodded with silent resolve, and when he looked at her again it was with determination in his eyes and not the grief and guilt she had begun to fear would come to define him. “I—thank you, Hawke. Again.”

With a wry smile, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Besides, Amelle is always the first to tell me whining is terribly unattractive, and we both know occasionally Amelle is startlingly astute in matters such as these.”

He almost laughed. The sound that emerged was a ghost of a chuckle, but better than nothing. Kiara had heard little enough laughter from him in the weeks since he woke; she’d take a tiny chuckle if it was on offer. She hesitated— _oh, Sebastian, see? I hesitate_ —only a moment before reaching out and gripping his hand. After a second he returned the comforting squeeze.

“We’ll figure it out, Sebastian,” she said. “We always do.”

This time when he shook his head, it was accompanied by a soft sigh. “It’s madness, Hawke, but I believe you.”

#

It was still too early for the shops to be open, and though Kiara would have expected the markets to already be catering to the early risers, they found doors shut tight and windows shuttered. The mist turned heavy and became rain once again, and soon her hair dripped and rivulets of water rain down her face and into the neck of her clothing.

Sebastian, looking every bit as bedraggled as she felt, stopped abruptly and sniffed the air. She mimicked him and found she, too, smelled smoke—but not the clean burning smoke of hearthfires or cookfires. Something was burning, but it wasn’t natural; even the faint odor made her gorge rise. A shiver ran the length of her spine, and she turned her face until she thought she knew the direction. Before she could dash forward, Sebastian put a hand to her shoulder and pulled her back.

“This way,” he said softly. “We can’t go in blind.”

They skulked through the rain, always following the pervasive scent of burning. After a time, noise accompanied the smell—the unmistakable sound of a gathered crowd. She could not make out their words, but the volume and anger ensured she was prepared with an arrow to her bowstring.

Sebastian, having taken the lead, held up his hand. She paused, and when he urged her forward, they emerged onto a gallery overlooking an open square. Smoke billowed through the air, undaunted by the rain. A gust of wind cleared the smoke just long enough for them to see, and to be horrified.

Kiara froze in her tracks, for a moment unwilling to believe her own eyes, though she had never doubted them before. Her mind told her she must be witnessing a funeral—a great pyre for some fallen comrade or local hero. In spite of the rain, the fire burned hot and hard, throwing up its clouds of black smoke, engulfing the figure in the inferno.

It was the mob that convinced her otherwise. She had witnessed all too many funerals, and none of them had ever brought grief in the form of angry, screaming voices, not like this. It was not mourning. The crowd screamed for justice. For death. _Death is never justice._

Kiara heard them shriek the word _mage._

They crept to the edge of the balcony, peering out over the seething mass of fury beneath them.

“Maker,” Sebastian breathed, his voice taut with horror. “Maker be _merciful_.”

Kiara saw it then. The person trapped in the conflagration was still _alive_. 

“We have to—” she began, but the words drifted into silence, quelled by the rising of her stomach. She swallowed again and again, but still the bile rose.

It was too late. She knew it was too late. She… thought the victim was a woman; something about the slenderness of the writhing body, though distinguishing markers like clothes and hair were long since gone. The woman, if woman it was, was too weak to scream, but still she twitched within the flames. Perhaps she was unconscious. Kiara _hoped_ she was unconscious.

Too late. Kiara knew even Amelle—even a healer as talented as Amelle—would not be able to heal such wounds. Kiara brought an arrow to her bow and pulled. Then her stomach rebelled once again and she… hesitated.

Sebastian did not. The burning woman’s head snapped back, her throat pierced by Sebastian’s flawless shot, the white fletching quivering even as it instantly went up in flames.

“‘Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.’”

Sebastian’s words—his prayer—emerged choked, but sincere. Kiara wished rather than believed the Chant might grant some measure of peace; she knew she felt none.

Engulfed in white-hot rage, Kiara turned her still-drawn arrow on one of the torch-wielding townsfolk and released it. The man fell to the stones, hardly noticed by the press of others around him. Sebastian took out another. The crowd was wild, frothing with such wrath it took time for them to notice the arrows felling their members.

Kiara shot two more before Sebastian grabbed her shoulder, panting, “We can’t take them all.”

“We can bloody well _try._ ”

“No, Hawke, we cannot. This is more than we can handle alone. Dying here will save no one. There will be time for justice later. Please. _Please._ ”

She resisted a moment more, sending two more arrows into the throng, before Sebastian grabbed her wrist in an insistent, iron grip and pulled her forcibly away. She spat a curse at him, but followed, coughing as she inhaled a lungful of the acrid smoke.

It _was_ a funeral now, but she could not stay to mourn. And so they fled, chased by the harrowing cries of the mob.

#

Kiara didn’t remember much of the return trip to the warehouse. Sebastian pulled her down side streets and walked them in circles, never once taking his hand from her wrist as he tugged her along behind him. She knew his grip would leave bruises in the shapes of fingers, but she thought it was probably good he was so strong, because with every fiber of her being she wanted to go back and rain arrows on the mob, futile or not.

Even with all the things she’d seen—and some had been truly awful—she had never imagined, never in her worst _nightmares_ imagined such a thing. Questions raced through her mind, each more alarming and infuriating than the last. Fear of mages she could understand—too well; so many years of constantly fearing for her sister’s wellbeing in the face of such fear had trained her well—but to _murder_ one? Again she was forced to swallow past the overwhelming nausea.

Where were the templars? Where was _order_?

In her mind’s eye, just for an instant, she saw Amelle in a fire like that, burning like _that_ , and she was forced at last to dig her heels into the ground and bend over, to void her mostly-empty stomach onto the wet cobblestones.

Sebastian, a bit wild about the eyes, released her wrist at last, but only to step close and put a hand to her back. He rubbed comforting circles against her spine. She heaved once more and spat, grateful for the gesture but still seething, still _sick_.

 Where were the _templars_?

“That wasn’t a mage,” Kiara said, still trying to bring herself back under control.

“Hawke,” said Sebastian. She didn’t shrug off his hand, but she stood, and he lowered his arm.

“No,” she protested, “don’t you see? There were no templars.”

“Hawke, now isn’t the time—”

Clenching her hand into a fist, she pounded herself on the thigh once, hard. The pain bought her a moment’s reprieve from the ache in her gut. “ _Listen to me_. They were… they _thought_ they were burning a mage. They were crying out against mages; you heard them. But there were no _templars._ ”

Sebastian held his hands wide in surrender, his expression exasperated. “Kiara,” he said, emphasizing the syllables of her given name heavily, “it was _madness._ Whatever it was, it was madness. You cannot attempt to make _sense_ of it.”

She uttered a brief, guttural cry of distress. “But you _heard them_. They were purging mages. But there—”

“—Were no templars. What does it matter? Do you think templars are the only ones holding a grudge against mages? Especially after what happened in Kirkwall? You _immediately_ wish to blame the Chantry for any action taken against mages?” Defensiveness tinged his words now, and his eyes were sharp as he blinked the rain from his lashes.

“No!” she cried. “But _templars_ are the only ones with the skills necessary to _incapacitate_ mages. It’s why they bloody exist! You think any _real_ mage would have submitted to that fire? That was no mage! It was—”

Realization widened his eyes and stole what little color remained in his cheeks. “—Someone innocent of the crime.”

Hackles raised, Kiara put her hand against his chest and pushed. It wasn’t strong, and he only stumbled a few inches, but it was enough to discompose him, to make his hawkish gaze drop. “Being a mage _isn’t_ a crime,” she snarled. “Don’t you even—”

“Hawke, I didn’t mean—”

“ _Anders_  committed the crime, Sebastian!” she shouted, even though a part of her knew, _knew_ she shouldn’t. Her voice rang in the empty street, echoing eerily, her own words flung back at her, punctuated by the pummeling downpour. “ _Anders!_  Not all mages. Not even most mages. _Anders!_  Would you see Amelle put to that kind of... would you see Amelle... _Amelle_? Who _heals_  people? Who _cries_  when she loses patients? Is she a criminal to you? Is what she does a _crime?”_

“Kiara,” he whispered, as though the gentleness of his own voice could induce her to imitate him. He didn’t attempt to touch her, but she recoiled as if he had. “It wasn’t Amelle. Amelle is safe. Amelle is protected. It wasn’t Amelle.”

“I know! I know that! But it was _someone_. It was someone with a mother and father. Maybe siblings. Maybe children. A lover. A life. It was _someone_ , someone whose life _mattered_. No one deserves that kind of a death. _No one!_ Not mages, not murderers, _no one._ ”

Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the rain. Tears brightened Sebastian’s eyes, too, somehow rendering the blue even more startling.

“Believe me, Hawke. We will bring them to justice.”

Kiara clenched her hands in her wet hair and tugged, hard, fighting the scream rising deep in her belly. _Justice._ “I hate that _fucking word!_ I don’t even now what it _means_ anymore, except people _dying_.”

His eyes did not leave hers. He watched her as carefully as one might watch a rabid dog. Steadily, he said, “It means we will find out who is spreading these lies, who is allowing such actions to take place, who is at fault, and we will make them answer for their crimes. Without undue cruelty. Without slaughter. Without sliding into madness and vengeance ourselves. I swear to you. I _swear._ ”

She wanted to believe him. Kiara wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as though the force of her own limbs might somehow keep all the jangling pieces of herself together. It was the _wrongness_ of it all. She couldn’t _help_ putting her sister in that fire, seeing Amelle fighting for her life against the prejudice, the intolerance, the discrimination based on lies and half-truths and shadows. Always running. Always hiding. Always _fearing._

The smell of smoke, of burning, lingered in Kiara’s nostrils, clinging to her clothes like ghostly fingers. The odor was pervasive and cloying and—and then it was _that night_ all over again; the burning city, the screaming citizens, the betrayals of Anders and Sebastian and Orsino all fresh and stinging. The smell of smoke reminded her of Meredith’s madness, and of having to fight and kill people she didn’t want to fight and kill, knowing it was already too late to save the innocents in the chantry. Elthina. How many templars had fallen to her arrows that night? How many of Cullen’s comrades—Maker, how close it had been to Cullen himself—had died because they followed a madwoman who’d twisted their cause?

Once again Kiara found herself sick, sick unto _death_ of the unreasonableness, the misconceptions and petty hatreds allowed to rage out of control, to lead to things like _innocents burned in the streets._ Her mouth tasted of blood and bile, and she realized she’d bitten her own tongue.

Isabela and Varric appeared then, their expressions wary. She wondered absently if they were near the warehouse, or if her shouting had carried so far. She wished—she _wished_ with all she had—that she wouldn’t have to tell them, wouldn’t have to explain. And part of her resented them, because neither of them had to see what she and Sebastian had seen. Neither of them had to have the images of the mob, the arrow, that _woman_ playing again and again on the backs of their eyelids.

Kiara’s jaw clenched until her teeth hurt when Isabela said, carelessly casual, “Well, shit. Something happened.”

Varric’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look to Isabela. He looked at Kiara, unblinking, searching her face. Kiara almost hoped he’d see the truth written there, so she wouldn’t be forced to speak the ugliness aloud.

“Look at them,” Isabela continued, her tone too unconcerned, her posture too easy. “They’re all worked up. So now they’re going to ask us to do something _heroic._ You know she always gets that _look_ when she wants us to—”

Kiara flung herself at Isabela with a cry, and only the pirate’s light feet and duelist’s reflexes kept her from being hurled to the ground. Instead it was Kiara who knelt, hands scraped and knees aching. “Shut up!” she said, as fervently as ever a prayer was spoken. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up!”_

Varric crouched beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder that ought to have felt comforting, but instead just felt heavy. “What is it, Hawke? Something… bad?”

Sebastian hung his head and replied, “Very.”


	41. Chapter 41

Cullen, true to his word, had dispatched templar and the remaining guard alike — requiring them to work _together_ in many cases — to find even a single Andraste’s Grace in Kirkwall.  Some had scoffed at the errand, until they were told they were searching for a key component to the cure for this strange, pervasive ailment; nearly everyone in the city knew someone afflicted.  The most dangerous, violent victims had been locked away in cells.  Little by little, people succumbed, and there _appeared_ to be no rhyme or reason to those who resisted infection and those who… didn’t, which of course meant there _was_ a reason that Amelle simply couldn’t see.  Most noteworthy of those immune was Donnic, something for which Amelle was truly grateful; she was certain Cullen was even more thankful than she.

Amelle and Cullen didn’t speak again of what transpired in the garden.  They acknowledged it, of course, but came to a tacit agreement that what _had_ happened had happened for the best — and whatever _didn’t_ exist between them was not mourned.  They enjoyed each other’s company, certainly, just not in any… romantic sense, and Amelle was strangely satisfied with that.

She was curled on the divan, the botany book open on her lap and several sheets of parchment spread out on the cushion beside her.  It was early yet, and the cup of tea by her elbow still steamed without any help from her.  She couldn’t worry about the Andraste’s Grace — not now, at any rate.  She had to pin down the location of this Ozmidiannum vine.  She’d kept an eye out for it both in the Viscount’s garden and when she and Merrill had gone to the Wounded Coast, looking for Harlot’s Blush, but to no avail.  Frowning, she marked both spots off her map.  _So much for it being pervasive as a weed,_ she thought with a scowl at the map.

She wondered, briefly, if Sundermount was worth a look; the spot where Marethari and her clan had settled — long gone, now — hadn’t been short on vegetation by any means.  It also hadn’t been short on huge rock monsters, giant spiders, bandits, and various and sundry undead things.  To say nothing of the occasional Witch of the Wilds.

“So, really,” Amelle muttered to herself, looking at a map of Sundermount and her own sketch of the Ozmidiannum flower, “if it’s going to be _anywhere,_ it’s going to be in the least pleasant place I know of, because that’s just how these things work.”  She frowned and chewed her lip, not bothering to pull her eyes away of the notes before her as she reached out for her cup of tea.  “Though if that were true, it’d be all over the bloody Bone Pit.”  She paused, tilting her head.  “Then again, it might.”  She circled that point on the map as well.  “We’ll check that one after.”

“Ought I to be worried that you’re talking to yourself?”

The sudden voice made Amelle give a slight jump, the tea in her cup dancing perilously close to the edge.  “ _Fenris_ ,” she blurted, setting the cup down on its saucer before it could actually spill.  “I didn’t hear— Maker, we need to put a _bell_ on you.”

His expression remained impassive.  “…A bell.”

“So I can hear you coming?”

He didn’t smile.  He’d never smiled often, but for a while there it had seemed… Well.  No matter.  That was then and this was now.  “That would rather defeat the purpose of being quiet.”

She blinked.  “So you were _trying_ to sneak up on me?”

“I would hardly call it sneaking, Amelle,” and there was just a hint of exasperation to his words.  “You did send for me.”

It was true, she had.  She just hadn’t expected him to come so _early._   Amelle looked rather pointedly at the window and the misty pre-dawn light beyond the glass.  “You’re an early riser when your card-mates are away from home.”

He came around and perched on the edge of a well-padded armchair, resting his hands on his knees.  “I am also entirely aware you prefer to get to the clinic early.  I… did not wish to miss you.”

“You could have found me downstairs,” she countered, grinning, but Fenris didn’t appear amused.

“Amelle, tell me what it is you require.  As you have already observed, the hour is early.”

With a crestfallen sigh, and unable to shake how easily chastised she was whenever Fenris began to lose his patience with her, Amelle looked down at her notes, collecting her thoughts.  “You know how important this potion is.”

“You know I do.”

She smoothed a hand over the piece of parchment bearing her sketch of the bloom.  “It is… proving more difficult than anticipated to collect the ingredients.  I need to leave for Sundermount.”

“I assume you do not plan to make this trip alone.”

“I was… hoping you’d come with me.”

Her request surprised him — she could see it in the way he jerked with a nearly imperceptible start, the way his eyes widened minutely.  But the expression didn’t linger and once more he was watching her with the wary intensity she’d come to expect from him.  “Would it not make more sense to bring Merrill on such an errand?  I am not… familiar with herbs and plants.”

Amelle sifted together the loose sheets of parchment and slid them into the book, closing it.  “If there are any remaining Dalish lurking around Sundermount, bringing Merrill along would invite more trouble than I’m of a mind to contend with.  In a perfect world, I’d be asking you both to come along with me, but as we’ve seen demonstrated quite a bit lately, our world is leagues away from perfect.”  There were other reasons she wasn’t sure she wanted to bring Merrill along, but Amelle wasn’t prepared to share those reasons just yet.  “Merrill is going to watch over the clinic in my absence.”

Fenris’ brows lifted, but he said nothing.

“She needs _something_ to do, Fenris.  She needs to feel useful.  More than that, she needs to _be_ useful.”  When he still didn’t look convinced she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “There… _is_ another reason, but I would prefer not to get into it until I know more about the situation itself.”

“Very well.”  But he didn’t look happy about it.  “And what of the Knight-Captain?”

Amelle shook her head.  “With Aveline compromised and so many of the guard falling ill now, I cannot ask him to leave Kirkwall for such a trip.  He got me into the Viscount’s gardens — and given how many templars were stationed at the Keep, I needed his assistance more than I knew — but that’s still within Kirkwall.”

“The guard are falling ill, but the templars… are not?”

“Not that I know of,” Amelle said slowly.  She took a moment to think it over.  “We can certainly ask, but as far as I know they’re all quite healthy.”

“…Odd,” murmured Fenris, looking into the fire a moment.  “You seem quite… in control of your faculties as well.”  A faint whisper of a humorless smile touched his lips then faded.  “I daresay I haven’t gone mad, but perhaps I am not the best judge.”

Amelle thought briefly on those recent moments when Fenris’ temper seemed unusually short.  Those, however, had been isolated incidents; they hadn’t escalated and he certainly seemed well enough right now.  “I might be able to… check, if you’d like?”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “So we’re sure.”

He went still, considering her offer.  “If it would ease your mind, Amelle, you… may check me for illness.”  

A soft, short laugh puffed past her lips.  “That you’re acquiescing at all could either point to madness _or_ clarity.”  At his stern look she smiled and cleared off the divan, waving him over.  “I was only teasing, Fenris.”

“You… haven’t, lately.”  He got up from the chair and joined her on the divan.

“Yes, well, you’ve been making yourself rather scarce.  I can’t tease you if you’re not around.”

“I…”  His brow furrowed in a frown and he shook his head briskly.  “You are right.”

“Hmm, accepting magical assistance and admitting I might be right?  Maker, Fenris, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”  He glowered at her as she lifted her hands to his temples, brushing the pale hair out of the way before laying a hand on either side of his head; Amelle wasn’t worried — she knew all of Fenris’ glowers by heart — this one rated fairly low insofar as his annoyance levels went.  It was a pale shadow of the detente they’d reached earlier, which felt a close kin to friendship some days, but it was such a welcome change from his short-tempered growls.

“I did not think you were able to sense this illness in adults.”

“I didn’t know what I was looking for, before,” she murmured, closing her eyes and concentrating on the task at hand.  “I was healing headaches and broken bones, never looking deeper than the superficial problem.”  His skin was warm against her palms even before she took a breath of mana and loosed a wave of healing magic.  

“Symptoms only, then.”  Amelle felt rather than heard Fenris draw in a quick breath as the hotcold thrum vibrated down her fingers, and she ran her thumb slowly against his temple.  

“Easy,” she murmured, letting the magic unfurl and seek out any injury, any illness, _anything,_ but… no, there wasn’t anything…

 _No, wait.  There._ There.  _What’s that?_

Whatever it _was,_ Amelle could tell by the way it felt that whatever it was, it was old.  Not this illness then, but something… else.  Some sort of old… trauma of some sort.  Like an old scar, hardened over.  She let the magic flare off and lowered her hands, frowning at Fenris.

“I told you I’m…” Trailing off, he narrowed his eyes at her.  “What is it?”

She shook her head slowly.  “You haven’t got this illness.”

His frown deepened.  “Perhaps not.  But there is something.”

There was no point in deception — and she didn’t _want_ to deceive him.  “It’s an old injury, I suspect,” she told him with a shrug.  “Something that went untreated, perhaps?”  

Fenris’ smile was mirthless as he let out a short bark of laughter and turned aside, facing the hearth.  “I would not be surprised if it was.”

“Would you like me to…?”

“No,” he answered with a decisive shake of his head.  “You’ve been overextending yourself too much as of late, and I have been well enough despite whatever the injury may have been.  Save your mana, Amelle.”  And then, more quietly, he added, “You do not need to give yourself a nosebleed _every_ day.”

“Point taken.  But the fact remains you’re also quite well.  Or at least not mad.”

“So it would appear.”  

“I take it this means you’re fit to accompany me to Sundermount?”

“You haven’t a great many options available to you,” he remarked, giving her a long, level look.

Amelle looked at Fenris a moment, tilting her head.  “Is _that_ why you think I’m asking?” she asked, cocking an incredulous eyebrow at him.  “Because I haven’t anyone else _to_ ask?”

“It wasn’t so very long ago you assumed I gave you my help only because I’d promised your sister I would watch over you.”

“And now _you’re_ assuming I’m asking your help because I’m out of options.  An odd switch, you must admit.  In any case, I am asking you to come with me because I _want you to come with me_.”

He hesitated only briefly, as though searching for a point on which to argue, but finding none. “Then my blade is yours.  When do you wish to depart?”

“I’d prefer to leave as soon as possible. Merrill can handle the mild cases, basic injuries and the like; she knows how to tie a splint and she’s learned where I keep my potions. But if another fever comes into the clinic, she won’t have any idea what to do.  I… hate that I need to be away even for a day, but if it means finding a cure for this… whatever it is, then… I have little choice in the matter.”

“And you cannot send me to Sundermount in your stead?”

“You said yourself you know little about plants, Fenris.”

His frown teetered on the edge of a scowl.  “I am aware of the importance of this errand.”

“This is going to have to be the exception.  Besides, four eyes are better than two.  We’ll have a better chance of finding it if we go together.  With luck we’ll be home before tea.”

“If we had luck on our side, Amelle,” came the dry reply, “we wouldn’t be on our way to Sundermount.”

#

The road to Sundermount was a long and winding — to say nothing of _rocky_ — path.  They both knew it well, having made numerous trips this way over the better part of a decade. It was hard to believe so much time had passed.  Even harder to believe was how very many things had changed in that span — _things and people, for that matter_ , she thought.

“Do you find something amiss?” Fenris asked, looking askance.

“Nothing in particular,” replied Amelle.  “Just… thinking.”  She sent him a sidelong look of her own, saying, “I thought you preferred peace and quiet, anyway.”

A beat of silence passed and Fenris gave her an inscrutable look.  “Is _that_ why you’ve barely spoken on this trip?”

She met Fenris’ expression with one of her own.  “…Isn’t that why _you’ve_ barely spoken?”

Fenris opened his mouth to say something, but seemed not to know _what_ and he closed his mouth again, shaking his head.  “I do not consider your conversation to be… annoying prattle, Amelle.”

Her words came out somewhat sharper than she intended, “Oh, well thank the Maker for _that._ ” 

It took less than a second for the glower to settle on his face.  “You misunderstand me.  Willfully, I suspect.  I merely—”

Sudden irritation flashed in Amelle’s breast, and both its presence and force took her by surprise.  “You’ve merely been avoiding me, and when you haven’t been avoiding me, you’ve been short-tempered with me,” she snapped. She hadn’t planned on broaching this subject with him — after all, they’d never had what anyone would call a _smooth_ relationship.  But after being so solicitous once Kiara left, the change — so recent and so _sudden_ — in his demeanor had been enough to make her worry he’d been infected by this bloody whatever-it-was that was currently making her life a sleepless wreck of nosebleeds and foul-tasting potions.  And the possibility had _scared_ her — Amelle was only realizing now just _how_ _much._ “And,” she went on, “if you don’t think I deserve to know why you’ve been acting like a bronto’s arse, then just tell me so.  But don’t say things like ‘I’m here because I want to be,’ and then act as though you’d like nothing better than to shove a hand through my chest.  If you’re pissed that Kiara left you behind, I understand that, but for the Maker’s sake, _don’t take it out on m_ e.”

The silence that followed her outburst was startling, and Fenris stared at her as if he hadn’t the first idea how to reply.  

Finally, with a frown he looked away, briefly, then focused intently on the path in front of them.  “I… did not realize you—”

“What, didn’t realize I noticed the fact you’ve been bloody pissy?”  Amelle didn’t give him an opportunity to answer, her voice rising as she went on. “I can see where you’d think it might escape my notice, in between all the nosebleeds and Kirkwall going _sodding crazy_ all around us.  Maybe you thought your lousy attitude might go unnoticed in light of Aveline _whipping_ one of her guardsmen, or otherwise sane and rational people acting like they’d completely lost every ounce of sense the Maker ever saw fit to give them.  Guess again, Fenris: _I have noticed._ ”

Still, he did not reply; instead, Fenris flexed his jaw, his brows lowering and drawing together in a frown.  “I…” he stopped, frowning more deeply, looking down and away from her before trying again.  “You… have a point.”  The words sounded as if they were being pulled from him, slowly.  Painfully.  He paused again, but it was a shorter lapse this time, and after what looked like an internal struggle, Fenris lifted his gaze again and met hers, steadily.  “I had no reason to vent my ire on you, and for that I apologize.”

Amelle let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.  Well, at least it wasn’t _her_ he was angry with.  She hadn’t _thought_ that the case, but still she allowed herself a small measure of relief.  “Honestly, if something’s bothering you, you _can_ tell me.  But for Andraste’s sake, don’t—” she rubbed hard at her forehead.  “I’m _tired_ , Fenris.  And I’m worried.  And, Maker, _scared._   I’ve never… had quite so much counting on… on _me_ before.  And this potion — I…what if it doesn’t even _work?_ ”

The silence filling the space between them was vast, broken only by the occasional breeze rustling the trees, or the far-away calls of birds. Fenris appeared to be giving the question heavy thought; several times he parted his lips and drawing in a swift breath as if to speak, but at the last moment appeared to think better of the attempt.  Finally, he found the words he was searching for:  “I have said before you are proficient at your craft.  I stand by that assessment.”

“And I do appreciate the vote of confidence, but we must be realistic.  We aren’t any nearer to finding out what’s _causing_ this, and even if the potion does work and cures everyone who’s sick and returns their wits to them, unless we find the cause, it could all just happen again.”  She rubbed hard at the back of her neck; every muscle in her back was stiff, and she simply didn’t have the wherewithal to heal herself.  “Again, just curing the symptoms, not the larger problem.”

“And you’re still—”

“So help me, Fenris, if the next thing out of your mouth includes the word ‘overextend’…”

Whatever Fenris was _going_ to say, he kept it to himself, and for several moments the grit and grind of their feet along the rocky path was the only sound between them.  “You don’t deny it, then.”

“I’d be an idiot if I tried to,” she replied, kicking a stone down the path.  It rolled and bounced along before finally knocking against a larger rock and rocking to a stop.  “What else can I do?”

“Is it truly worth sacrificing your wellbeing for them all?”

“Well, _that’s_ why we’re looking for the potion ingredients, and hoping and praying to the Maker, Andraste, and all the good Fade spirits that it works.”  A wide yawn cracked her jaw and she shook her head.  “I swear once this is done with, I’m going to _sleep_.  Possibly for a week.”  Of course, the truth of the matter was that she’d be packing up and heading to Starkhaven — there was no doubt in her mind that this infection had wormed its way into her sister.  Yet another reason to apply herself to the task at hand.  There was too much to do before she could even _think_ about rest.  Besides, Amelle could always sleep later — that’s what she kept telling herself.  And when later finally came along, Amelle was going to soak up every spare moment of slumber she could.

Several moments passed without a reply from Fenris — not terribly unusual, given the elf’s propensity toward silence, but when that silence grew too vast and too deep even considering it was a conversation with Fenris, Amelle looked over at him.  “You’re scowling,” she said mildly.  “Might I ask why?”

“What are your plans should this potion prove not to be a cure?”

The very mention of such a scenario made the tension between Amelle’s shoulder blades grow impossibly, painfully tight.  “I try again,” she said with a lightness she did not feel as she rolled her shoulders trying to ease some of the tension.  “And again.  And _again_ , until something reveals itself.”

“In the meantime straining your own resources.”

She sighed.  They’d just turned the corner into the open space where the Dalish camp used to be.  The earth was still scuffed with faded signs that people had once lived here, but no signs of life remained now.  Planting her hands on her hips, Amelle turned to face Fenris.

“Is that what this is about?” she asked, her voice every bit as tense and tight as her shoulder blades.  “You’re concerned if I push my magic beyond its limits, I’ll end up a blood mage or abomination or some other horrible monster that you’re going to have to put down like a rabid dog?”

“ _No,_ ” Fenris answered sharply, and the suddenness and intensity of his answer startled her away from her rising anger.  “No, that is _not_ my concern.”  Suddenly he was in front of her, eyes flashing, his jaw set rigidly.  “My concern is for your own _health._   You said it not five minutes ago,” he said with a swift, decisive gesture, “you are exhausting yourself.  I _know_ a mage’s best chance for restoring their levels of mana is by _resting._   What you are doing is not only unwise, it is _dangerous._ You cannot continue this, Amelle.  Your goal is a noble one, but even the noblest intentions won’t matter a whit if Hawke returns to find—”

Some distant part of her mind noted Fenris was probably right; she very likely _was_ pushing herself too far, draining her mana too frequently, and not allowing herself ample time to recover.  She was depending too heavily on spells and potions to keep her energy up, but such measures were not intended for the long term, and Amelle knew it.  

But she, quite simply, _didn’t give a damn._

“Kiara is the one I’m _doing this for_!” Volume and emotion worked together to render her hoarse. She clapped both hands over her mouth suddenly; she hadn’t meant to say the words and certainly hadn’t meant to _yell_ them.

“Hawke is…”  Fenris trailed off, processing this information, digesting it.  After a moment, his eyes widened a fraction.  “You think this… illness infected her.”  It wasn’t a question, and Amelle could tell by his tone that Fenris also believed such a scenario entirely possible.  He frowned and looked down, as if rifling through his own memories.  “She was… erratic before departing Kirkwall, this is true.”

“And you remain a master of understatement.”  

His brows drew together and he nodded at the abandoned Dalish camp.  “Tell me again what it is we are looking for.”

Amelle rifled through the satchel slung across her chest and withdrew a sketch of the vine and its blossom, showing it to Fenris.  “It’s called Ozmidiannum, and should be… well, it’s said to grow like a weed, and this is one of the few places we’ve come across where things actually grow.”

“Where have you already looked?”

“The Wounded Coast and the viscount’s private gardens.”  Amelle shrugged.  “Not many places in Kirkwall where green things thrive, unfortunately.”  She eyed the rocky landscape.  “And we may find nothing here — in which case, I’ll have no choice but to find another potion to work on.  I can’t waste time hunting ingredients that might not be findable.”

Fenris took the sketch and frowned at the picture, studying it.  “Then we should be doubly careful not to fail.  Can you tell me anything else?”

“I…” But Amelle only trailed off, fidgeting lightly with the strap of her bag.

“…Yes?”  Fenris narrowed his eyes the longer Amelle didn’t answer.  “You mentioned another reason why you did not want to bring Merrill along.  Might this have something to do with your reasoning?”

Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose.  “A master of understatement and too perceptive by half.”

“Amelle.”

The benefit of keeping her fingers where they were, massaging the bridge of her nose, was that she didn’t have to see the look Fenris was giving her.  And she didn’t want to see it.  She hesitated a moment, then peered at him through her fingers.  The look she’d expected to see was firmly in place; Fenris was nothing if not dependable, particularly when it came to his glowers.

“It’s only a factor if we _find_ the blighted vine,” she told him.

The glower darkened.  She let her hand fall with a sigh.

“The Ozmidiannum vine has rather… particular habits.  The pollen must be collected while the bloom is still on the vine, otherwise the flower dies immediately and the pollen is rendered useless.  The flower itself remains closed, which… as you can probably imagine, makes collecting the pollen difficult.  In any event,” she went on, “the blossom requires a… some sort of catalyst to open.  The botanist who wrote the book I’ve been using in my research relates that the Ozmidiannum bud will only open after one pricks a finger on its thorns.  On its many, many thorns.”

“So what you’re saying is this… _flower_ may require… blood to open.”

“ _I don’t know_ if it does,” she answered.  “It _might._   But even the botanist who did the research admits that it could have been another factor that actually made it bloom.”

“Like…?”

“Handling the vine at all — it’s incredibly thorny, as I said.  Drawing blood may just have been coincidental.  And I don’t want to make any snap judgments before I find out for myself.”

“And if… _if_ you discover that the blossom does in fact require blood to bloom?”

“I don’t know.  _Does_ that make this blood magic?  The potion recipe requires no mana-use, no lyrium.  It is entirely straightforward in its directions — any herbalist can make the potion, even a non-mage.”  She shrugged and looked again at the sketch.  “I guess we’ll only know when we find the blighted thing, right?”

“Then I suggest we begin our search.”

Something Amelle had noticed right away was how very different Sundermount felt without the Dalish presence.  Indeed, she didn’t think it was possible, but the place felt even creepier now than it ever had before.  “This place ranks high on the list of places I’d hoped I’d never have to return to,” she said, shuddering a little as they walked along one promising path, the rocky slopes on either side of the trail covered with climbing vines and clinging weeds.

“I would recommend we steer entirely clear of the Varterral hunting grounds as well, just in case,” muttered Fenris, frowning at one vibrant green length of vine, but finding it unencumbered by thorns, he let it fall from his fingers.

Amelle craned her neck back, scanning the curling, twining lengths of green for thorns _or_ buds.  “You don’t think killing it twice would’ve stuck?” she asked, taking a step back and peering higher.

“I don’t want to find out.”

“You know, if we do find another of those things, I’m fairly certain no one would blame us if we just ran away.”

A rapid succession of expressions flickered rapidly over Fenris’ face: surprise, disbelief, and affront, before settling into something thoughtful without quite crossing the line into pensive.  “You may have a point,” was what he finally said.  “We needn’t fight everything we discover.”

“Especially things that nearly killed us twice already.”

#

The midday sun was blazing mercilessly upon Sundermount, and Amelle’s hair was sticking to her forehead, neck and temples.  Few places — caves aside — allowed respite from the sun, and Amelle began to realize how much of the Varterral’s hunting strategy depended on its food source getting away from that bloody blazing ball of heat up in the sky.  

All the same, they steered very clear of that particular predator’s cave, exploring what felt like every other known inch of Mount Sundermount — and a few of the unknown inches as well.  Every step they took along every rocky path was soft — the barest scuffing of leather over stone — and yet Amelle kept herself braced, an ear always trained for the faint rumble that always preceded the moment when undead _things_ came clawing and lurching up out of the ground.  But nothing happened.  Even when their steps took them across the ancient elven burial ground, the earth remained silent.  They paused, staring warily at the ancient stone altar that stood at the end of the graveyard.  Everything was still and quiet, save the rustling of the trees and the occasional twittering of birdsong.

“Strange,” murmured Amelle, half to herself.

“That hadn’t escaped my notice,” agreed Fenris.  “Do you think the Dalish presence itself was what created such… _unrest_ here?”

A low chuckle carried itself on the wind and down Amelle’s spine before she could answer.  She realized suddenly the gentle breeze she’d been enjoying only moments before had gone still.  Even the birds were quiet.

“Or maybe they’re all simply afraid of… me,” came the horrible, _familiar_ voice.

Amelle and Fenris both spun around, drawing their weapons with smoothness and ease born of practice.  Fenris moved in front of Amelle as she took another step back; without thinking, they’d both settled into the strategic positions they both knew best.  

But the visitor only smiled.  “Such a welcome for one who has already done so much for you?  My, _my_ …”

Amelle blinked hard and _stared._   “… _Flemeth_?” at the very instant Fenris growled out, “What is it you want, witch _?”_

But the Witch of the Wild’s smile only broadened.  Amelle had to admit, however privately, she wasn’t sure that was a good sign.  

A beat of silence passed as Flemeth arched an eyebrow, inclining her head.  “A warm welcome indeed.”

“I will ask only once more,” Fenris said, standing utterly still, but for the tension radiating through him. “What do you—”

“Want.  Yes.  I heard you the first time, young man.”  Her gaze slid from Fenris over to Amelle.  The scrutiny was unnerving, and she found herself standing up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders with confidence she didn’t quite feel.  Inclining her head slightly and lifting her chin, Amelle met the witch’s gaze with a hopefully-level one of her own.

“So defiant,” chuckled Flemeth, amused.  “So this is what happens when a fruit is left untouched upon the bough: it ripens.”

“Still talking in riddles, I see,” remarked Amelle, smiling cheerfully.

“Is there any other way _to_ talk?”

Fenris gave a derisive snort.  “You could forego the riddles entirely and speak plainly.”

“I could indeed _speak plainly._   As could you _,_ elf,” Flemeth tossed back.  

Amelle wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Fenris went even stiller.  She let out an indelicate snort.  “Fenris has never had difficulty speaking his mind.”

But Flemeth’s answering smile was maddeningly enigmatic, as was her reply.  “Hasn’t he?”

Amelle ignored this.  “And he’s right, besides.  I’m in no mood for puzzles and riddles, I’m afraid, and we _are_ on something of a schedule.  So unless you’ve decided you’re going to teach me how to change into a dragon after all…”

At this, Flemeth threw back her head and _laughed._ With the sound the mountain rumbled beneath and the trees shook and trembled all around her — and _through_ her, down to her very bones — and though sweat beaded on her forehead and sprang across her brow at the noise, and though she very dearly _wanted_ to, Amelle did not cover her ears.  Finally, the horrible, painful laughter dwindled down to chuckles and something unnamable glinted in Flemeth’s eyes.  “Oh, you _are_ a lively one.  Spirited.  I like that.  You want to _change_ , do you?”  Flemeth continued.  There were so many — too many — insinuations dancing beneath the words that it was hard for Amelle not to give in to the urge to shiver.  “I daresay you _are_ in the midst of such a change, dear girl.  What you will change _into_ , however, still remains anyone’s guess.”

Amelle wasn’t particularly comforted by the sound of that, but she kept her spine straight and her shoulders squared, hoping no one could hear the way her heart thundered beneath her breast.  She felt she’d had enough experience — limited, thought it was — with Flemeth to have a modicum of faith the witch would do them no harm unless they gave her reason.  And Amelle had no intention whatsoever of _giving_ such a woman any reason to be displeased with her.  

As Kiara was fond of saying, _Mother didn’t raise any stupid children._

A wave of emotion clutched at Amelle and she suddenly missed her sister, _intensely_.  How would Kiara would have handled this particular situation?  Likely she would have grinned and made a quip that would’ve made the witch compliment Kiara on her clever tongue.  But Kiara wasn’t here, and Amelle was slowly coming to realize she wasn’t going to get anywhere standing behind Fenris, or anyone else — _even_ the shadow of Kiara that lurked in every corner of her mind.  With that sigh, Amelle stepped forward until she was shoulder to shoulder with Fenris.

To Amelle’s surprise, Flemeth’s grin widened.

“And you continue to change right before my eyes,” she murmured, tapping her chin thoughtfully.  “Tell me, child — it can be a long trek, out of another’s shadow.  Do you feel the sun yet?”

Amelle arched an eyebrow, her expression suddenly wry as she glanced quickly — and pointedly — up at the sun burning above them.  “Well, at least you’ve moved away from riddles and into metaphor.”

Flemeth’s grin softened and she let out a soft, melodic chuckle.  “You are not so different from the elder Hawke, after all.”

Amelle was left with the oddest feeling the witch wasn’t talking about her sister.  “With respect, we are… on an important errand.  The lives of many depend upon what we find here.”

“Kirkwall’s fate seems always to depend upon a Hawke, one way or another.  Indeed, this is not the first time, is it?”

Amelle shook her head.  “I’m rather hoping it will be the last.”

Flemeth’s amber eyes settled on her, leaving Amelle with the impression the witch was somehow looking _through_ her.  The scrutiny left her feeling even more unsettled.  “I know the vine for which you search,” she finally said.

“Ozmidiannum.”

The witch’s lips curled in an enigmatic smile.  “Some call it that.  Some call it Bloodvine.”

“A much more colorful name,” Fenris muttered in an undertone.  “Let us hope it is not accurate.”

“It is a noble pursuit you undertake, elf,” Flemeth drawled, a lilting, mocking  thread twining through her words.  “The path out of shadow can be traveled alone, but _should_ it?”

Fenris’ brows furrowed in puzzlement, but he said nothing.  Amelle took another small step forward and cleared her throat.  “Is there… is there any way you might tell us if this potion will work?  You seem to know enough of what’s going on.”

“I could tell you, it is true. But I will not.”

“Why _not?_ ” snarled Fenris.  Amelle laid a hand on his arm; he tensed beneath her touch, but went silent.

Flemeth’s eyes went over Amelle before flickering to where her hand rested upon Fenris’ arm.  When her gaze returned to Amelle, she met the witch’s look with her own unflinching one.  It took absolutely no time whatsoever for Amelle to realize a staring contest with the Witch of the Wilds was something she never wanted to try again, again.

“There is bravery in you,” she said, musingly.  “And there is fire, as we know.  And as we _also_ know, the only way out of darkness is with light to guide you.  Light can be horrible, blinding, _painful_.  But it is the only thing that can guide you out of shadow.  Light can heal _or_ destroy.”  Flemeth looked pointedly at Fenris, who was even then glowing softly.  “You’ve known this to be true for years, and it will continue to be true, long after you are both dust.  What you seek, child, is easily found if you know where to look.  But then, that is true of anything, is it not?”  With a lazy gesture, Flemeth extended her arm and pointed one long finger, and when Amelle looked, she saw a twining, rocky path she was absolutely certain hadn’t been there a second before.

“Find the waterfall,” Flemeth told them, “and not far from there you will find the Bloodvine.”  

“Thank you,” Amelle said, clasping her hands.  “Thank you so much.”

“It is refreshing to find such manners in one so young.  But you will not be so young forever, and with maturity comes choices.  Trust yourself, choose well and wisely, but _remember_ that all trust requires a leap,” said Flemeth.  “And with every leap comes a landing.”  

Without waiting for any sort of reply — or as if to punctuate her own cryptic remark — the witch’s magic charged the air a bare moment before her body twisted and shifted with a flash of light and power, transforming her form once again into that of a dragon. Amelle watched the change in wonder — it was the sort of sight one never truly grew tired of — unable to ponder over what sort of magic that _was_ (very old, was her guess), and if such a transformation hurt.  It had to, she decided, watching the way Flemeth’s  joints stretched and moved, as huge, leathery wings sprouted, stretched, and unfurled from her back.  With a mighty wind that sent them both staggering back, those very wings lifted Flemeth’s dragon-self into the air, propelling her farther and farther away, until she was little more than a speck on the horizon.  

Amelle and Fenris watched in silence.  Finally, when they could no longer hear the beating of mighty wings, Amelle turned to him, gesturing at the new path.  “Shall we?”

His expression darkened — hardly any sort of a surprise at that juncture.  “It does appear to be the last of our options.”

Amelle shrugged.  “The Varterral’s cave aside.”

“I had not realized we were considering that.”

“Who knows?” she replied airily, picking her way carefully across the rocky terrain. “Whatever’s waiting for us over this rise might be worse than a Varterral.  Might even be the sort of thing you have to kill more than twice.”

He scowled once more at the sky.  “We’ve already dealt with a dragon.”

This made Amelle chuckle as she stopped and turned to shoot Fenris a grin.  “And didn’t come out of the altercation singed or bleeding.  I’d call that a silver lining, wouldn’t you?”

#

Flemeth’s path was every bit as twisting and twining as any other on Sundermount.  After some time spent in companionable silence — such a welcome change from Fenris’ demeanor over the past few days, and Amelle was both grateful and relieved for it — Fenris cleared his throat.  Curious, Amelle glanced over.

“Yes?”

“I owe you… an apology.”  He paused.  “Another.”

Amelle blew out a deep breath and shook her head.  “We’ve all been on edge lately, Fenris.  Unpleasant things are bound to be said.  I can’t argue with you that I’m pushing myself, but… I have to.  I must push myself.  It… I can’t— I don’t think I’ll be able to coast through this.  It’s… different, without Kiara being here.  Normally she’d be taking the reins on this, coming up with ideas, sneaking into libraries.  And now…”

“Now you feel as if you… are alone.”

She nodded.  “Well, we haven’t got a Champion, after all.  And normally we’d have two healers at our disposal.  We’re horrendously short-handed for any feats of daring-do, you’ve got to admit.  Thankfully we’ve not come across any locks that need to be picked.”  Amelle’s brow furrowed in thought a moment.  “Which reminds me — how _did_ you get that cabinet in the Circle library open?  I thought you’d said it was locked.  Did you find a key?”

Fenris looked away, somewhat sheepishly.  “I… broke the handle.”

Amelle’s laugh escaped before she could stop it.  “Well, that is _one_ way of getting around things.”

He smiled a little.  It was an expression Amelle hadn’t seen in what felt like ages, and it was so welcome, and such a relief to see, that some of the tension between her shoulders began to relax. 

They descended again into silence.  But it wasn’t to last.  

“You… you needn’t do penance for Anders’ deeds.” Fenris’ words, so quietly spoken, were nearly lost under the rustle of leaves and the sound of their footfalls across rocky ground, but Amelle heard them, and they were enough to make her stumble suddenly.  In that instant, Fenris’ hand was on her elbow, steadying her.

“You are tired,” he muttered.  “We should rest soon.”

When she was again steady, he pulled his hand away without comment.  Several more moments passed, but they were somewhat tenser than before — and in a way that was wholly unlike the trip to Sundermount had been.  This was tension filled with ghosts of the dead and memories of the living.  “You might not be wrong,” she finally murmured, quietly.  “Not about the being exhausted — about… about the other thing.”

“I… can see that.  But for all your efforts, you must not… take on that responsibility.  Anders’ deeds were his own.”

“And what he did doesn’t reflect on mages even a bit?” she asked dryly.  “I _think_ the Divine might be inclined to disagree with you.”

Fenris’ frown turned into a scowl, but there seemed to be something more warring across his features — something _troubled._   But before Amelle could ask, they reached the final twist in their path, and finally saw precisely where Flemeth’s path had led.

A meadow spread out before them, greener than anything any of them had seen in Kirkwall since arriving.  The grass was lush and fragrant; the sight of it possessed Amelle with the sudden urge to take off her boots and walk barefoot, letting the cool grass tickle between her toes.  The rush and roar of a waterfall crashed and foamed into a rippling pool.  Flowers dotted the meadow, and along one rocky wall not far from that waterfall, Amelle finally spied what they were looking for.  Her heart leapt, and all of the other beauties in the meadow were forgotten.

“Maker’s breath,” Amelle whispered.  “It’s… it’s _beautiful_.”

“And yet I cannot help but wonder if it truly has existed here the whole while.”

“Look!” she gasped, running forward, pointing.  Ozmidiannum buds slept soundly along a twining net of prickly vines — the entire wall was covered with the dark green plant, studded with thorns, and glossy, waxy leaves swaying gently in the breeze.  But her relief and amazement were short-lived when Amelle remembered what Flemeth had called this plant: _Bloodvine._

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at the name,” she murmured, peering this way and that at the plant.  “It looks like the sort of thing that could prick you if you just _looked_ at it wrong.”  She lifted a hand, preparatory to touching the vine, but at the last, she bit down hard upon her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth.  Her hand remained in mid-air, fingertips hovering above the thorns.

Flemeth had told her — warned her? — she would change, but no word of what she might become.  If this plant _was_ somehow an instrument of blood-magic, then using it at all could well become the first step down a path she had no desire to walk.  But what if it _wasn’t_?  What if it was nothing more than just a… a _peculiar_ plant?  

She’d never know unless she discovered for herself — or at least _tried_ to discover it.  

Sucking in a breath and holding it, Amelle reached out and let the thorn prick her thumb.  She’d been prepared for the pain, but the sharp pinch still made her gasp, and she placed the injured digit in her mouth, grimacing at the coppery taste of her own blood upon her tongue before healing the tiny wound with a tiny breath of mana.  There was no flare or flash of magic, but the vine did seem to shudder gently.  

Amelle watched and waited, Fenris’ presence behind her; his dark armor, sun-soaked after spending so much time outside, radiated heat at her back.  It was strangely reassuring.  Finally, after what felt like an eternity — though it couldn’t have been much longer than seconds — the bud nearest Amelle unfurled, opening as if with a sigh.  The petals were vibrant orange, with a singular streak of darkest violet traveling up along the center of each petal, like a starburst; the peachy-pink stamen was heavy with thick yellow pollen.

“Well,” Amelle murmured around her thumb, “that seems to work as advertised.”  She tilted her head in thought.  “Didn’t seem particularly magical.  Definitely painful, though.”  She leaned closer, squinting at both flower and thorn.  The tiniest hint of red glistened upon the thorn’s point.  From the corner of her eye she spied Fenris watching the plant just as intently.  Nothing else happened.

“It appears the vine is not carnivorous, either,” the elf observed.  Indeed, the vine seemed not to be absorbing the drop of blood — or otherwise doing anything with or about it.  

Amelle turned her attention to the newly-blossomed flower.  It was perfectly beautiful, and smelled faintly sweet.  “What do you think?” she asked Fenris, never pulling her eyes from the plant.  

There was a jostle of armor beside her and Amelle glanced up to find Fenris moving to another section of vine where flowers still slept, tightly curled into buds.

“Fenris?”

“Something has me… curious, Amelle.”

“Do tell.”

“You had said there were… other possibilities as to why this plant might open.  Possibilities unrelated to blood magic.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

Fenris lifted one gauntleted hand and touched the vine.  So protected, several of the thorns actually bent despite his gentle touch.  But only moments after he bruised the deceptively fragile vine, three more blossoms unfurled.

Amelle stared at the vine, as if demanding an explanation from the plant, but the petals just swayed gently in the breeze.

“It must be a… a defense mechanism of some sort.”  

“The flower blooms to… protect the vine?”

“Definitely a possibility.”  She wondered suddenly at the plant’s “mysterious properties” and its use in healing potions.  Even the best medicinal herbs could be poisonous in too great a dose, or in their rawest forms.  Amelle pressed her lips together into a thin line, then withdrew a phial and a small blade from the satchel she carried.  “Best not to breathe it too much of this in, just in case,” she muttered, carefully scraping the pollen from the flower, watching it drift gently into the glass container.  

“Perhaps you ought to have taken that into consideration before getting so close,” he observed, a frown darkening his brow.

“Spirit healer,” she said, wiggling her fingers at him before pressing a cork in over the mouth of the phial, stoppering it.  She held it up, letting the sunlight catch the butter-colored clumps of pollen, and a triumphant grin spreading slowly across her lips.  “Another ingredient down.”  She turned that grin to Fenris.  “And if you’d not been there, I’d _still_ be dithering over whether or not I was taking an unwitting turn down Blood Magic Boulevard.  Thank you, Fenris.”

Her gratitude seemed to leave him discomfited, and Fenris brushed off her thanks with a brusque, “You would have figured it out.”

As Amelle looked around the clearing with a speculative eye, she wasn’t so sure Fenris was right.  “We should look around a bit more.”  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, her eyes scanning the green grass.  “I still haven’t found any Andraste’s Grace.”

He met her eyes levelly.  “Then we will look.”

#

Amelle sank to her knees at the edge of the pool and leaned forward, cupping the cold water in her hands.  First she drank, then she splashed the remaining water across her face, running wet fingers up through her sweat-damp hair.  Her back and shoulders and neck all ached, and she _knew_ a sunburn was working its way across the bridge of her nose — something she wasn’t _quite_ vain enough to heal, particularly if it meant wasting mana that was all too precious. She sank back on her hip and settled against the soft earth, casting an eye around for Fenris.  Though the meadow wasn’t terribly large, she still couldn’t see him, but could only hope he was having better luck than she at that point.

There was not a single sprout of Andraste’s Grace anywhere to be had in the meadow.

She sank back and stretched her legs out, flinging one arm over her eyes — partially to block the sun, and partially to hide any tears that might have the audacity to form — and tried to _think._   Cullen still had men out combing Kirkwall for the plant, and there was every possibility they might find it.

_But what if they don’t?_

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, sitting up and rubbing at her temples, “here’s what you’re going to do.  You’re going to pull out that book and see what Ines Arancia has to say about the medicinal properties of Andraste’s Grace.  There might be a reasonable, _local_ substitute.  If there isn’t one, then you’re going to craft your own blighted potion and hope for the best.  You haven’t the luxury of time for another midnight visit to the libr—”

A voice interrupted her diatribe. “Amelle.”  Fenris. He stood across the clearing just away from the waterfall’s cool, misty shadows.  “There is something I think you need to see.”

Her curiosity pricked, she pushed to her feet and joined him by the water’s edge.  As they moved closer, the mist thickened, but before Amelle could ask what in the Maker’s name they were doing, she saw where Fenris had gone.  There, behind the cascade of water, was a narrow passageway.  Brows lifting in surprise, she turned back to Fenris.

“A cavern,” he said, jerking his chin at the dark entrance.  

She didn’t have to ask if it was safe; if it hadn’t been before, it very likely was now.  With a silent nod, Amelle ducked into the darkness.  Immediately she summoned a softly glowing ball of blue light; a few small… _things_ skittered into the remaining shadows, but they were left alone for the most part.  All around them the pounding water roared, echoing deafeningly through the cavern as Fenris took up the lead, guiding her farther back.

“It’s just… here,” he said over the noise, rounding a corner.  

Before Amelle could ask, she saw it: in a small niche, bathed in a pool of incidental sunlight — there was a sizable crack in the rock above them — was, not one or two, but a small patch of white flowers with blood-red markings.

Andraste’s Grace.

“That is… what you are looking for, is it not?” he asked.  “It seems to match the description, but I confess I’ve never seen this particular flower before.”

“It is,” she breathed. Her surprise was enough that the light she’d conjured flickered out. Amelle appeared not to notice; she stared at the flowers, then dropped to her knees, running gentle fingertips over the distinctive petals.  “It _is._ ”  Letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh, she looked up at the elf.  “Maker’s _blood_ , Fenris, I could _kiss_ you.”  She began digging in her bag for the small hand-shovel she kept.

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.  His brows lowered into something that wasn’t quite a frown — or if it was a frown, it was of a different sort than Fenris usually wore.  “I… doubt the Knight-Captain would thank you for such a gesture.”

Amelle looked up, taking no pains to hide her confusion.  “What’s Cullen got to do with any of this?”

Fenris looked discomfited again, and Amelle almost felt embarrassment on his behalf.  “I… had been under the impression you were…” He trailed off, but it made little difference; Amelle understood all he wasn’t saying.  Color suddenly flooded her cheeks — had Fenris somehow _seen_ her with Cullen in the garden?  If he had, he hadn’t stayed for the whole show, evidently.  Her blush flared hotter at her cheeks.

“We aren’t, um…” she said, forcing her attention back to the tool in her hand and the plant in the ground.  “He’s a friend — or _could_ be, I think — but we… ah.  There’s — there’s nothing…”  She dug into the earth with a bit more zeal than absolutely necessary.  “We aren’t… um.  We aren’t.  Like that.”

Now it appeared to be Fenris’ turn to grow embarrassed.  “My… apologies.  I should not have assumed.”

“No harm done,” replied Amelle mildly, carefully digging around the roots of one of the Andraste’s Grace blooms.  When Fenris said no more on the matter, she felt a cool rush of relief.  Working carefully, it wasn’t long before Amelle pulled one flower free, roots and all.  The smile she directed up at Fenris was brilliant, reflecting every iota of relief and hope swelling in her chest.  “And with that, I think we have a potion to craft.”

“…We?”

“Oh, come now — you were here for the boring parts.”  She tenderly wrapped the plant in a small square of linen she’d brought along, then tucked it carefully into her pack.  “Crafting a potion is _far_ more interesting than hunting down the ingredients.”

Fenris offered Amelle a hand up, saying, “So says the potion-crafter,” as he pulled her easily to her feet.  

“Things will bubble.  There might even be fire.”  She waggled her eyebrows.  “ _Very_ exciting.”

Fenris shook his head at her, but Amelle saw — or at least she _guessed_ — that he was holding back a laugh, or at the very least, a chuckle.  “If you wish for company, you have only to ask, Amelle.”

There was no arguing with that.  She made a slightly sheepish face.  “Keep me company so I don’t fall asleep?”

“As I said, you have only to ask.”


	42. Chapter 42

Given the amount of time Fenris had been spending in the clinic, he’d had more than ample opportunity to witness Amelle mix any number of potions.  A quiet sort of intensity came over her when she worked, every ounce of her focus poured into whatever she was making.  Some recipes — like elfroot potion — were reasonably simple for her; she had no need of books or notes when crafting them.  Others were slightly more complicated, if only because limited and hard-to-find ingredients meant she had less opportunity to commit the process to memory.  

As he watched her now, hunched over the massive tome he’d liberated from the Circle Library, checking the recipe instructions yet again, Fenris had a new appreciation — a new _respect_ — for the careful, painstaking work that went into such an effort.  

They had cleared off Hawke’s desk in the library, turning it into a worktable that was currently covered with various vials and flasks — and, of course, the book.  The pollen they’d collected from Sundermount was still carefully stoppered, but the rest of the ingredients were spread across the table, each in various stages of preparation.  Amelle had at that moment just finished putting the final touches on a batch of elfroot potion, which, she’d already explained to him, was the base for Dragon’s Sight, upon which so much already depended.

Despite how warm the day had been, the evening was unseasonably cool, but the fire burning in the hearth was offering more than just light and ambiance.  Evidently the embers were going to play a larger part in the process later — until then, the fire kept the chill off the stone floor.  Turning away from the book with a nod, Amelle pushed a cork in the flask of finished elfroot potion, and leaned back in the chair, twisting herself around until a series of cracks and pops came from her spine.  She looked tired.

No, she looked _exhausted_.

“Are you certain I can do nothing to assist you?” he asked, shifting in the chair, grimacing a little as it creaked.  

Amelle’s head lolled to the side as she looked at him, and the way the firelight played across her features made the shadows beneath her eyes even deeper and darker.  Frustration surged in his chest and he gritted his teeth at the sight, _hating_ how little there was he could do about any of this.  _This_ was not his area of expertise — he was a _warrior._   A _fighter._   He was no herbalist, no rogue equipped for late-night sneaking through shadows — he preferred to fight his enemies head-on, without subterfuge or deception.  He was far out of his depth, and all Amelle had asked of him was to keep her company and help her remain awake.  It didn’t feel like enough.

Amelle rubbed at her face, pressing her fingertips against her eyes as she tipped her head back.  “What time is it?”

“…Late.”

Amelle grimaced, her hands falling.  “Orana’s surely gone to bed already.”  With that, she pushed her chair back.  “How do you feel about a pot of tea?”

He must have taken too long to answer, because Amelle sent him a tired grin and stood, taking hold of his wrist as she did, tugging until Fenris stood.  “I think you need some as badly as I do.  Come on.”

“Would you not rather I stayed here and…” he cast a wary eye over the ingredients. 

“You’d rather pulverize the root of Andraste’s Grace than come with me to the kitchen for ten minutes to make tea?  Maker, I didn’t realize I was such horrible company.”  Amelle’s teasing tone and the warmth of her fingers at his wrist brought a warm flush to his cheeks, but Fenris was reasonably confident the light cast from the hearth hid — or at least did not do much to _reveal_ — the color rising to his face.  Lowering his brows, Fenris sent her a level look.

“I said nothing of the sort.  But if you require it, I offer my assistance.”

“I do require it,” she replied archly.  “Someone’s got to make sure I don’t get lost coming back from the kitchen.”

His eyebrow crept upward.  “Your house is hardly a labyrinth, Amelle.”

“Then someone has to make sure I don’t fall asleep while the tea’s steeping,” she countered.  “Did you know a person can drown in less than three inches of water?”

“You are not going to drown in the tea while it’s steeping, either.”

He stood, and the dimple at her cheek appeared as the grin widened.  “Of course I won’t.  Because you’ll be sitting with me, helping me stay awake.”  Then, after a moment, her eyes softened slightly and she looked almost sheepish, relinquishing her hold on his wrist.  Though her fingers were gone, Fenris still felt Amelle’s touch against his skin.  “I realize it’s hardly thrilling work,” she said, with an apologetic shrug, “and I’m sure you’d rather be helping Kiara do… _something_ exciting, but I do appreciate that you’re here.”

“I only feel as if I’m not being terribly useful,” he told her as they made their way to the kitchen together.

This time it was Amelle who arched an eyebrow.  “Says the man who located the missing ingredient that all the guards and all the templars in Kirkwall couldn’t find.”  

“I found it entirely by accident, Amelle,” he reminded her, but she only shook her head and chuckled.

“You still found it, and for that I am inordinately grateful.”  They crossed the threshold into the kitchen and Amelle went straight for the teapot, measuring out tea leaves before filling the kettle with water from a nearby pitcher, and holding it in her hands until steam issued forth from the spout, curling upward.  An odd look came over her, both rueful and discomfited.  “And now I’m remembering what I said to _convey_ that gratitude.”

Fenris remembered too, all too well, but kept his expression neutral as he said, “I took your words in the spirit in which they were intended, Amelle.”

She cleared her throat, watching the steam curl and dance as it wafted upward.  “…Of course.”  Without another word, Amelle tipped the kettle, filling the teapot with steaming water.  “Well, we’ve a little wait ahead of us,” she said, busying herself with pulling down teacups and sugar.  “Unfortunately we still haven’t any milk or cream — it’s been too hard to come by in the market.”

“I prefer my tea black.”

“I thought that might be the case.”

A ghost of a smile curled at his lips.  “Provided you haven’t any brandy, of course.”

At that, Amelle let out a laugh and shook her head.  “ _That_ would hardly be conducive to staying awake.  We do have some if you’d really like it, though.”

It was tempting — perhaps _too_ tempting, but Fenris shook his head.  “Another time, perhaps.”

Setting the teapot aside, Amelle sank into a chair and yawned, resting one elbow on the table as she propped her chin in her hand.  “Another time when this whole mess is resolved?  I think some sort of celebration will be in order.”

“If you like.”

“I think I would.  Maker knows I need something else to focus on so I don’t get swept up in the many, _many_ ways this could all fall down around my ears.”

“Have I not told you—”

“I’m proficient at my craft.  Yes, you’ve said.  It’s just…” she leaned back in the chair and looked down at her hands.  “I’m still… worried.”

He took a step forward and sat in the chair opposite Amelle.  The words had formed and were hovering upon his tongue.  Words he’d tried to say a number of times before, but it had never seemed so very important before _now_ that he find the voice to say them.  “I… I have faith in you.”

She hadn’t been expecting that, if her slight jerk was any indication.  She blinked, looking at him as if she didn’t quite believe he’d said such a thing at all.  “You… do?”

“You are… determined.  Whatever the cure to this illness, I do not believe you’ll give up before you’ve found it.”

She sent him a faint, crooked smile.  “Hawkes are nothing if not determined.”

“As I have seen evidence daily.  Sometimes to your own detriment.”

Amelle looked down at the teapot, running her fingers lightly along the handle, trailing gently around the lid, and following the curve of the spout.  “We come by it honestly.”  A small, sad smile formed at her lips as if she was remembering a distant memory.  “Sometimes determination is the only weapon in your arsenal.”

He was jolted by a sudden, sharp flash of recognition — countless nights when he’d gone without food or sleep, nights he hadn’t been able to steal enough coin and had no choice but to push onward to the next city or town just to keep ahead of Danarius’ hunters, and occasionally Danarius himself.

“You know what I mean,” she said quietly.  

“I do.”

Amelle nodded slowly and looked down at the teapot.  “I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”  She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered inside, letting it fall back into place with a soft _clink._   “My brother Carver nearly revealed me to the templars when I was eleven.” 

“Your… _brother._ ”

She sighed.  “It wasn’t— he was being foolish.  And he was being foolish with group of other boys from the village, and as we all know, true stupidity is very frequently a group effort.  They were only trying to stir up trouble with the templars, but Carver was a part of it and…”  

“Clearly it ended… well?”

Amelle pressed her lips together and Fenris noted the way her fingers plucked at each other.  “It didn’t end _badly,_ if that’s what you mean.  Kiara and I hid in a ravine for… Maker, I don’t know how long we hid.  It felt like hours.  I was terrified — I hadn’t full control over my abilities yet — and in my fear, I’d burned her.”  She swallowed.  “Badly.  Once it was dark enough I ran all the way home and fetched our father.  I— I didn’t realize then how… how much damage I’d done.  Father healed her, but it wasn’t easy work, and of course I didn’t understand at the time how much mana…”  She trailed off.  Obviously she understood _now_ the effort their father had undertaken; Fenris suspected Amelle understood it better than she liked. “Then again, what some call determination, others call rampant stubbornness.”

“Which you also come by honestly.”

Amelle set the teapot on a tray.  “I’d say I was offended, but you _have_ met my sister.”  She plucked up the tray and whisked it all back to the library, pouring two cups before she settled back into her chair and began crushing the roots of Andraste’s Grace with her stone mortar and pestle.

“Thank you, Fenris,” said Amelle, a few minutes later.  She lifted the pestle and frowned at the consistency of the pulverized root before going back to work.

“For?”

Amelle stopped again and smiled at him, and for a moment her fatigue melted away.  “I think… I think I needed to hear that.  Now I just need to make sure your faith isn’t misplaced.”

#

Morning light began turning the horizon a pale bluish-grey, and that light crept through the sky — and soon the library windows — slowly easing the dimness from the room.  The fire burning in the hearth was now little more than a pile of softly glowing embers.  Fenris stood and stretched, glancing over his shoulder at the divan, where Amelle slept soundly upon her side.  One hand dangled off the edge of the couch, fingertips barely brushing the slumbering mabari next to her.  She’d curled up just over an hour ago, encouraging Fenris to do so as well; he’d refused, opting instead to remain awake and keep watch.  The potion was in its final stages — it had to rest buried beneath the warmth of the embers until the liquid within the flask turned darkest red.

Fenris eyed the bottle, its tip peeking out from a pile of ash — Amelle had made a single batch, probably enough for six or eight doses, she estimated.  It would be enough to determine at least whether she’d need to make a larger one for the rest of the people of Kirkwall.  Of course, if the potion worked, that created an entirely different sort of dilemma.  Fenris wondered how they’d be able to make enough Dragon’s Sight for all the sick — or even _most_ of them — given how very limited the ingredients were to begin with.  Granted, they’d found everything, even the items hardest _to_ find, but those items were still in limited supply.  

All of this assuming they’d be able to _find_ the witch’s meadow again.  Fenris had his doubts.

Moving silently, taking care not to awaken Amelle, Fenris crouched by what remained of the fire. Frowning, he reached out one careful hand and brushed away the ash covering the neck of the flask to find the liquid within was deepest, darkest blood-red, glinting slickly amid the soft glow in the hearth.  He let out a breath: the potion was ready.

Amelle hadn’t agreed to get any rest until Fenris had assured her he would let her know the very moment the wait was over, but as he glanced at her, still asleep, he wished he’d made no such concession.  Her face was relaxed and unguarded in repose, and he could see so _clearly_ the toll this was taking on her — her skin was pale but for the sunburn across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and the swollen, dark smudges beneath her eyes stood no chance of being erased by any short nap.  She needed _rest._   Proper rest.  But sleep was not a luxury Amelle Hawke had been indulging in as of late. 

Fenris also knew — or had some idea, at least — of the harm she was doing herself through such deprivation. For a moment he considered simply letting her sleep, leaving her in Orana’s care while he delivered the potion.  

Tempting though it was, such an action wasn’t any sort of viable option — such an action would succeed only in leaving Amelle feeling angry and betrayed.  She’d wanted to be woken, and had made him promise _to_ wake her — and he’d given her his word. For all that he did not _like_ the strains Amelle was placing on herself, Fenris also knew with this potion, there was an end in sight. Or so they hoped.

Pushing to his feet, he quietly approached the divan.  Amelle didn’t stir; her breathing came deep and slow, and her eyes twitched beneath their lids as she dreamed.  

Before he could talk himself out of it, Fenris lightly shook Amelle’s shoulder, but she only frowned and shifted beneath her quilt.  

“Mmmm.  Go ‘way, Kiri. Tired.”

Fenris’ fingers lingered at Amelle’s shoulder a few scant seconds before he reached up to brush aside a short lock of hair lying haphazardly across her forehead.  His fingertips only barely grazed her skin — and Amelle’s forehead seemed bordering on overly warm — when her eyes flew open.  She awoke with a start, blinking hard.

“Fenris?”  Amelle’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion and too little sleep.

He dropped his hand.  “The potion is ready.  You… were proving difficult to rouse.  Forgive me if I startled you.”

“Potion.  Right.”  Amelle sat up, hunching forward and rubbing her hands hard across her face, pressing fingertips to her eyelids.  Fenris had his doubts as to whether such a measure would actually make anyone feel more alert after a mere hour of sleep, but he held his tongue.  She took a deep breath in and out again, then lifted her head from her hands.  “Potion’s ready.  Okay.  Let’s take a look.”

She pushed back the quilt covering her and went to the hearth, dropping to her knees.  Amelle pulled her sleeve down over her hand and fished the flask out from the embers.  She blew the ash from the glass and held it up, frowning at the liquid within for a few seconds.  She tipped the bottle this way and that, watching the way the liquid clung to the inside of the flask.

“Well, this _is_ a good sign,” she murmured, a tiny, pleased smile erasing a small measure of the fatigue weighing upon her features.  “Let’s hope you’re worth all this trouble, hmm?”

“You frequently speak to your potions?”

“Only the important ones.”  Standing, Amelle set the potion aside on the desk she’d appropriated.  “I’m going to wash up a bit, see if I can clear the cobwebs a little.”  Here, she smiled at him.  “You— you don’t have to stay, Fenris.  It’s been a long night, and I daresay your errand has come to an end.  If you’d rather go back to the mansion and get some sleep—”

He silenced her with a look.  After a moment Amelle looked down, laughing softly and shaking her head.  “All right, all _right._   Forget I said anything.  Orana’s probably got tea going already, if you want to help yourself.  I’ll be down in a minute.”  Between her light step and slippered feet, Amelle’s footfalls were nearly silent as she left the library and went upstairs.  Killer lifted his head and watched her leave, exhaling a soft snort and settling back down to sleep.  Fenris felt a twinge of envy as he watched the animal; the dog had the right idea, at least.

Once alone, Fenris lingered a short while in the library, his gaze settling on the potion a moment before he shook out his hand — the fingers that had grazed Amelle Hawke’s forehead — and made his way to the kitchen where the promise of a cup of strong, black tea awaited him.

#

Since time was of the essence — and Amelle wasn’t terribly inclined to push her luck by venturing into the Gallows again — they sent a message to the Knight-Captain via an eager recruit standing post at the gates, instructing him to meet them in the guard barracks at his earliest convenience.

They’d barely reached the bottom step of the Keep’s massive stone stairs when the sound of jangling armor reached Fenris’ ears.  After exchanging an incredulous look with Amelle, they both turned in time to see the Knight-Captain striding up behind them. He didn’t appear to be out of breath, but there was most certainly the flush of exertion upon his skin.  Amelle blinked hard, both eyebrows disappearing behind her dark bangs.

“Maker’s blood, Cullen, don’t tell me you ran just to catch up with us.”

“Perhaps I didn’t _run,_ but I did _hurry._ ”  He looked up at Viscount’s Keep, a worried frown furrowing between his brows.  “I want to see an end to this mess as badly as anyone.”

Fenris followed the templar’s gaze, his own frown settling upon his brow.  It was indeed a mess, and it galled Fenris that Aveline had to remain imprisoned because of it.  It was for the best, he knew — Aveline was a seasoned, talented warrior, and as long as she remained under the influence of this strange illness she was a danger.  All the same, the sooner Aveline was cured and fighting alongside them, the better.

The climate inside the Keep was quiet and tense; a motley mix of both templars and city guardsmen held various posts throughout, but there seemed very little to guard — there were startlingly few people within the Keep, and Fenris wondered just how many of Kirkwall’s citizens had succumbed to this mystery illness.  

“It’s not been easy to reassure people we _aren’t_ interested in taking over Kirkwall,” murmured the Knight-Captain, his voice low.  “Not exactly surprising, I suppose, considering they’ve been burned before.”

Fenris considered a moment, then replied, just as quietly, “Has there been any sort of… struggle for power?”

The templar shook his head.  “My men have been made entirely aware that this is an emergency measure only.  But the city guard are wary — and for that I can hardly blame them.”

The long walk through the Keep finally led to the barracks, where they were greeted by the sight of Donnic in Aveline’s office, sitting at her massive desk, his posture radiating exhausted defeat.  He looked up at the sound as they crossed the threshold into the room and  his expression teetered between relief and wariness at their appearance.

“More than half the guard are unfit for duty, and more succumb every day,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.  “Please tell me you have a plan — or, at the very least, tell me you haven’t come bearing _more_ bad news.”

Fenris snuck a quick glance at the Knight-Captain, but the templar’s expression betrayed nothing — _he’d_ lost no men to this illness.  Fenris could appreciate it was a precarious path the templar had to tread — offering support and assistance from the templars without applying pressure, as Meredith had.  There was no question in this instance templar aid was a temporary measure, but old wounds would not heal so easily, and in many cases, left scars.

With a flourish, Amelle set the flask on the corner of the desk.  “Good news — or, rather, I _hope_ it is.  The first batch of Dragon’s Sight — I figured Aveline would get the first dose, and… well, there’s enough here for about… ten people, assuming no one needs more than one.”

“Ten?” Donnic echoed.  “So few?  Serah Hawke, surely you realize in the guard alone we’ve _dozens_ of men and women sick.”

“And if it works, I’ll be more than happy to brew more,” explained Amelle.  “I know nothing for certain.  It _should_ work, but given we haven’t the slightest idea what’s even causing this bloody plague, I’m somewhat limited in my ability to find a potion to treat it.”

Donnic’s shoulders slumped slightly and he bowed his head.  “Of… of course.”  It was more than obvious where his worries lay — Fenris could hardly fault him that; they were _all_ worried about Aveline.  For all that she was to them, she was still far more than that to Donnic, and no one in the room was ignorant of that fact.  “Then I suppose we’d better get started.”

The dungeon below Viscount’s Keep served as Kirkwall’s city-prison, several dozen cells set along winding torchlit tunnels. But the stone-lined cells that had once held petty thieves and drunkards in need of a spot to dry out now held most of Kirkwall’s own citizens — those individuals too dangerous or too erratic to be left to their own devices and were a danger to themselves and others.  Not a few of them were members of the city guard.

“Aveline _is_ lucid, sometimes,” Donnic explained as they descended a long, stone stairwell.  “But it seems those moments get shorter and less frequent every day.”

From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Amelle wince.  “I should have come by to see her — things have only got worse since hunting down those bloody ingredients—”  Donnic cut her off with a shake of his head.

“It can be difficult to prioritize when things are in such a state, but make no mistake, when she _could,_ she understood entirely why you were absent and what you were doing.”

“Did she tell you anything… useful?” asked Amelle carefully.  “Any other symptoms?  How was she feeling?”

“She complained frequently of headache — it seemed never to truly leave her, despite anything I tried.” 

“And what did you try?” asked Amelle.

Donnic answered with  a shrug.  “Potions, mainly.  Even a few poultices.  Aveline had a store of them in her office, but nothing made very much of a dent.”

Amelle sent him a reassuring smile.  “Aveline’s lucky to have you watching after her.”

“I only wish I’d managed to do more good,” Donnic replied quietly, regret and worry sitting heavily upon his shoulders.  He made an attempt to shake it off, saying, “All of the guard are taking shifts.” But Fenris had no doubt Donnic was spending every spare moment in these tunnels, tending to Aveline.  He certainly looked tired and wan enough.  Odd he hadn’t succumbed, though; clearly some were entirely immune, but what common thread provided them with such protection?  Fenris couldn’t begin to guess.

As it happened, Aveline appeared to be experiencing a brief period of lucidity when they reached her cell.  As Donnic had explained, this had been the case from the start, but these moments had been growing shorter and less common over time.  Whatever this ailment was, it progressed rapidly.  Less than a week had passed since they’d found Aveline wielding a whip over one of her guardsmen, red-faced with fury.  If the look on her face when she saw them was any indication, she remembered that day, too.

Amelle appeared immensely relieved that Aveline _did_ seem well, for all that it would make it more difficult to tell whether the potion was working or not.  She quickened her step and hurried to the cell’s bars.  “ _Aveline._ ” 

At the sight of them, Aveline stood, wrapping her hands around the bars.  She’d been stripped of her armor and left in plain-clothes, presumably for her own protection as well as that of any who encountered her.  Her skin was pale, making her freckles stand out starkly against the bridge of her nose.

“Hello, Amelle.  Fenris,” she said, somewhat hesitantly. She gave them both a pained look, her eyes darting down to the spot where she’d wounded him, then up again.  “I… Fenris,” she began, hoarsely, “I’m—” 

He lifted a hand, cutting her off. “I do not blame you, Aveline.  You were not yourself.”

“Noticed that, did you?”  She rubbed hard at her forehead, fingers moving to her temples, pressing against the skin and rubbing circles as if her head pounded beneath her fingertips.  “All the same, I’m— I’m glad you recovered.”

“As am I,” he replied.  She smiled, and for a moment Aveline looked… _normal._   Normal but for the bars separating her from the rest of them.

“How are you feeling, all things considered?” asked Amelle.  Aveline let out a short bark of laughter.

“Rotten,” she answered simply.  “Of all the times for your sister to bugger off.  Look at all the fun she’s missing.”

“Or she’d have ended up in the cell next to yours,” Amelle quipped, but her lightheartedness was strained.  Such a joke was too close to the reality, he suspected, reminding her too vividly of Hawke’s own precarious mental state during the days before she left.  

Donnic coughed.  “They bring news, my love.  Good news, we hope.”

“Could do with a bit of that,” replied Aveline, trying at a smile.

“I’ve been working on a potion,” Amelle replied, withdrawing the flask from her satchel and holding it up for inspection.  “We’re hoping it will cure whatever’s… affecting you.”  She dug again in the bag and pulled free a small earthenware cup, then pulled the cork loose and tilted the bottle. The liquid within moved sluggishly, but soon she’d poured a dose into the cup and passed it through the bars to Aveline, who looked down skeptically at the liquid.

“It’s very… _red._ ”

“The heat had that effect on it — lengthy exposure to heat turns anything with even a touch of Spindleweed red,” explained Amelle.  She looked down at the bottle as she pushed the cork back into place and Fenris saw a flash of uncertainty flicker across her face before she shut it away.  “It’s supposed to be potent stuff.”

“And what’s it called again?” asked Aveline as she lifted the cup to her lips and downed the potion in a single gulp.  She promptly began coughing.  

“Dragon’s Sight,” Amelle answered over the coughing spasm.

Aveline got control of herself enough to croak, “Probably ought to have called it Dragon’s Piss — _Maker,_ but that’s got a kick.”

“It _is_ potent,” Amelle said again with an apologetic shrug.  “That’s why the dose is so small.”

“And given the taste,” said Aveline around her grimace, “I’m glad for it.”

“Any idea how long it should take to work?” Donnic asked with a nervous glance into the cell.

“I’m afraid not.  The book this came from gave no indication of how long it’s going to take — and given the fact Aveline seems to be—”

But Aveline was sinking down hard upon the small cot, gripping her head.  They all watched, and none were willing to breathe.  The silence grew and thickened, broken only by the ever-quickening rasps of Aveline’s breath. Before long, each heaving pant became edged with a whimper.

“Aveline?” Donnic began. “Love?”  He stepped closer to the bars, grasping them.  

Even Amelle had drifted closer, watching Aveline, clenching her hands into fists and then releasing them.  It was a gesture Fenris had seen often enough to recognize Amelle’s own anxiety — her own fear that the potion might not work — or worse, might serve only to exacerbate the illness.  Fenris took a small step closer to Amelle, rewarded as she flashed a brief but grateful smile his way.  It vanished again under a fresh tide of worry, but not before Amelle took a smaller step closer to Fenris.

“Aveline, are you—”

“Are you _trying_ to poison me?  Is that it?”  Aveline leapt up and flung the cup to the stone floor, where it shattered with the hollow peal of breaking crockery.

With a soft curse, Amelle grabbed the bars.  “It didn’t work?” she breathed, shaking her head as if she wished to deny what she saw.  Her fingers curled more tightly around the bars until her knuckles had gone white.  “It didn’t bloody _work._ ”

“You haven’t killed me yet, if that’s what you’re getting at.  Is that what you were trying for, Amelle?  _Was it?_   Well, let’s see how _you_ _bloody like it!_ ”  And before anyone could react, Aveline’s hand swept down and snatched up the largest piece of broken pottery, curved like a tiny dagger.  Then, moving more quickly than any of them would have expected,  she took sharp hold of Amelle’s wrist, yanking her arm further into the cell.

Amelle was jerked forward as Aveline pulled, her shoulder slamming hard against the bars, rattling them.  Her gasp of surprise, however, turned into a yelp of pain as Aveline sliced the broken, sharp edge down along the length of Amelle’s forearm, ripping her sleeve and cutting into her skin.  

The tiny niche of space exploded into noise and action as the Knight-Captain and Fenris both tried to pull Amelle away from the bars, but that only served to drive the jagged piece of pottery deeper into her flesh until the thick, dark blood welled up even faster, dripping down and splashing onto the stones.  In the commotion was the scrape of a key and the creaking groan of hinges as Donnic unlocked and flung open the cell door, rushing in and trying to pull Aveline away and back to the corner of her cell.  Her grip on Amelle’s wrist, however, was far too tight, and with every attempt to pull the two apart, Aveline’s fingers tightened and she twisted Amelle’s arm until Fenris was certain he heard something pop as Amelle cried out sharply.

With that sick, _wrong_ sound, anger rushed forth, the familiar prickling along Fenris’ skin as the lyrium branded into his flesh glowed brightly.

“ _Enough_ ,” he snarled, and turned to join Donnic in subduing Aveline — whatever this madness was, either it made Aveline stronger or simply more desperate and determined to do harm, for she was having no difficulty fending off Donnic, ramming her elbow into his face hard enough to send him staggering, blood streaming from his nose.  He reached for the pommel of his sword, certain only that Aveline would not respond to mere threats, and hating that there were no other options before him.

But before Fenris could do _anything_ , a flash of blue-white light and a flare of green filled the cell, the sudden flood of power in such a small area enough to making his ears pop.  Working without a staff in hand, it had taken Amelle a moment — very likely _several_ moments — to conjure a paralysis glyph, which she’d done either immediately before or after summoning a rush of healing energy — it was hard to tell.  The torn, bleeding skin slowly mended itself before Fenris’ eyes — something that never ceased to amaze him, even at his most jaded — and the blood dripping down stopped, leaving only Amelle’s torn and stained sleeve behind.  The light, though, did not subside even after Amelle was healed.  The Knight-Captain and Fenris exchanged a quick look before the templar relinquished his hold on Amelle and took a cautious step back.

Not only had Amelle healed her own wound, but the blood flowing from Donnic’s nose slowed as well, coming to a stop even before Amelle herself walked around the open cell door and into the tiny room where Aveline was still in the glyph’s hold.

“ _Amelle_ ,” Fenris said — the light and energy caused his head to buzz, and he heard himself speaking a little louder as if to compensate for the noise that wasn’t there, “what are you—?“  He stopped short upon seeing Amelle’s expression.  At first he thought her furious, but then the memory of her words came back to him. 

_Sometimes determination is the only weapon in your arsenal._

The light went brighter and turned more white than blue-white, and when she reached both hands up to rest upon Aveline’s temples, Fenris _knew_.  The light of healing magic blotted out even the green paralysis glyph as Amelle — just as she had with the ill children — poured wave after wave after wave of magic into Aveline, who first went rigid at the contact, but gradually began slacken and relax.

Fenris knew Amelle could not maintain such a level of spellcasting, particularly given how drained she was, how little she’d been sleeping lately.  She might have managed it if she’d been properly rested, if she hadn’t drained the entirety of her mana down to the dregs repeatedly lately.  He shot the Knight-Captain a look, and after a second the other man nodded as a beat of silent understanding passed between the two of them.

The light of Amelle’s spirit-healing magic grew brighter and brighter still before it seemed to shudder, like a candle caught in a draft.  Her brows drew together and the light surged again, but it was no longer as steady as it had been.  Her mana was running out, and she was scraping the bottom of her stores, fueled by little more than stubbornness and raw, desperate determination. A cold shot of worry knifed through Fenris as he watched Amelle push herself just a little farther, just a little harder.  He remembered the day he’d come into the clinic to find her collapsed and unresponsive on the floor, and the worry only grew colder.

A slow trickle of blood slid from Amelle’s nose.

“I think that’s about enough of _that_ ,” breathed the Knight-Captain before another, brighter wave of cleansing light and pressure flooded the room.  Though it hadn’t been a smite, Amelle’s healing energy guttered out a mere second before her eyes rolled back and her knees buckled.  Automatically, Fenris moved forward, reaching for Amelle, but Donnic was closer and caught her in his arms, her body an awkward heap as Aveline sat heavily upon her cot, her hands clutching at her head.

The cell was eerily silent for the span of several heartbeats.  Still holding Amelle, Donnic went to his knees and checked her pulse.  He let out a breath and closed his eyes — she was fine, only unconscious.  The ice that had settled in Fenris gut did not evaporate, only subsided a little.

“What in blazes just happened?” 

It was Aveline asking, and she was looking about the cell as if she had no idea how she’d got there to begin with.  Her gaze settled upon Amelle, pale and still — but clearly breathing — and with no small measure of alarm she shot to her feet, though unsteadily, and looked at both the Knight-Captain and Fenris, asking her question again.

“Do you not remember falling ill?” Fenris asked, watching Aveline’s reaction carefully.  She furrowed her brows together and looked down at her hands.  

“I don’t remember… falling ill,” Aveline began.  She shook her head slowly.  “Strange… things that don’t — it doesn’t… none of it fits together.  Things that seemed horribly… _important_ at the time.”  She saw the blood pooled on the floor and blanched.  “Did I… _do_ that?”  She noticed Amelle’s ripped and bloodied sleeve, then the blood on her own hands, and went an alarming shade of grey.  

Inclining his head, the Knight-Captain stepped forward and pulled the cell door more fully open.  “It appears we have quite a bit to discuss, Guard-Captain.  I imagine most of it can wait until after you’ve had some time to… recover somewhat and get your bearings.”  Turning his head, he looked over to Fenris.  “I don’t imagine you’d have any objection taking Amelle home — and seeing to it she stays there,” he said, jerking his chin quickly at Amelle before adding grimly, “It’s been an issue for a while, but now the truth is inescapable: she needs to sleep.”

Without a word, Fenris stepped into the cell and hefted Amelle’s still form into his arms, marginally surprised at how _light_ she was, how pliant her limbs.  Heat radiated through her clothes, and he could still feel the faint hotcold tingle of magic off her skin.  His mind catalogued every one of these details and held on to them; Amelle would rest, she would recover, and she would be _fine._

“She _will_ sleep,” Fenris answered simply.  _Whether she wants to or not._  

He would make certain of it.  


	43. Chapter 43

Amelle was so _light_.  

This thought circled and chased itself round and round Fenris’ head as he carried her from the Keep back to the Hawke Estate, and he was thankful it was such a short distance, for he found he had scarce little patience for the looks sent his way during the trip.  They varied from the concerned to the outright hostile, as if _he’d_ been the one to inflict whatever had befallen the unfortunate young woman in his arms.

There was, of course, the voice in his head condemning him, reminding him that Hawke had asked him to watch over Amelle, to make sure nothing happened to her.  That said, Hawke had probably been thinking more along the lines of templars or any lingering individuals who’d supported Meredith’s beliefs and actions.  He severely doubted that Hawke would have guessed a plague would have descended upon Kirkwall in her absence, leaving Amelle the lone healer in the city.

Oh, there were other healers, he knew — non-mage healers were common enough and competent enough.  Fenris had known a fair few during his life — when injuries were serious enough to warrant a healer, and when he had the coin to afford one, he always sought out those lacking any connection whatsoever to the Fade.  They mixed potions and applied poultices and cared for the ill and injured, and they knew their craft.

Just as Amelle Hawke knew _her_ craft.

He’d asked her once, one night at the Hanged Man, when he’d grown tired of losing but hadn’t quite wanted to return to the mansion’s quiet solitude just yet, and when Amelle had decided the ale she’d drunk had influenced her ability to remember _any_ of the rules of Diamondback — he’d asked her, how, precisely, she considered herself different from Anders.

 _You’re lucky I’m drunk,_ she’d said, arching an eyebrow at him, _or I might have taken offense to that._

He remembered not caring very much if he’d offended her or not.  _Does that mean there is no difference?  You are both mages.  You both call yourself healers.  What, then, is the difference?_

She’d knocked back the dregs of her ale then and grimaced, taking a moment to formulate her answer.  _A different application of skill.  Whatever he was… before, I can’t say.  He might’ve even been a spirit healer, once, before he lost his bloody mind and invited a spirit in full-time.  He might’ve even been a bloody good one.  It’s…_   Amelle had trailed off then, her brows drawing together in thought, as if she were weighing just how much to reveal.  _Spirit healers… have to be even more careful than other mages; our connection to the Fade is… different.  And as much as I’ll be the first to say Anders is an ass, the man does know how to heal.  But whatever he once was, whatever he is now, Anders is not a spirit healer.  There_ is _a difference._

She had tried to explain the difference to Fenris, but too much drink had muddied her explanation as much as it had muddied his comprehension, and he was left with only the vaguest impression that there _was_ a difference, but it was too slight for him to care very much about.

He’d seen enough since then to make him wish he’d paid closer attention that night.

As he walked on, Fenris stole a glance down at Amelle’s face, still too pale, the streak of blood from one nostril a garish line against unnaturally white skin.  He recalled for an instant the utter terror that had clutched him when he entered the clinic to find her pallid and unresponsive on the floor.  Anger eclipsed fear for a time — he’d _told_ her, he’d told her she was overtaxing herself, and he’d _warned_ her to be more careful, and this was the result.  

He’d also known she was upset — no, _angry._   Amelle had been _angry._   And Fenris had known the second he saw the look on her face when she realized the potion hadn’t worked and Aveline’s condition had not improved — he’d somehow _known_ she was going to do something drastic.  Reckless.

Something befitting a Hawke.

 _At least,_ he thought grimly, _she will sleep_ now. _Not that she has very much choice in the matter._

That all said, for all of Amelle’s recklessness, she appeared to have influenced Aveline’s condition for the better.  It also appeared that attempting to heal anyone else in the same manner was a task Amelle likely would not survive.

Fenris reached the huge, heavy door to the Hawke Estate and shifted Amelle’s weight in his arms to knock.  Orana appeared bare seconds later, and though she paled violently when she saw Amelle, she managed to recover herself enough to stand aside and close the door behind him.  For such a flighty woman, she was holding herself together particularly well.  Then again, it did not do to be of a nervous temperament in the Hawke household; it was possible Orana was finally figuring this out.

“I’ve just changed the linens on Mistress Amelle’s bed,” she said, sadness creeping into her eyes and the line of her mouth as she looked down at Amelle’s pale face.  “Is…” she began hesitantly, “is there anything else you need for her?”

Fenris shook his head. “It is more important she sleeps.  Perhaps food when she awakens, but…”

“There’s bread baking and I can have some soup ready in a few hours.”

“That should suffice.”

The maid hesitated again, though this time it seemed more out of deference to Fenris, which always managed to leave him feeling unnerved.  “Will you be—I mean, shall I sit with her?  So she isn’t alone when she wakes up?”

The Knight-Captain’s words — _see to it she stays there_ — echoed through his memory and Fenris shook his head.  “I will remain.  If she wakes, you… I doubt you will be able to convince her to continue resting.”  In fact, he had no faith whatsoever that Orana could have prevented Amelle from rushing off again the moment she awoke.

“And is there anything _you’ll_ need?” she asked, almost timidly.

Fenris considered a second or two, then shook his head.  “No, I… no.  I will let you know if she wakes, but I don’t think that will happen for some time.”

“…Of course, messere,” Orana said, sketching a brief curtsey before heading back to the kitchen.  Letting out a shallow sigh, Fenris turned and began the ascent to Amelle’s room.  The trip up the stairs was enough for his own body to feel the effects of the past few days.  It had been years since he’d deprived himself of sleep for such a stretch — at one time he’d been more accustomed to these sorts of demands upon his body; while on the run from Danarius, Fenris had often gone long periods without sleep at all.  But he was not at all used to these habits _now._

Shouldering the door open, Fenris carried Amelle into her bedchamber and set her gently upon the bed.  She exhaled softly as her body settled against the mattress, but other than that, she gave no reaction.  Something about that chilled Fenris a little.

He straightened, looking down at his charge.  The dark line of blood still marred the skin below her nose, and though she had healed the cuts upon her arm, blood still remained.  There was a pitcher and basin on the bedside table, a small cloth folded beside it.  Fenris dampened the cloth and very gingerly wiped away the blood from her face.  Cleaning the blood from her hands was likewise careful work, but Amelle’s sleep was deep; there wasn’t even the faintest stirring in her fingertips.

After pulling her shoes free, Fenris tugged the blankets over Amelle’s still form and stepped back, watching her, wishing her slumber looked a little more natural for all that her expression was… content.  Peaceful.

Peaceful until she woke, at least.  Fenris had no illusions on that score.

Exhaling softly, he turned away from the bed; there was an overstuffed armchair by the fire that looked particularly inviting at that moment, and a small cushioned footstool pushed against one wall laden with books.  Fenris smiled a little at the makeshift stepstool as he dragged it away from the bookshelf and settled it in front of the chair.  Before long he’d removed his sword, placing it in the same weapons rack that held a small few of Amelle’s staves.  His armor came next, and before long Fenris settled into the armchair, allowing himself to relax a moment.  

He was asleep almost instantly.

#

Back in Lothering, just halfway between the Hawke farm and the village proper, there had been a pond.  It was large and deep, and shaded by trees at one end.  At the other end was a wide, flat rock, just large enough for three troublesome children to sprawl upon to dry off on bright summer days after they’d swum to the point their hands and feet became wrinkled and waterlogged.

Amelle loved to swim.  Those rogue sparks she’d always worried so much about never showed themselves underwater, and while sometimes she managed to make the water somewhat colder than it might have otherwise been, on particularly sweltering summer days, no one complained.

Under the surface of that water lurked an entirely different world from the one above: sounds were muted and everything moved so much slower than reality.  Under the water, Amelle was weightless.

She remembered being angry, but that memory felt too far away — it was muted and slowed down as if she were underwater.  She’d been angry the potion hadn’t worked, angry at Flemeth, angry at _herself_.  Then she’d placed her hands upon Aveline’s head — again, so _slowly_ — and took a breath of mana.  Then a deeper breath — again and again and _again_ until her lungs ached and her head buzzed, and even after all that, she took another breath, calling upon reserves she wasn’t sure she had.  She was running out, pushing herself, behaving stupidly — she knew all this and yet ignored every warning she could have possibly imagined her father giving her.

_Be careful, rabbit._

_A mage’s reserves are not infinite, rabbit._

_You’ll hurt yourself, rabbit._

_Rabbit,_ stop.  Stop now. _Please,_ rabbit.

But Amelle couldn’t find room to care.  She wanted to beat this illness, this _madness_ , as if it could be made manifest, crafted into a single opponent one _could_ fight.

But amidst the buzzings of mana that hummed along her veins and through her head, a strange sort of emptiness began to come over her, to the point where Amelle’s bones felt as if they might rattle and crack if she moved too quickly.  She was out — or frightfully soon to be out — of mana.  Despite this knowledge, she took _another_ breath, focusing and _feeling_ the place inside where her magic danced and swam, weightless but never muted, and Amelle tried coaxing and cajoling another drop from an already empty well.  There wasn’t anything left.

For a moment she thought the white light flooding around her was _hers_ , and she thought _Isn’t that odd?_ before her knees slipped away from under her.  She was vaguely aware of voices, aware she hadn’t hit the floor, but she was tired — so tired the floor would have been a welcome place to rest one’s weary head.

Then she was floating — like she had in the pond so many years ago, but different.  Floating but not; something solid held her, as warm and solid as that sun-baked rock.  She hadn’t hit the floor, hadn’t fallen, and if she was floating, that meant she was safe and could _rest._  

And with these final thoughts and recollections of warmth and safety, Amelle gave in and _slept._

_#_

It was dark when Amelle opened her eyes — no, not _dark,_ exactly.  Dusk.  But even opening her eyes to see that much was a struggle; they felt gummy and gritty and swollen and any effort to pry them open was met with the urge to let them slide shut again and drift back to blessed slumber.  She fought that urge, reaching up — though her hand felt impossibly heavy — and rubbing away the grit and sleep as she tried to piece together what in all the Void had happened to make her feel as if a bronto was raging on the inside of her skull.  With boots.  Big ones.  Dwarven-made.

A fire crackled off to one side, illuminating enough of the room for Amelle to see that it was _her_ room.  She was in her bed, in her room, dressed in that day’s clothes, tucked beneath her covers.  And she had less than no idea how she _got there._   Then slowly, bit by bit, memories came back to her, flickering like the pictures on a deck of cards in Varric’s hands as he shuffled them.  The potion — the blighted potion that _hadn’t worked_.  And then Aveline—

Amelle looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly.  Her right sleeve was torn and bloody, but someone had taken the time to wipe the blood from her skin.  She touched the skin above her upper lip, but her fingertips came back clean.  It was almost like waking up from a dream, only without the knowledge — and security — that what had happened had _only been_ a dream.

A sharp bolt of hunger gnawed through her stomach and Amelle realized that it was hunger that had woken her to begin with.  Moving carefully, she slid out of bed, discovering too late that her knees were like jelly beneath her and just as she straightened, Amelle stumbled with a gasp, reaching out and catching herself on the bedpost.  She clung to it, breathing hard.  

All right, so maybe standing was too ambitious just yet.  

“What in the _Void_ do you think you’re doing?” an irritated voice asked, startling a yelp out of Amelle as she twisted clumsily to find Fenris levering himself out of the chair by the fire.  He looked rumpled and sleepy and _annoyed_ , but he still caught her before she’d even realized spinning had not been the wisest course.  She gripped his shoulders and let him take her weight, squeezing her eyes shut as she willed her sense of balance to make an appearance.

“I’m…” she began, but his hands were on her and they were warm through the thin material of her dress as he turned her about, steering her back to her bed.  She went pliantly, if only because it was still too much work to string together thoughts into words _and_ walk at the same time.

“Do not attempt to tell me you are _fine._ You have overtaxed—”

She shook her head stubbornly then winced as she sat heavily on the bed.  Fine?  No, she was leagues away from _fine_.  “I’m… Maker, I’m just _hungry,_ Fenris.”

That was enough to surprise him into silence.  “I… see.”

Amelle nodded, carefully turning and lying against the pillows.  Hunger gnawed at her stomach and she closed her eyes, lifting her hands to her temples and rubbing them slowly.  She opened her eyes and peered up at him, feeling suddenly sheepish.  “And I… didn’t realize you were here with me.”

“It… seemed unwise to leave you.  The Knight-Captain agreed.”

“That sounds… grim.”

“You were… unresponsive.  It was disconcerting.”  Though his tone revealed nothing, Amelle could feel the understatement in the words.  “I am… I suspect Orana will be pleased you’ve awoken.”  There was a twitch at his lips before he added, “She has been spending much of the day in the kitchen.  That you’ve awoken with your appetite intact will only please her further.”

“ _Perfect_ ,” she said fervently as that gnawing in her stomach came back with a vengeance. “I could eat a bronto.”  Preferably the one dancing around inside her skull, if only to make it _stop_.

Annoyance dissipated enough for Fenris to look almost amused as he replied, “We haven’t any bronto, but there is, as I said, soup.”  Amelle tried to stand again, but found herself pushed back down as Fenris glared down at her and said, “I will ask Orana to bring some up for you.”

“I _can_ walk, you know,” Amelle grumbled up at him.

“You can barely stand, as you’ve demonstrated to great effect.  Stay there.  I will return shortly.”

Amelle nodded once and sunk back against the pillows, resisting the ever more tempting urge to close her eyes.  After a few minutes, she heard Fenris’ light step on the stairs just before he came back into her room.  He paused by the armchair he’d been napping in, then shifted awkwardly and turned the chair around, sitting down and resting his hands against his knees.  

“What happened?” she asked, for all she was afraid to hear the answer.

Several moments of silence followed, filled only with the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth.  Fenris then cleared his throat as his fingers tightened minutely on his knees.  “You overtaxed yourself.”

To his credit, he did not say “again.”  But the word lingered in spirit, unsaid, but definitely still implied.

“You said as much.  What… happened?” she asked, wincing at how hoarse, how strained her voice sounded.

Hesitating momentarily, Fenris’ eyes darted to the fire for a moment, watching the flames as if searching them for inspiration before he looked back at her.  “The potion… did not work.  In your anger, I suspect you attempted to heal Aveline in the same manner you healed the children in the clinic.”

 _Oh, Maker_ , she thought.  But as Fenris spoke, the memories slid back to her, flickering reminders of how quickly everything had gone so thoroughly wrong.  “Through the application of brute force.”

Fenris’ glare more than adequately conveyed his displeasure.  “Yes.  Unwisely applied.”

She winced.  “It… didn’t work, then.”  Fenris didn’t reply right away, his scowl deepening.  “Fenris?” she asked, looking more closely at him.  “ _Did_ it work?”

Here he sighed and pushed to his feet.  “Aveline… returned to herself, yes,” he answered shortly.

“So it _did_ work—” began Amelle, but Fenris cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“It worked, yes, but you cannot possibly be considering a repeat of such measures.”

She shook her head, but could not quell the rising excitement, the _hope_ that lifted beneath her breast.  “Not those measures _exactly,_ no, but now we _know_ —”

A soft knock sounded at the door and Amelle snapped her mouth shut just in time for Orana to step in, carrying a tray heavy with not only soup, but what looked like all the contents of the kitchen as well: a towering selection of fruit, cheese, and thick hunks of fresh bread, which she set gently upon Amelle’s bedside table.  

“Thank you, Orana,” Amelle said gratefully, pushing herself up and smiling for the young woman.  Orana returned the smile, however tremulously, clasping her hands in front of her.

“It is good to see you recovering, mistress.  You’ve been pushing yourself so hard lately.”

Amelle saw the worry in Orana’s eyes and felt a swift kick of guilt for making the young woman fret. “Thank you, Orana,” Amelle said again, this time meekly.  The maid gave her a beaming smile, which alleviated Amelle’s guilt not in the least bit, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.  Once she was gone, Amelle looked at the tray and sighed, then turned to Fenris.  “I hope you’re hungry.”

Fenris perused his own meal.  He looked a little surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Orana to bring enough for both of them.  At some point after arriving at the Hawke household, the maid discovered she found a great deal of satisfaction in feeding people.  Amelle supposed it wasn’t entirely surprising — given events, means people had of comforting one another had grown in perilously short supply. “She… has been worried,” he said, quietly.

Nodding, Amelle felt a faint twinge when she spied several gloriously red, plump strawberries in the collection and thought of Kiara and her love for the things, which truly bordered on the obscene. “Worried?” she echoed softly.

“She mentioned you hadn’t been eating.”

Amelle set the berries aside and picked up her bowl of soup with a sigh.  “That’s not… entirely accurate.  I ate when I was hungry.  There were just… more important things to tend to than sleep. And… the less sleep I got, the less appetite I had.”

“It should be no surprise this befell you,” Fenris said, taking no pains to mask his disapproval.  “What _is_ a surprise is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

“No,” Amelle countered, gesturing with her spoon, “what’s _surprising_ is that what I did to Aveline _worked_.”Cassia from the alienage sprang to mind and Amelle straightened slightly.  “That’s two adults now who’ve responded positively to the healing magic.”

“Fenris looked up from his meal with a start.  “Two?”

“Cassia, who runs the fruit stall?”

“When did this happen?”

“The night Cullen and I went out to speak with her.”  Amelle frowned.  “I thought it was an anomaly.”  Her frown deepened and she tapped the curve of the spoon thoughtfully against her lips.  “I didn’t faint, though.”

“Because you’ve not been giving your reserves ample time to replenish themselves,” came Fenris’ heated retort, but Amelle gave him a _look._

“What’s my alternative?” she asked.  “It’s not as if I can hand this off to another mage healer — the only one of those I know is long gone and I wouldn’t accept his help now even if he _did_ show up to offer it.” She took a spoonful of soup, followed by a bite of the bread and had to stop herself from inhaling every last bite right then.  It was delicious and she was _starving._   But while she chewed, Fenris took full advantage of the silence.

“How is it better to run yourself past the point of good sense, past the point of all endurance, until you are exhausted?  If you had just _slept_ —”

“And when was I supposed to do that?” she asked between mouthfuls.  “There have been things to do, Fenris, and I have to do them, because _no one else can._ ”  With a frustrated sigh, she set the bowl down on her bedside table and levered herself to her feet, ignoring Fenris’ glower.  “I cannot be in three places at once.”  She ticked points off on her fingers.  “I cannot research potions, hunt for ingredients, _and_ man the clinic and still expect to get something resembling a good night’s rest!”

“You are the _only one_ who expects you to be able to do all three of those things.”

“Who else is there?”

Setting his own bowl aside with enough force to make the liquid within slosh dangerously close to the rim, Fenris stood and raked a hand through his hair.  Sleep had mussed it, and his fingers served only to send it further into disarray.  “You could have sent Merrill to look for the plants,” he said, pushing to his feet.  “I would have assisted you in any way I could — or do you not _trust_ me enough to send me on a simple errand by myself?”

“I—”  Amelle’s mouth snapped shut and her cheeks felt suddenly, uncomfortably warm.  He was right, of course.  Merrill wasn’t a healer, but she did know plants — even if Amelle hadn’t already been aware ofd this, Merrill _was_ who she’d brought along to hunt for the Harlot’s Blush.  “I’ve asked her to watch the clinic,” she said instead, but it sounded too much like the excuse it _was_.  “Listen to me — I’m doing what I must, because if something goes wrong, I don’t want it falling on someone else’s head.  And all of this is immaterial — there’s still no time to rest.  Even when all I was doing was manning the clinic, I still remained until all hours of the night.  _I need to be there._ ”

He turned and stalked the length of the room, shaking his head in evident disgust.  “And you are going to continue to push yourself over and over again in this manner?”

Didn’t he understand?  Didn’t he _understand_ that people were going to continue sickening if she didn’t _do_ something?  “What’s the alternative?” she asked, plaintively.  “The potion was our only hope and it didn’t work!  Until we find out what in the Maker’s name is causing all of this, I can’t—”

Fenris turned on his heel, eyes _and_ markings blazing with fury and light, startling Amelle into utter silence.  “What is the _alternative?_ ” he asked, his voice growing louder and more ragged with every syllable.  “Do you truly know nothing of the consequences of actions such as these?  Or do you simply not _care?_ ”

Amelle blinked once, then twice, trying to shove down her rising indignation.  Of course she knew the _consequences_.  Her father had had many serious talks with her about the consequences of a mage’s power, the fact that said power was not infinite, and what could happen to said mage if he — or _she_ — attempted to push past the limits of that power.  It was a point upon which Father had lectured her upon many times, until he was satisfied she truly understood.  And she _did_ understand.  But she also understood — _feared_ — people were going to continue dying if she obeyed those limits.  She would _not_ be lectured to by Fenris, not about _this._ Not _now._

“Oh, I see,” Amelle said coldly, standing her ground as her eyes narrowed to slits.  She was angry and hurt and more afraid of failure than anything else, and there Fenris was, reminding her of things like bloody consequences when failure and death and madness felt streaked across her hands.  Betrayal welled up and mingled with the other ugly emotions, her stomach twisting with them. “Still—after everything, you’re _still_ expecting me to cut corners to get a little extra power, aren’t you?  Maybe I’ll find a way to rationalize and justify it, like Merrill and her blood magic, or Anders and—”

Fenris’ markings flared again and Fenris took several steps closer; from this distance she saw the way anger made the tendons on his neck stand out in relief, the way the muscles flexed in his arms as he clenched and unclenched his hands.  “ _That_ is what you think of me then,” he growled.  “You still believe it is _I_ who do not trust _you._ ”

Amelle clenched her own hands into fists, but continued to stand her ground as good sense whispered _No, that’s not what I think at all_ , but was drowned out by defensiveness and the crushing failure of that blighted potion.  “For all I know that’s why you agreed to stay behind when Kiara left for Starkhaven in the first place!  Who better to keep an eye on the _mage,_ right?”  A sharp pain lanced through Amelle’s breast as she said the words, and traitorous tears burned sudden and hot at her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let them fall, not to let Fenris see her distress, lest he take it for weakness.  She would not let him see her weak.

But her words had hit their mark and Fenris stiffened.  For the thinnest instant, something other than anger flashed across his face, but as Fenris shook his head the shadow of expression vanished.  She’d gotten a glimpse, though, and what Amelle had spied bore a startling resemblance to _pain._   “Whatever else you may think of me,” he said, “I will _not_ stand by and watch while you call upon depleted reserves, Amelle Hawke.  I will not _applaud_ when you ignore your limits.  I will not _encourage_ you to abuse yourself so.”

As Fenris spoke, his markings glowed, slowly growing brighter, and then he _moved._  

She’d always known he was fast; he’d just never been so fast _at_ her.  Suddenly, Amelle’s back was pressed hard against the wall.  Fenris’ hands, she realized, were gripping her upper arms with almost bruising force.  

“I will not,” he went on, his voice low and ragged, “remain idle while you cause harm to yourself.”  He was breathing harder now, struggling to regain his composure, and it was then she saw something _else_ in his eyes — something other than anger, something other than frustration — and the rawness of it made her suck in a breath.  Fenris looked… he looked _wounded._ His voice had grown husky and uncertain, and the fingers tight on her arms loosened slightly — though Fenris did not _grip,_ he still _held_.  “I am… not certain I could bear to witness that.  Do not force it upon me.  Command me to go, and I shall.  But I will not— _cannot_ —remain if it means watching you do damage to yourself and being powerless to stop you.”

If Fenris was struggling with composure, Amelle was struggling too — struggling to process what was happening, to reconcile Fenris’ words with the pressure of the wall against her back, the warmth his fingers around her arms, and the _look_ in his eyes.  Their bodies weren’t touching, but Amelle could _feel_ the heat rolling off him, felt the indescribable _something_ tingle across her skin whenever his markings flared to life.  Then the world seemed to sway and tilt and the moment _shifted_.  Suddenly the space between them felt even smaller.

Amelle swallowed hard, quietly shocked at the way her heart was pounding.  “And i-if you… if you stay…” she managed, marveling at how very dry her mouth had become.  Amelle swallowed again.  “If you stay, what d-do you expect to… _do_?”

His thumb stroked a small circle along the inside of her upper arm and she fought not to shiver as he replied, “If it is within my power to stop you from coming to harm, I will.”

“Oh,” Amelle breathed, the word no more than a shadow of a whisper.  “Then I, um… I suppose I…”  Her voice trailed off and the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips.  “I guess…”  But every last word save _one_ had fled from her mind.  “ _Stay,_ ” she whispered.  _Please._

Then the scant space between them vanished and Fenris was pressing against her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other at her hip and his mouth over hers, not shy or hesitant, but moving with all the heat — _passion,_ her mind whispered — of their argument but _different_ and before she was fully aware of it, she had already closed her eyes and was pressing back, fingers clutching blindly at him as her mind raced to catch up.

This was nothing like the tentative, experimental kiss she’d shared with Cullen in the garden. Fenris’ kiss was full of palpable _want,_ and the ferocity of it made her gasp.  When she did, Fenris’ tongue slid past her lips and Amelle exhaled in a long, shuddering groan.  She hooked an arm around Fenris’ neck, moving her mouth against him, kissing him back, wanting with every beat of her pounding heart to match the force of the kiss she _felt_.  His teeth caught her lip and she sucked in another ragged gasp before pressing close and losing herself again in the kiss.

Then Fenris’ mouth was gone, but his body wasn’t — he was still pressed against her, though now it seemed as if he were leaning rather than pressing.  He rested his forehead against hers — he was warm, and his breath came out in humid little bursts against her lips.

“You… make a persuasive argument,” whispered Amelle, her voice far too breathy to her own ears as she brushed her lips over Fenris’ in a kiss that was both gentle and uncertain.  He stroked his thumb against her cheek and she shivered.  The soft, involuntary sound that came from the recesses of her throat might have been called a whimper.

His voice came out rough and ragged and she wanted to hear nothing else but that for as long as she lived.  “I am… relieved you can be made to see sense.”

“Yes. Well. Like I said. Persuasive.”  Amelle swallowed hard and realized that they were leaning against each other, holding each other up.  It was almost comical — the two of them so weak-kneed after a single kiss — and Amelle found herself stifling, badly, a soft huff of nervous, disbelieving laughter.  Fenris only drew back and arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

“It’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head quickly.  “But I… I have to ask.  How long have you…”

“How long have I been more concerned with your own wellbeing than your chances of falling to a demon’s lures?”  At her shaky nod, he looked down, appearing almost… _sheepish._   “I do not recall the precise moment — the change came too gradually.  I only know there came a day when things had… changed.”

At that, Amelle drew in a deep breath and let it out, slowly as her heart kicked up, beating faster all over again.  “Oh.”  She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing for a while, but even that was difficult with Fenris pressed against her.  Slowly she wrapped her arms around him, exhaling in a soft sigh when he returned the gesture in kind and marveling at the perfect warmth, the perfect _fit_ of her head against his shoulder, of his arms _holding_ her.  _Yes._

But beyond the warmth and the solid feel of him, Amelle also found herself reflecting on the strangeness of Fenris’ behavior, his willingness to join her at the clinic no matter the hour, and then, later, his… marked displeasure.  She sucked in a soft breath, arms tightening around his neck reflexively.  “Maker’s balls,” she breathed.

“What is wrong?” Fenris asked, pulling away just far enough to look at her.

“All this time I was worried you were _ill,”_ whispered Amelle, shaking her head, then leaning in to brush a kiss across his cheek.  “You were _jealous._ ”

Scowling, though there was no heat in it, Fenris reluctantly pulled away and laid gentle fingers upon her elbow — such a difference from the bruising grip earlier — then guided her back to the bed.  “I was… foolish,” he admitted.  “I am not… proud of it.”  And then, sending her a pointed look, he added, “But moments of foolishness need not extend to include foregoing food and rest.”

Amelle sat on the bed and heaved a sigh.  “All right.  All _right._ You win.  I will eat and I will… _attempt_ to sleep.”  In truth, she was simply too tired to argue anymore — a sure sign she needed to rest a little longer.  “But you and I have… _a great deal_ to discuss tomorrow.”

Fenris placed the still-warm bowl of soup in her hands and pressed a kiss to her hair before retrieving his own dish and reclaiming his seat.  “Then we will discuss it.  Tomorrow.”

#

It hardly surprised Fenris when Amelle started to nod off before she’d even finished her dinner.  Covering her wide yawn with one hand, she set the bowl aside and slid back beneath her covers.  They spoke remarkably little during the meal, distracted by equal parts hunger and exhaustion, he imagined.

In truth he was somewhat grateful for the silence; it allowed him to put his thoughts in some sort of order.  He hadn’t anticipated… revealing himself to Amelle in… such a manner.  He hadn’t anticipated revealing himself to her at _all_ , in fact, but there was little to be done about that _now._  

Amelle was sound asleep and Fenris was tending the fire in the hearth when Orana slipped in again, quiet as any ghost.  She collected the dishes and glided back to the door, pausing a moment to smile at Fenris.

“I’m glad you were able to convince her to stay and rest, messere.”

“As am I,” he replied, setting aside the poker.  

As Orana closed the door with a gentle click, Fenris’ eyes slid to the flames dancing in the hearth and then to the still, sleeping form on the bed.  He’d convinced Amelle to stay and rest, certainly, but he couldn’t help but wonder and worry that he hadn’t made an enormous mistake in choosing his method.  He reclaimed his seat and settled in front of the fire, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.  He’d been depriving himself of sleep nearly as much as Amelle lately, and his own fatigue was fast catching up on him.  As slumber settled over him, making his eyes and limbs heavy, he cast one last glance at his sleeping charge.

_We will discuss it.  Tomorrow._


	44. Chapter 44

Kiara had to hand it to Varric, the dwarf knew information. Where to ask, whom to threaten, when to offer money; Varric knew all the tricks. And then some. The city grew no less hostile, and they were still forced to sleep in shifts whenever an abandoned warehouse or empty shop was available, but they knew more. It was something.

Rumors, Varric informed her, were running rampant. Some were almost truth. Most were not. One insinuated the Champion of Kirkwall and the pirate Castillon intended to rob the royal treasury in full sight of the guards. Her least favorite said the Champion intended to take the city for herself, at the head of an army of mages. She’d even overheard an amusing one herself, wherein it was suggested she’d arrived to seek the new Prince’s hand in marriage. She could have produced a reasonable facsimile of a marriage certificate to back that one up. She didn’t think Sebastian would appreciate that much, though.

For every rumor about her, there were ten about Sebastian. Through rumors, she realized the city of Starkhaven had thought Sebastian dead in the destruction of Kirkwall’s chantry. Most believed the Sebastian Vael currently in Starkhaven a ghost, a restless spirit risen from his premature grave. Many believed he had come to free them from the tyranny of mages. Some wondered if he was still unsettled by the old murders. Living or dead, he was a Vael, and Starkhaven held the Vaels in high regard. People spoke of him in strained voices, equal parts hope and fear and reverence.

No rumors spoke of her with reverence.

Mages. Always mages. Starkhaven’s Circle might have burned ages ago, but the city seethed with fresh hate, fresh fear, constantly threatening to boil over into violence. Even the elderly and infirm, Varric said, feared to use canes or crutches for fear they’d be thought staffs. The new Prince remained silent, and if the palace had opinions about the burnings in the city, they were not spoken. Much of the blame fell to Kirkwall. An equal amount, Kiara was stunned to learn, was heaped at the feet of Starkhaven’s Chantry. Varric believed it was because the templars had stepped in to stop the first burnings, and the Revered Mother had spoken sincerely and in opposition to the savagery of the murders being done. The people saw this as a threat, and proof the Chantry of Starkhaven had allied itself with—perhaps even hidden—the Circle mages who had disappeared when the old Circle Tower burned.

Listening intently to these reports from Varric, Sebastian’s expression darkened by degrees, his shoulders stiffened, and he did not smile. She had not seen him smile once since he’d lifted his bow and put one of his white-fletched arrows through that suffering victim’s throat.

If Sebastian was formulating plans, he did not share them with her. He accompanied her in silence whenever Varric managed to warn them trouble was about to spill into murder. He incapacitated when he could, and killed when it was unavoidable. She tried to follow his example, but anyone holding torches was fair game.

Afterward, when Varric and Isabela worked their network of contacts to get the rescued not-mage (and they were never actual mages, never) out of the city, Kiara paced. Sebastian prayed. She suspected neither of them found much in the way of peace.

 In the week since that first burning Kiara and Sebastian had stumbled upon, they’d managed to stop three mobs before their victims were committed to the flames. They’d been too late for two others.

So, when Varric threw the door open with a look on his face—the look she recognized as meaning _trouble, now_ —she and Sebastian instantly had bows in hand, and were jogging to keep pace before the door even had a chance to close.

A week of walking at Sebastian’s side from one edge of the city to the other, in every direction, had done a little to orient her. Less than five minutes into their journey, she suspected they were headed for the chantry. Five minutes after that, she heard the cries of the crowd urging them onward, urging them to run faster.

Kiara found it distressing that she knew by the sound of the crowd no murder had yet been committed. The cries were hungry, angry, not yet satisfied. Varric held out a hand to stop her.

“Isabela’s already here,” he said. “She’ll have worked her way into the crowd so she can get close to the victim. I’ll meet her around the back of the … platform. You two go up. There’s a balcony. Give us cover. Pick them off if they get too close.”

“So, the same as the second time.”

Varric nodded. No one mentioned that the second time had been one of their failures. 

Without another word, she glanced where Varric was pointing, noticed the accessibility of the trellis and vines and balcony, and flipped her bow out of her hands and over her back. Sebastian waited at the bottom while she climbed, guarding her. She would do the same from above, for him. Just like they’d done the second time. Before it had become a failure.

Her fingers sought cracks and ledges even as her feet scrambled on the vine. Thorns put up a feeble attack, but spurred onward by the sound of the cries—growing in anticipation, not a good sign—Kiara ignored the slight pain in favor of speed. With a last great pull, she heaved herself over the balcony’s ledge and immediately trained her bow so Sebastian could begin climbing. The trellis creaked under his weight, but held, and soon they stood side by side, looking out over the massing mob.

It was… disturbingly large. She should have guessed it would be, from the sound, but vision made all too clear what a daunting task lay before them. A stake stood on a platform, already surrounded by great piles of wood and kindling. Kiara scanned the crowd, looking for the seething center, the eye of the storm that would be the victim. She found Isabela first. The pirate was dressed in clothes chosen to help her blend in, but her hair was still covered in the blue kerchief. Kiara couldn’t read the woman’s expression at such a distance, but Isabela’s posture was all readiness.

She didn’t bother looking for Varric. Unlike Isabela, the dwarf needed no help blending in, and he never required a reminder to do so.

Beside her, Sebastian voiced the concern she felt steadily rising. “I don’t see a… prisoner.”

“Nor do I.”

Kiara scanned the crowd once again. It was growing, still. Townsfolk fanned out around the platform, even to the point of standing on the chantry steps. One nimble child had scaled the Chanter’s Board; she could see him cheering.

But for what? Who?

Biting her bottom lip in concentration, she looked from the boy to the platform to Isabela to the storm with no eye.

The platform.

“There’s something wrong.” She was unable to keep the urgency from her tone. Sebastian glanced at her sharply.

She explained, “The platform. It’s… it’s too well-made. The other ones have all been scrap wood and garbage, pulled together in the heat of an angry moment. A carpenter made this one. It’s—”

“It’s a trap.”

Kiara turned, leaning toward him a little, and heard the whistle of the arrow a second before she felt it graze her cheek. If she hadn’t turned…

Sebastian dove at her. She hit the balcony hard enough to lose all the air in her lungs. Sebastian lay mostly atop her, the weight of him pressing her even more uncomfortably into the stones, and making it harder to draw the breath she needed.

“A little… warning… would…”

He clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened. Lowering his lips until they brushed her ear, he whispered, “Quiet.”

As if to punctuate his request, half a dozen arrows arced over the railing of the balcony and skittered to the stone behind them. She nodded, and he removed his hand, only to press his fingers to her cheekbone.

It hurt. She felt… odd. It wasn’t just lying flat on her back on a balcony while a crowd screamed below, either. She swallowed, but her throat was dry and the action brought no relief.

Beyond Sebastian’s head, the sky was very blue.

“Same color as your eyes,” she said.

Sebastian opened his lips to admonish her—she could see admonishment written all over his features, swimming in his pretty blue eyes—and stopped. He glanced at his fingertips and she saw they were red with blood.

“Did they get you?” she gasped. “Sebastian?”

He shook his head. “Look at me, Hawke. Does it hurt?”

She snorted. She tried to snort, anyway. Instead of the derision she was aiming for, it mostly sounded like a sigh. She wanted to say something cutting about not being undone by measly scratches, but the words darted away from her like fish in a pond. A blue pond. Filled with fishes. Like the one her father had sometimes taken her to. The one where she and Amelle and Carver had gone swimming so often. A cool, blue pond. Her gaze drifted past him, toward the sky again. Blue as a pond. Filled with fishes made of clouds.

She thought she remembered hearing people screaming, but it was quieter now. Pleasantly quiet. Peacefully quiet.

Sebastian took her chin between his fingers and jerked her face to meet his. She’d have cringed, if she could. She’d never seen him look so angry. Not even when she’d refused to kill Anders, and he’d threatened… not even… 

She blinked, and realized his lips were moving. They were forming a familiar word _Kiara, Kiara, Kiara_. His eyes were so blue. Amelle once had a doll with a dress the color of Sebastian’s eyes, and Kiara had always wanted it. It seemed a stupid thing now, to have been so jealous over a doll. Amelle would laugh at her. Oh, Amelle. She missed her sister so much. She wished she was here, Amelle with her doll in the pretty blue dress. Amelle would probably have just given her the doll, if she’d asked. The dress had been so pretty, the blue so soothing. Like watching the sky. Like swimming in the pond.

The blue of Sebastian’s eyes wasn’t soothing. It was terrified. And terrifying.

The pain came then.

And the darkness.

#

Starkhaven’s Royal Archers called it Maker’s Light, because anyone struck by an arrow tipped in the poison was about to meet the Maker and walk in His Light eternally. A tiny vial cost more than most people dreamed of in a lifetime. The antidote cost more. Starkhaven had little cause to employ assassins, but when extreme measures were called for, Sebastian knew it was always to the Light the palace turned.

Sebastian knew the symptoms and the progression of ills. He had been taught them as part of his training. The archery master believed his archers should know the reality of the death they loosed. Loss of focus came first, followed by unconsciousness. Soon she would be wracked with chills so violent her bones would creak. Paralysis of the limbs. Then her heart would slow and she would struggle to breathe.

For the victim, it was a gentle way to go. Sebastian was told they walked in sweet memories, unaware of their own suffering. For those at the bedside, holding the death vigil, it was interminable. The antidote had to be administered within an hour, or death was certain—and the death was a long one. Days of listening for the next breath. Days of holding your own breath, feeling each inhale was sure to be the last. Days of waiting, hopeless.

The archery master had witnessed death by Maker’s Light only once, but his words had left an indelible impression. Sebastian had never forgotten. He wished he did not remember the man’s words quite so clearly now.

It was such a little thing, really. A flash of red against her pale cheek, almost indistinguishable from a single strand of her own hair, fine as spider silk. The thorns from the trellis had torn deeper gashes along the backs of her hands. It seemed… wrong to see her felled by such an outwardly insignificant thing. He’d seen her jump up and keep fighting after taking a knife to the gut or an arrow to the shoulder or, once, a vicious blow to the head. Maker, he’d _been there_ for her battle with the Arishok, and those wounds ought to have killed her, but still she’d fought.

Amelle had been there, then. Amelle with her ice-fire healing hands and her concerned expressions and her unwillingness to let death win. Amelle, putting people back together piece by piece, when necessary.

If not for the crowd still amassed below, screaming for the deaths of all mages, Sebastian would have given _anything_ to see one of Amelle’s disapproving looks now.

No more than five minutes had passed since the arrow had grazed Hawke’s cheekbone. Sebastian closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. The barely-there wound taunted him. Five minutes gone meant fifty-five minutes to get her an antidote. He knew that, too.

Careful not to raise his head above the level of the balcony railing, he slipped Hawke’s bow over his back. It was her favorite, and she would not thank him for losing it.

 _If_ she—

No. Nothing good could come of walking that path.

He could hear the armed, armored men coming up the stairs, coming to collect their body, their prize. Kneeling over Hawke, he could feel the faint tremble beginning in her limbs. Ten minutes, then. He’d miscalculated. Ten minutes gone. 

The door was not a wide one. Holding his bow horizontally, he set three arrows upon it. It wouldn’t be his prettiest shot, but it was one he could make. Three arrows would hit three men.

“Maker,” he whispered, but he was afraid to speak a prayer. He was afraid if he started chanting _Maker, don’t take her don’t take her_ he would never stop. He took a deep breath, focused. The doorknob was turning now. The doorknob became his entire world. “Maker,” he added. _Don’t take her._ “Let it be someone who knows me.”

He did not recognize the first man through the door, and his heart sank even as he drew the bowstring back. Three arrows. Three men. 

The second was a grizzled veteran, someone certainly old enough to have been in the guard before Sebastian was ever sent to Kirkwall. Sebastian’s eyes sought the man’s face instantly, and was gratified when a name swam into his head. “Elias,” Sebastian said, striving to maintain the approximation of calm. “I see you are Captain Elias now. Captain, ask your men to stand down. I do not want to kill any of them.”

 _Except the one who loosed the arrow tipped in Maker’s Light_ , whispered a voice in his head. It sounded eerily, unpleasantly like Anders. A touch bitter, a touch mocking. _Except the one who has her death on his hands. Him you’d kill gladly. Him you’d kill with your bare hands. You’d tear his heart out with your teeth._

The captain startled when Sebastian spoke, and then took a step closer, raising his hand to indicate his men should stay back. Sebastian eased the tension on his bowstring, never taking his gaze from Elias’.

“Do you know me, Captain?”

“You look like a man made of a boy I knew once. But Sebastian Vael is dead, his life stolen by the bastard maleficarum of Kirkwall. Everyone knows it.”

“I assure you I am most alive. No thanks to your men. Who bade you anoint your arrows with Maker’s Light?”

Captain Elias frowned, shaking his head. “You sound like the boy. You know about the Light. That’s an archer secret.”

Too much time was passing. Hawke was shaking now, her chills akin to seizures. Her head kept hitting the stone. He wanted to hold her, to keep her from hurting herself, but he knew they were both as good as dead the second he lowered his bow. Instead, Sebastian drew the arrows back again, and said, “I am Sebastian Vael, rightful Prince of Starkhaven. Answer my question. Who supplied the Light? Which of you carries the antidote?”

Elias was clearly discomposed now. He looked toward his men, but none of them seemed willing to meet his searching gaze. “We were… following orders, serah.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

The captain’s swallow was audible. “Your Highness.”

“Whose orders?”

“The Prince’s. Your brother’s.”

“My brothers are dead, Captain Elias.”

Elias shook his head again, and glanced at the stones of the balcony. “No, Your Highness.”

“That remains to be seen. Which of you carries the antidote? Give it to her at once!”

Captain Elias said nothing.

 _Maker._ “Your orders were to shoot arrows tipped in lethal poison into a crowd of innocents? And no one carries the antidote?”

Elias blinked. “No… Your Highness. We were to target the Champion of Kirkwall only. We had no idea you would—Everyone knows she’s made deals with demons. She consorts with mages. She would see us all slaves to their dark powers. She has been the source of unrest in the—”

“ _Silence_.” His fingers itched to release the bowstring, to let the arrows fly where they would and consequences be damned. Instead, he slid two of the arrows from the string and back into his quiver. The third he kept nocked, but he allowed the bowstring to go slack. A glance at Hawke told him what he needed to know: the chills were progressing now. Her jaw was clenched so tightly all the tendons in her neck were visible. The fine mark across her white skin no longer bled, but it was angry and red.

It was such a little thing. And Sebastian knew without a doubt it was enough to kill her.

“Take me to him.” Sebastian rose, lifting his chin and daring the guards to argue with him. No one looked inclined to do so. Unbidden, his mother’s voice came to him, _Oh, you do cut a dashing figure, sweetling. It’s rather a pity you’ve only talent for archery. No one will ever see you there. Needs must, I suppose._ He shook his head once, firmly. “Bring her. Gently.”

It took a moment, but eventually a stocky knight sheathed his blade and stepped forward. From beneath his helm, Sebastian caught a glimpse of dark eyes. He thought they looked concerned, but it still took every ounce of Sebastian’s willpower not to lunge forward when the man knelt at Hawke’s head. “Come on, Maisie,” the knight urged, speaking over his shoulder. “Give us a hand.”

A woman in plate reluctantly stepped away from the regiment. When _her_ eyes met Sebastian’s it was fear he saw, not concern. She moved to Hawke’s feet.

Hawke looked so very small, held as she was by the knights in their heavy armor.

Sebastian was only glad neither was an archer. _Elias is. You could take him in a heartbeat._ Sebastian inhaled past the sudden, blinding burst of rage. “Carry her as you’d carry your own day-old babe. And with every step you take, you’d best pray to the Maker she survives,” he cautioned. The dark-eyed knight nodded. The other bowed her head.

Captain Elias pressed his fist to his heart in a halfhearted salute, but his eyes remained troubled and his brow resistant. “We were… we were following orders. You cannot fault us for—”

Sebastian tilted his bow until the tip pointed directly at the captain. A lunge would put the point through the man’s eye, and they both knew it. _The arrow was his. Her blood is on his hands. If she_ —”I think it best, Captain, you not assume too much about what I can and cannot, will or will not do. Can I fault a man for listening to rumors and prejudice? Can I fault him for following orders blindly? You have forty minutes, Captain.”

 _Or what?_ whispered the voice like Anders’ in the back of his skull. _You’ll kill them all? You’ll burn the palace down? You’ll level the city? What will you do? What would be enough? When would you know to stop? When would you be satisfied justice was done?_

Aloud, he quoted, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. _”_

Captain Elias offered a more genuine salute this time. Sebastian did not acknowledge it. Instead, he watched as the two knights knelt and lifted the Champion of Kirkwall between them. The chills were subsiding into the next phase, the stiffened limbs and iron spine, the grim mockery of death. When he was convinced they would carry her gently and not slip a knife between her ribs—no reason, with the Light in her—he straightened his shoulders— _chin up, sweetling, stand tall. Princes don’t slouch. You’re a Vael, darling. Make sure they know it_ —and gestured for the captain to lead the way.

 _Andraste, guard her. Maker…_ “For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”

_Don’t take her, don’t take her, don’t take her._


	45. Chapter 45

Cullen wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he went to the Hawke Estate the next morning, but he was fairly sure he _wasn’t_ expecting to be assaulted by the scent of fresh-baked sticky buns when Orana opened the front door, and he certainly didn’t expect to find Amelle and Fenris sitting in the library deep in conversation over breakfast.  Amelle, it appeared, had heard the jostling of his plate armor and was already looking up and smiling when he and Orana reached the door to the library.

“No need to announce Cullen, Orana.  But it would be lovely if you could get him a plate and teacup.  I doubt he’s eaten yet.”

“As a matter of fact,” he began, “I—”

“Have not had one of Orana’s buns in a mabari’s age, and would be happy to partake in breakfast with us?” Amelle supplied, grinning.

He took a long look at her.  Though she looked much improved compared to the day before — though Cullen would have been hard pressed to imagine how Amelle could possibly look _worse_ than she had when she’d been pale and mana-drained, the dark streak of scarlet above her lip — there still existed the touch of a shadow beneath her eyes and she sat in a chair with a blanket draped over her legs.  Still, this was an improvement.  _Good,_ he decided, and nodded.

“It would appear I’m in no position to argue with the young woman,” he said to Orana, who in turn sent a small smile Amelle’s way.

“I’ll bring something right away, Mistress,” she said, and bustled off.  

Amelle waved a hand.  “Take a seat on whatever you think won’t collapse under the weight of all that armor, Cullen.  We’ve been… talking.”  She fidgeted slightly with the teacup, then set it down gently in its saucer.  “Fenris told me about Aveline.  How is she this morning?”

Cullen sat gingerly upon what looked like an encouragingly sturdy chair and leaned forward.  “As far as I’ve heard it, she did not suffer a relapse.”  But when Amelle’s bright, triumphant smile formed, he sent her a stern look.  “While I am as relieved as you are that Guard-Captain Aveline is once again well and in possession of her wits, you must understand how _reckless_ that was, Amelle.”

Grimacing, Amelle sent a strange look Fenris’ way, then pulled a small plate bearing a half-eaten sticky bun to her lap and began to pick at it with a sigh.  “Maker’s arse, I bloody hate that word,” she muttered under her breath.  “ _Yes_.  That has been… impressed upon me.”

“Repeatedly,” Fenris said, sending Amelle a veiled look as he picked up his own cup and drank deeply from it.

She popped a piece of the bun in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.  “Unfortunately, we’re not any closer to discovering the _cause_ of this illness.”

“Or how it’s spread,” Cullen added.  Orana came back into the room and he gratefully accepted the plate and teacup she handed him.  He’d had a single cup of too-strong tea that morning — it was all he could stomach — but here the smell alone was enough to reawaken his flagging appetite.

“I’ve actually been giving some thought to that,” Amelle said, grasping the teapot’s handle and filling Cullen’s cup before topping off both hers and Fenris’.  “I don’t think it’s spreading like any… any _normal_ disease.  Like a cold.  If it did, Donnic would be just as bad off as Aveline was — but he wasn’t.  Children are falling ill while their parents remain uninfected.”

Cullen added a splash of milk to his tea and sipped; it was excellent.  “Cassia was ill, but her husband was not.”

“Exactly.”

“None of us have exhibited any symptoms either,” Fenris said, looking between Cullen and Amelle, but his gaze lingered a bit on Amelle as he added, “And you have spent more time than any of us around the inflicted.”

Amelle made a face. “That’s hardly a good indicator one way or the other, though. I’m rarely ill. Most of the time my body heals itself without bothering to involve my mind. It’s unconscious and more or less constant.”

Cullen frowned, pushing the teacup in a circle on its saucer with the end of one finger. “That may be true,” he said, “but it doesn’t account for Fenris. Or, I suppose, for me. But Fenris has spent nearly as much time as you in the clinic.”

Fenris glowered when they both turned their gazes on him. “We are missing something,” the elf said. “The symptoms in children appear the same. Adults vary. It is not natural.”

“Thank the Maker not every adult took to the sickness the way Aveline did,” Amelle said. “But you’re not wrong. I _know_ I’m only treating _symptoms_. And it’s certainly not acting like any illness I’ve ever come across before. I still don’t know enough… and research takes _time_. Time we absolutely do not have.”

A shadow crossed her face, and Cullen knew without asking that she was contemplating the failure of the potion. He knew better than most how much _hope_ she’d poured into the blighted thing. To distract herself—and them, perhaps—Amelle leaned forward and refilled teacups all around again, though Cullen had barely taken a sip or two from his cup,  and by the time she sat back, cup firmly in hand, the shadow was gone and she was merely thoughtful again.

Thoughtful but still agitated, and the latter worried him more than he cared to admit.

“What _do_ we know, anyway?” she asked, not quite rhetorically. “It’s an illness that looks like illness in children, but not in adults. I find it hard to believe, however, that even Kirkwall has luck bad enough to have two _separate_ illnesses plaguing it, so until it’s proven otherwise, I think it’s best we treat them as related.”

“Children are weaker,” Cullen offered. “Perhaps adults are better able to stave off the physical ailment?”

Amelle nodded. “That was my thought as well. Children will often fall sicker harder and faster than their parents, even if the parents do not escape the illness entirely. Maker, no two people even progress _precisely_ the same way through a cold. Something… something tells me we won’t discover anything about this—whatever it is—by trying to narrow down symptoms. So it has to be _causes_.” She sent Cullen a pained look. “I—when the chantry—do you suppose there was anything in _there_ other than smoke and ash and dust and stones? Something that might have gotten into the air?”

He was already shaking his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I might’ve been concerned about lyrium, but the stores of templar lyrium are kept at Templar Hall. They weren’t…”

“In the chantry,” Fenris finished.

“Could it be as _simple_ as that, though?” Cullen pressed. “All of Kirkwall’s been breathing the miasma of smoke and… and _worse_. Maker only knows what the effects of such a thing could be.”

Amelle tapped her fingertips lightly on her blanket-covered thigh. “We might look at… at proximity, I suppose. See if the illnesses are worst around… around the damage. Your templars at the Gallows seem hardly touched at all, and the Gallows _is_ furthest from the epicenter of… of what happened. But it’s so hard to get an accurate picture. I… I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a great deal more out there I’m simply not _seeing_. The denizens of Darktown—and Lowtown, even—were _used_ to Anders and his clinic. No one from Hightown ever went to see him.” Her fingers stopped abruptly, clenching the fabric. “Maker’s _balls_ , how many people are sick in Hightown that I don’t even _know_ about? How many have died? Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“Because you were already overextending yourself with the those that found _you_ ,” Fenris replied, his tone daring her to argue. “We all saw very well the effort you expended healing _one_ person. You do not have the resources to individually heal everyone afflicted. You do not have the resources to heal _anyone_ right now.”

“I know that,” she replied, too evenly. “But I’m not going to stop _trying_ —”

“You are going to stop pushing yourself to the point of nosebleeds, however,” Cullen said sternly. “If I hadn’t been there to—”

“What _was_ that, anyway?” Amelle asked, interrupting, her eyes flashing with momentary anger Cullen thought was rooted more in frustration than anything else. “Did you smite me?”

“I didn’t _need to_ ,” he replied. “You’d nearly done yourself in by that point. It was only a cleanse.  I didn’t do anything different from the night you healed Cassia.  I… didn’t expect you to go down the way you did, in truth.”

“That would have happened even if you had not intervened, Knight-Commander,” Fenris said evenly, sending Amelle a frown.  “Amelle has pushed herself to such lengths at least one other time that I am aware of.”

Cullen looked at Amelle; the way she was picking at the corner of the blanket told him all he needed to know, and he sighed.  “ _Amelle._   You _cannot_ continue testing the limits of your mana like this.”

“I _know_ , but—”

“What good will you be to _any_ of the people you want to help if you do yourself irreparable damage?” he argued.  “It is _dangerous_ for a mage to test their limits so frequently.  Just because you are a spirit healer, that doesn’t mean you’re bloody invincible.”  In fact, Cullen knew spirit healers were at even greater risk than most other mages.  The very thing that made them excellent healers — a closer connection to the Fade than other mages possessed — could also stand to be their greatest detriment.  “Promise me you’ll be more careful in the future.”

Heaving a sigh, Amelle slumped a little in her chair and scowled into the cup.  “I don’t know what else to do.”

“We are trying to figure out the cause, Amelle,” Fenris said.  “You have said yourself discovering a cure may prove easier once we discover a cause.”

“All right.  People weren’t falling ill _before_ … what happened.  So let’s consider proximity.  Lowtown is nearly as far from… the site as the Gallows, and yet, Cullen, you and your templars haven’t fallen ill.”  Amelle tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him.  “And you’re _quite_ sure none of your men have succumbed?”

“I’d like to think I’d know it if they had,” Cullen replied. But Fenris was frowning, tapping his fingers against the table.

“Donnic said yesterday that more than half the guard are ill, did he not?”  Before Cullen could reply, however, Fenris said, “And you, Knight-Commander, have been supplementing the guard with templars as a temporary measure.  Whatever routes those sick guards walked, your men have been following those same patrols.”

Cullen cradled the teacup in his hands and sipped, thinking hard.  None of his men had been removed from duty — everyone was showing up for their shifts.  Aside from the chaos going on in the city and all around him, Templar Hall was running with surprising smoothness.  He shook his head.  “I had to reprimand a few new recruits some time ago — before your sister left for Starkhaven, in fact.”  But then Cullen sat up a little straighter, recalling what Amelle had told him in the garden — that _Kiara Hawke_ had likely been ill around the time she left Kirkwall.

Amelle was leaning forward, her teacup pushed aside, momentarily forgotten.  “Reprimanded for what?”

“Excessive fighting,” Cullen replied faintly.  “Oh, _Maker_.”

“But nothing has happened since?” Fenris asked.

Cullen shook his head, thinking back.  “No, just that handful of recruits — and as far as exposure goes, they came from all over Kirkwall, Lowtown as well as Hightown.”

Fenris’ brows lowered into a pensive frown.  “Then what is the difference between a templar recruit and one more established in the Order?” 

“Well, time, obviously,” Amelle said.  “The recruits are new — they haven’t had as much time to get used to the routine as the others.”  She pursed her lips into a hard line.  “And these same recruits haven’t had problems since?”

Cullen didn’t answer; his mind was rushing like a river, not liking the answers being churned up.  Amelle was right — templar recruits were newer to the Order than the other men.  It was likewise true that those same recruits had less exposure to the day to day routines the rest of them were so, _so_ familiar with.  Sometimes, he feared on his darker days, to their collective harm.

“Cullen?” Amelle asked, prompting him.  He swallowed hard, and looked at Fenris, nodding to indicate the white markings down his arms.

“Fenris.  Your markings.”

The elf went still, bristling slightly.  “Yes?”

“They’re… they’re _lyrium,_ aren’t they?”

The look Fenris sent Amelle was dark, and just a little tinged with the betrayal of believing she’d been telling tales not hers to tell, but Cullen shook his head and said, “She didn’t say anything. She didn’t _have_ to. I have seen you fight, and… though they are not magical in the same way Amelle’s mana is magical, templars are… no strangers to lyrium. It is a different application, but the _feel_ of it is similar enough to be recognizable.”

This seemed to placate Fenris a little, but the elf still leaned forward, peering at Cullen through narrowed eyes. “What has this to do with anything?”

“Lyrium,” Cullen said. “It’s… it is perhaps the one thing the three of us have in common. Mages and templars ingest it—Maker knows you must be half-drowning in lyrium potion these days, Amelle; don’t _give_ me that look—and you’ve… got your markings, Fenris.”

“You think lyrium grants some kind of immunity?” Amelle asked, a crease forming between her brows. “It doesn’t entirely explain why Aveline was affected so strongly whilst Donnic seems virtually unharmed—unless he has a lyrium habit we none of us know about.”

“I’m not saying there are no inconsistencies,” Cullen said. “We cannot possibly tally the symptoms or lack thereof of every person in Kirkwall, but we _know_ none of _us_ is ill.”

“Nor is Merrill,” Fenris added. “And she has been in the clinic and near the unwell nearly as often as Amelle.” Grimly, he added, “And _she_ is no spirit healer. If she’d taken ill we would know it.”

“No spirit healer and no stranger to lyrium,” Amelle agreed, leaning back in her chair and sipping from her cup. She scowled down at tea that was no longer hot, and Cullen felt her reach out for the touch of magic she required to make the liquid hot again… and stop. He didn’t know if it was his presence, or if she was only that conscious of preserving what strength remained to her, but instead of warming the tea, she set the cup aside and folded her hands in her lap before asking, “What else _do_ we have in common?”

“Little enough.” Fenris glowered at Cullen as though this was somehow his fault, but Cullen only shrugged and turned events over and over, looking for similarities.

“We all fought at the Gallows that night,” Cullen said at last. “But so did Aveline.”

“And I’m… I’m certain Kiara was not herself afterward,” Amelle added softly. “Neither Varric nor Isabela seemed… well, they didn’t seem anything like _Aveline_ , but not everyone has been affected the same way.” She put her head briefly in her hands and took a deep breath. “Maker’s breath, did the _lot_ of them run off to Starkhaven with plague in tow?”

Cullen thought about the potential repercussions if Amelle was correct and grimaced.  “If their illness is due to exposure,” he began, “then perhaps it’s possible once they removed themselves from Kirkwall, those effects might have subsided?”

“A good point,” Fenris said, looking back at Amelle, who still held her head in her hands.  “Those here grow sicker.  The opposite should hold true for anyone who leaves.”

Lifting her head, Amelle let out a deep breath, but there was still a deep frown furrowed at her brow.  “I suppose you’re right.  Still, it’s hard not to worry.”  She turned to Cullen, saying, “You don’t realize how… how _mad_ she seemed.  Not… violent like Aveline, but…” Amelle bit her bottom lip.  “Overprotective.  Beyond anything she’d ever been before, beyond anything I’d ever _seen_ before.”

Given what Cullen knew of Hawke, he had a difficult time finding himself surprised.  The Champion was, without a doubt, fiercely protective of her younger sister.  He himself had been on the receiving end of the hard, uncompromising fire in Kiara Hawke’s eyes on one occasion, and it was a place he’d be happy never to revisit in all his remaining years.

“Is it not possible, Amelle, you’re… a bit too sensitive to your sister’s—”

“She drew her bow on me, Cullen.”

“ _W-what?_ ” Cullen sputtered.

“Before Hawke left Kirkwall,” supplied Fenris, “she and Amelle… argued.”

A shadow settled upon Amelle’s face as she lowered her eyes to the middle distance.  “The morning of the memorial.  She… didn’t want me to go.  She thought it would be too dangerous for me.”

Cullen could not help blurting out, “And _shooting you_ wasn’t dangerous?”

Amelle still wouldn’t meet his eyes, and began gathering the empty dishes and teacups onto their serving tray.  “She said she’d be granting me the death wish she accused me of having.”

“That’s madness,” he breathed.

“That is the point,” interjected Fenris.  “Hawke’s behavior was… changeable.  Uncharacteristically so.  And never more so than the days before her departure.”

Having gathered all the dishes together on the tray, Amelle pushed the blanket aside and stood to move it to the sideboard. She seemed somewhat wobbly on her feet and just as Cullen was about to offer his help, Fenris was on his feet, taking the tray from her hands with a reproving glare.  Amelle met the elf’s look steadily and shook her head.  Fenris’ glare turned into a scowl and he jerked his chin at the seat she’d just vacated.  With a sigh, Amelle sat again, looking both chastened and oddly sheepish.

 _Interesting,_ he thought to himself.

“She had good days and bad,” said Amelle, pulling the blanket back over her legs.  “Just like Aveline.”

As Fenris returned to the table, Cullen looked up at him.  “So what turns people mad?” he asked them both.

The look Amelle sent him was a dour one.  “It’s bloody _Kirkwall_.  How much time have you got?”

“Amelle is… not wrong,” Fenris said, glancing over at her.  Their expressions were similarly shadowed and for a moment Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to know what exactly had happened to make them look that way.

Before the silence became too heavy, Fenris said, “Quentin.”  The next name came out as a low growl:  “Grace.”

Cullen was less acquainted with the first name beyond the basic — and gruesome — facts, he was far more familiar with the second.  But Amelle was already shaking her head.

“I daresay they were both quite mad long before _that_ night,” said Amelle, a scowl marring her face.  “As much as I would be content to condemn and blame them both for all of this… the timing just isn’t right.  So whatever made every _sodding_ mage lose their _blighted_ mind—”  And Cullen found himself quietly shocked at the vehemence in her tone.  “—present company excepted, I _hope,_ it isn’t what’s making people go mad _now._ ”

Fenris’ frown didn’t abate as he asked, “In their cases was it madness at all, or simply… their nature?”  Amelle’s answering grimace indicated she thought considering the difference between the two was truly distasteful.

“You’re both forgetting,” Cullen broke in, drumming his fingers on the table and wishing the tea was still hot, “whatever _this_ is, it isn’t affecting mages.”

“And the unpleasant fact remains that anyone can be driven mad, with the right — or wrong, as it were — application of pressure.  Not _just_ mages.”  Amelle rubbed her hand hard across her mouth in thought.  “Though, to my endless chagrin, mages _do_ take up the lion’s share of examples.”

Cullen frowned and leaned back in the chair.  It creaked softly and he cursed the heavy plate.  Amelle was right, of course — Kirkwall had experienced a shocking surplus of blood mages in recent years, each one madder than the last.  And though it seemed strange — to say nothing of running entirely counter to his training — to admit it, this was something… different.  “But we’re talking about very specific conditions here.  I doubt you’d have been able to _cure_ Grace’s madness the same way you were able to cure Aveline’s.”

“A very specific madness?” she asked lightly, brows lifting.  “Very well then — let’s consider Meredith.  She was bloody barking mad by the end, and don’t tell me she wasn’t.”

The truly frightening thing, Cullen thought, was that Fenris and Amelle didn’t know the _half of it._ They’d seen only Meredith’s largest and maddest actions. They didn’t know the smaller, subtler things. They hadn’t seen the day to day madness, ever more cruel and fearful and unreasonable. They didn’t know about the recruits beaten to within an inch of their lives “because maleficarum won’t hold their blows.” They didn’t know about withheld rations (“The Maker’s grace is nourishment enough for the truly righteous.”), or punishments so severe Cullen had been forced to step in behind Meredith’s back to keep templars from irreparable injury. Or death. (“What is earthly punishment, Knight-Captain? They will emerge stronger, more capable, better able to do the Maker’s just work. It is wrong to interfere with that.”) They didn’t know half those punishments were meted out for crimes that would have earned Cullen a slap on the wrist from Greagoir—and Greagoir had been a stern and uncompromising commander.

Long tours of duty on the Wounded Coast were nothing, when all was said and done. Meredith had been nothing if not inventive toward the end.

Too inventive. “She was,” Cullen said carefully. “But much as I’d like to blame that madness on illness—even _this_ illness—I don’t think we can. It… went on too long. And grew beyond all reason once she obtained that… sword.”

“She was corrupted by the idol,” Fenris said. “Just as Bartrand was before her. It was a dark thing, and ought never to have been removed from the thaig.”

Amelle twisted her hands together until her knuckles went white. “The… trouble with Meredith began before she ever had the idol in her possession, though. At least as long as we’ve been in Kirkwall, she was always… intractable. And prone to harsh measures.”

Cullen grimaced. “I don’t disagree, Amelle, but… at one time she was at least _rational_. Believe what you will, but in the beginning she truly believed she was acting in Kirkwall’s best interests.”

“Right,” Amelle agreed, “but that’s what I mean. You didn’t know Bartrand, but when we met him he was… perhaps a little shifty.” Fenris snorted, but Amelle only rolled her eyes at him and continued, “He _wasn’t_ outright paranoid in the beginning—not the way he ended up—or Kiara would never have agreed to the expedition in the first place, no matter how much we needed the money. Something about that idol… changed him.”

“I do not think it was _change_ so much as it was _exacerbation_ of traits that were already present, but kept under control,” Fenris said.

“Exactly right,” Amelle declared. “It removed inhibitions and amplified whatever was underneath. Bartrand was a greedy, paranoid little bugger, but he would never have succeeded in business if that was all anyone ever _saw_. It’s just… there’s a _reason_ that only the dwarves can mine lyrium. It’s not supposed to affect them the way it affects creatures with a capacity for magic use. For it to have acted so quickly and with such potency? Maker, I shudder to contemplate how mad Meredith—or even the rest of the templars—could have become, exposed to it over time.”

Cullen _did_ shudder at the thought, and found himself oddly grateful for all the time spent tramping about the Wounded Coast. To think, Meredith had been doing him a bloody _favor_ all along. “Be that as it may, it isn’t always blood magic or items of dubious origin that induce madness. We’ve already dismissed the possibility of the illness being magical in origin—if nothing else, I’m certain I’d _feel_ that kind of sorcery at work. Nor, I think, am I willing to believe even Kirkwall has luck bad enough to see two such objects as that cursed idol brought within its walls. And we all _saw_ the end of that sword. It is most certainly gone.”

Fenris nodded. “Indeed. Things that explode in such a fashion are, thankfully, well beyond repair. Or retrieval.”

Cullen felt the quick, uncontrolled burst of Amelle’s magic, but even as he reached for his will to dissipate it, she smothered it herself. The fire in the hearth leapt energetically before dimming again, almost sheepishly. Amelle, however, had gone entirely too pale. Fenris half-rose from his seat before she waved him back down into it.

“Amelle? Are you—”

“Maker,” she whispered, staring down at the hands weakly curled in her laps. “Oh, Maker.”

“What is it?” Cullen asked, fairly sure he didn’t want to know.  When Amelle lifted her gaze to his, her eyes wider and more horrified than he could ever remember them being—and it seemed as though he’d had all too many occasions to see her eyes wide and horrified of late—Cullen was absolutely positive he didn’t want to know.

“What was it you just said, Cullen?”  At his perplexed look, she said, “You just said it: _All of Kirkwall’s been breathing the miasma of smoke and_ worse _._ ”Her hands curled tighter in her lap until her knuckles were stark white, and he could still see them _trembling_.  “What _would_ the effects be?”

“Lowered inhibitions,” Fenris said quietly, and clearly hating the conclusions being drawn just as much as Cullen did.  “Exacerbation of whatever… traits lie beneath.”

“When we first came to Kirkwall, Aveline had to work hard to find a place in the guard.  But even after she _found_ it, she… she worried about losing her men’s respect.”

“When we found her in the barracks the other day, she was…” Fenris paused, choosing his words with care, “accusing Guardsman Renlan of insubordination.”

“And what of the young man you were healing in the clinic the day I came down to see you? Marlin?  He’d broken his arm falling off the roof while spying on his neighbor’s wife.”

“Cassia,” Amelle breathed.  “She accused a customer of cheating her.  She would never have done such a thing normally.  And Marlin — Maker, I couldn’t believe it when he told me what happened.  It was so…”

“So unlike him?” Cullen finished for her.  Amelle nodded miserably.

Fenris was watching Amelle carefully, his brow knitted in concern — though whether it was concern for the mage or concern for the situation, Cullen wasn’t entirely sure.  Then the elf twisted in his seat.  “If the… remains of the sword have gone into the air somehow, and are responsible for this illness, that may explain why you have not sensed it, Knight-Commander.  The dust is likely too fine.”

“Corrupted,” Amelle added distantly.

Cullen frowned, asking, “Who’s corrupted?”

Amelle shook her head.  “The sword.  The idol.  Whatever.  The lyrium was corrupted.  I’m not sure by _what_ — age, perhaps.  Maybe even the darkspawn taint.  But that wasn’t just regular lyrium.”

Cullen digested this information as he attempted to put the rest of his thoughts in order.  “All right.  Assuming Meredith’s sword is the culprit, and we’ve all been breathing the dust of a corrupted lyrium idol, the question is this:  what can we _do_ about it?  Because I suspect not-breathing, while effective, might lose its charm after a while.”

Amelle shook her head again, this time more decisively. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s been _weeks_. The air is… the air is _clear_ again. No matter _how_ fine the dust was, it must have settled by now. If breathing it in caused the problem, we should have seen a spike in the behavior and then an ebb. But things aren’t… ebbing.”

“Could it not linger in the system after inhalation?” Fenris asked.

Amelle shrugged but didn’t look convinced. “If… _if_ we’re dealing with that blighted idol, the Maker only knows what it _can_ do. But if I’ve learned anything as a healer, it’s how _resilient_ the body is. It actively works against illness. I have a hard time imagining things getting worse and worse. Unless—”

Amelle did not have time to finish her hypothesis. Cullen felt magic being gathered the instant the door flew open and he gathered his will, but Amelle sent him a panicked look and said, “Cullen, _don’t!_ You’ll get me, too.”

Startled, Cullen let the cleanse dissipate, just in time to see the little dark-haired elf mage run in, eyes wild. “I’m so sorry, Amelle,” she said, “Orana wanted me to wait for you to finish, but I can’t. You—I _need_ you.”

“She is not well,” Fenris retorted. Cullen was a little alarmed to see the his tattoos take on a soft, faint glow, even though the templar was… more or less certain the elf mage was considered an ally.

“I know,” the girl said miserably. “But Fenris…”

“She has nothing to _give_ , Merrill,” Fenris pressed. “For all she might wish to—”

“Fenris,” Amelle said warningly. “Perhaps you might let me participate in the conversation, at least?”

He snarled something under his breath in a language Cullen didn’t know, and the glow of his tattoos dimmed.

Dimmed, but did not go out entirely.

“Tell me,” Amelle said.

Merrill wrapped her thin arms tightly around herself. “There are so _many_ , Amelle.” Tears filled her eyes, spilling over to run down her tattooed cheeks. “I tried. I really tried. But there are no more healing potions, not one, and I haven’t had _time_ to make more, and the beds are all full—”

“It’s okay, Merrill,” Amelle soothed, rising unsteadily to her feet. Before Cullen could offer a stabilizing arm, Fenris stepped in and put an arm around her waist. She leaned against his side, but her grateful smile dimmed when she saw the expression on his face. It was not pleased. It was, in fact, just a shade shy of mutinous.

“Oh, Amelle,” Merrill whispered, tears still dripping. “I shouldn’t have come. You’re sick. I’m not a healer and even I can see you are not well.”

“I’m not going to do magic,” Amelle said. Fenris glowered as though he didn’t believe her. “But maybe we can try something else.”

“What?” he growled.

“Lyrium,” she said. “If it works for us… if it’s given us some kind of immunity against the corruption…”

Cullen bowed his head. “Amelle, it’s incredibly _risky_. It’s unstable. It’s _addictive_.”

“It’s better than dying,” she replied simply.

Together they all made their way down to the clinic, but Cullen could hear the low moans — a chorus punctuated by the high, thin cries of sick children — and when he looked over at Amelle, it was in time to see her wince.

“You did well to come get me, Merrill,” she said as Fenris descended the ladder in time to assist Amelle down.

Merrill looked marginally reassured, but took one peek down the ladder and made a face.  “Somehow I don’t think Fenris agrees with you.”

Amelle gave the girl a small smile as she lowered her voice and began climbing down.  “Fenris will get over it.”

Somehow Cullen wasn’t entirely convinced of that.

Once inside the clinic, Cullen saw the full force of what had sent Merrill upstairs to begin with, and to be perfectly honest, he couldn’t say he blamed her a bit.  Indeed, every bed was occupied, and every bed held upon it a patient varying in age from one to the next.  The youngest was an infant whimpering weakly in his mother’s arms.  Even Fenris looked startled and troubled, and if there had been any lingering light emanating from his markings, that sight alone was enough to douse it.

Most were so miserable that even _if_ they noticed the sigil upon his breastplate, and even if they feared repercussions for seeking illegal magical aid, they could do little more than bow their heads and pretend he simply wasn’t there.

Amelle took a deep breath and let it out slowly, nodding once as if to herself.  “All right.  Merrill, tell me who’s worst off.”  When Merrill indicated a small, feverish girl at the far end of the clinic, Amelle gave an authoritative nod, then turned to Fenris.  “Fenris, would you please run upstairs for me?  I have a small chest of potions under my bed.  Bring them all down with you.  Cullen?”  She looked over at him.  “What do you know about potions?”

“Very little beyond drinking them, I fear.”

She pointed to the windowboxes at one side of the room.  “Start picking elfroot.  You and Merrill are going to make a batch of healing potions.”

He looked down into the elf girl’s face.  There were still tears upon her cheeks, but she was pulling herself together — or making a fair attempt of it, at any rate — and she offered him a tentative smile.

“I’ll show you how it goes.  It’s easier with help.”  She tilted her head and frowned at his gauntlets.  “Those might get in the way, though. And they’ll bruise the plants.”

Keeping an eye on Amelle — she’d sent Fenris upstairs, and Cullen wasn’t completely convinced she wasn’t going to at least _try_ and summon even a flash of magic in his absence — Cullen followed Merrill to the windowbox, following her lead as she picked through the lush elfroot plants.  Behind them, Amelle walked slowly along each line of beds, checking in briefly with everyone, though it was clear where her steps were headed.  When she reached the bed Merrill had indicated, she sat down on the edge, running her fingers along the little girl’s fever-damp forehead, pushing back the pale curls plastered to the skin.  He could see the thoughts crossing Amelle’s face — her quick glance at the door, first to check for Fenris, and then to wonder if she had enough time, enough _mana_ , to force out just one more healing.

Evidently Fenris was already anticipating that Amelle might have had other motives in mind for sending him out of the clinic entirely, and he returned in next to no time at all, bearing the chest she’d indicated.  She smiled and waved him over, and while Cullen was relieved the elf had returned before Amelle could entertain any more mutinous thoughts, he found himself increasingly worried for the patients who had come to see the healer — some of whom had been waiting too long already.

There was little enough she could do for them. He knew it, even if she refused to see the truth written in her still-shaky hands and the bruises like wounds beneath her eyes. Merrill was attempting to explain something to him, but he wasn’t listening—he couldn’t listen. Amelle’s hand ghosted over her little patient’s brow. Cullen narrowed his eyes, waiting for the telltale thrum, waiting for the silver-blue glow to begin.

He gathered his will.

And Merrill put her hand on his forearm, startling him. He nearly smote her out of reflex. “Sorry,” she said softly. She _sounded_ sorry, as though she was the one not paying attention and had anything to feel sorry _for_. “It’s just… the potion won’t work if you’re not careful. The leaves are very delicate.”

He glanced down at the pile of verdure in front of him, and then to a similar pile in front of the elf. Merrill’s leaves had been neatly removed from their stems. Cullen’s looked as though someone had chewed heartily on them and then spat the result back out onto the table.

“I think I ought to leave this to you,” Cullen replied. He didn’t think he was imagining it when Merrill’s expression turned grateful. Amelle was now rooting through the box of potions, Fenris glaring down at her. Most of the clinic’s patients were ignoring Cullen completely.

There were too many of them. Too many of them and not _nearly_ enough of her.

Cullen was a soldier. He had known battlefields enough. This was just another one.

He knew how to make his voice carry, and when he spoke it was clear without being a shout, but still loud enough that everyone— _everyone_ —looked at him.

“Those of you with broken bones, with cuts or scrapes, come see me. Anyone whose wounds are irritating but not life-threatening, _go home_. And if you have sick children, stay. Wait. Be patient.”

For a moment no one spoke. Even Amelle only gazed at him, unblinking, until the child she was tending to whimpered. When she glanced away, Cullen met Fenris’ eyes and shook his head. The elf nodded. He mightn’t be a templar, mightn’t have a templar’s unique skills, but he knew _Amelle_.

And even distracted, Cullen could will a cleanse, or—Maker forbid—a smite before Amelle could do herself yet more damage.

A young man with a broken leg was first to stumble to Cullen’s table.

Cullen was a soldier. He had known battlefields enough. He knew enough of wounds and injuries to keep a person alive. He knew how to set a bone. He knew how to stitch a wound shut. His patients would have uglier, lumpier scars, but they wouldn’t die.

And they wouldn’t sap any of Amelle’s flagging strength. So he set bones. He stitched wounds shut. He waited for Amelle to falter.

True to her word, she didn’t touch her magic. He didn’t know if it was choice or necessity at this point; whenever he hazarded a glance her way, her face was pinched and troubled and paler than it had any right to be. She appeared to be mixing things together from her stash of bottles. The child whined weakly, and the child’s mother wouldn’t—or couldn’t—cease weeping and pleading and _begging._

He was certain one of the potions she was mixing shone with the telltale blue sheen of lyrium potion. He felt his stomach twist at the thought, and every templar sensibility that had ever been hammered into him pushed for him to rise and knock the blighted bottle from Amelle’s hands.

Instead, he bound up a sprained wrist. And then closed a long, shallow gash in a young woman’s forehead, product of a cast-iron pan applied in fury by a jealous friend.

“Amelle,” Fenris murmured, his voice low but still cutting through all the extraneous noise. “Are you certain…”

“Of course not,” she replied. “How could I be?  But she’s burning up, Fenris.  If I don’t do _anything_ …”  Amelle trailed off and her expression became only more twisted with frustration.  “If I don’t do anything, she’ll die for sure.  If I do this, she might not.  _Nothing else works_ on this fever.  Tell me, please, _what are my options?_ ”

If Fenris was surprised at Amelle’s anger — frustration and vehemence were conspiring to make her voice rough and ragged — he didn’t show it.  But neither did he appear to envy Amelle’s decision.  Tipping the young patient’s head back, she coaxed a small dose of whatever potions she’d mixed together down the girl’s throat.  Keeping one hand on the child’s forehead, gently stroking her hair, Amelle waited.

As Cullen set and splinted a broken finger, he heard the other patients whispering and murmuring amongst themselves.

_Healer’s not lookin’ so good herself.  Wonder if she’s sick with this blighted plague._

_I heard it from Lirabell when_ she _brought her girl to see the healer, she used magic.  Lots of it.  Said she’d never seen such light, Lirabell said.  Ain’t so much as a flicker now._

_Did you know they’re lockin’ people up?  Them ones so sick it’s making them mad?  Locked up in the dungeons, I heard._

_I think it’s the Veil too thin — all those people dyin’ in the chantry?  Bet their spirits’re restless.  Makin’ us all mad and sick._

_What’s that potion she’s givin’ wee little Mina?  Where’s the_ magic?

The child didn’t expire, but neither did she seem to rally.  As Cullen’s own patients dwindled, Amelle gave the child a second dose of potion and waited, watching, never moving and never pulling her eyes from the girl’s face.  Fenris seemed unable to remain so still, and he moved restlessly about the clinic, ostensibly to tend various areas of the clinic, but he couldn’t even concentrate on rolling a simple bandage without looking back at Amelle.  He paced the length of the long room before venturing to Cullen’s table.  Neither spoke.  Cullen, for his part, wasn’t sure what he _could_ say.

After a third dose, the child’s cries ceased and she slipped into a light sleep.  Her mother was relieved, but the flush of color hadn’t faded from the child’s cheeks.  If anything, Amelle looked more worried.  Cullen stitched a knife wound earned during, not a fight, but what sounded like an ill-conceived tavern game.

“I had not thought anything could be worse than watching her willingly drain her mana,” Fenris murmured softly, folding his arms and watching Amelle.  

Cullen exhaled a soft huff of mirthless laughter.  “There are always worse things.”

Fenris sent him a querying look, but at that moment Amelle’s hand froze upon the girl’s brow, and her head dropped forward in such a fashion that she looked eerily like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.  Was it an attitude of intense relief, or…

“Go see,” Cullen started to say, but the elf was already halfway across the clinic.  Then Amelle lifted her head and looked at Fenris and Cullen saw, not triumph, but aching sorrow in the healer’s face.  Her eyes had spilled over with tears and she pressed her hand hard to her mouth, though her shoulders were already beginning to shake.

_Oh, Maker.  Oh, no…_

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was his own thoughts he heard, or the sudden, keening cry of the girl’s mother.

He had a moment to take a breath—only a moment—and then the world went mad.

Cullen was used to the world going mad.  He wished he wasn’t _so damned used_ to the world going mad.

He was a soldier. This was a battlefield. He wasn’t planning on seeing his side take any casualties.

He knew exactly what it looked like when a spark set off a—

Remembering stone and ash and screams— _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying? They’re crying for me. Ser, can’t you hear them?_ —Cullen crushed the thought violently. A heartbeat had passed. Only a second. Perhaps two. Fenris was just reaching Amelle’s side; the child’s mother was screaming, and that scream was walking the very fine line between grief and rage.

And then Cullen heard it. It was a whisper, one of the same hushed voices that had been speaking only a moment before, but this time it said: _What’d she give the girl? Don’t seem right. Why heal some and not t’others? She’s got magic. She’s got to heal us!_

Cullen heard the words unspoken as well. _What good is she if she’s not healing us?_

From there it was a very, very short step to _the only good mage is a dead mage._ He knew _that_ well enough. He’d said it himself. He’d _meant_ it.

He felt magic gathering. Amelle’s he recognized; it was too much. He didn’t know if she intended a defensive spell or more mad healing, but he knew—somehow he _knew_ —no matter what she cast now would drain her utterly. Perhaps irreversibly. Perhaps ruinously. The other magic he found vaguely familiar, and realized it must be Merrill. Before he could disrupt both, he felt Merrill’s magic slip through the air, and Amelle began to slump, her own magic snapped like a thread. Fenris pulled the healer into his arms, lifting her as easily as a child might carry a doll. One of the bolder men stepped toward them, brow already darkening with rage, but then, before he could so much as open his lips, he crumpled to the floor, snoring.

Cullen wrapped one hand around the hilt of his blade, praying he would not have to draw it. “Stop!” he commanded. Everyone stopped. They were used to listening to templars, after all. He still had that much power. Things had not progressed to the level of lunacy where they were comfortable defying him. A few gazed at him balefully, but no one disobeyed. Fenris didn’t look back; the command was not intended for him. He had to know the only place that might be halfway safe was the estate, and he was across the room and through the clinic door before anyone realized he’d taken Amelle with him.

The mother, curled over her dead child, still wailed. Cullen’s heart ached for her. But there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do.

“Merrill,” he barked. She jumped half a foot before stumbling to his side, her eyes never leaving the tableau of mother and child. He gestured toward the sleeping man with his chin. “That was you?”

She nodded, her eyes enormous. “I—I’m sorry—I—”

“Can you do it again?”

Her eyes flickered to her arms, and he saw the faint tracework of scars there. None of them looked fresh; even the newest were pink fading to white. Then she clenched her hands into fists and said, “I’m not very strong. I could have—but—I’m not strong enough to—not everyone. Not anymore.”

“If anyone comes at us. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want them to hurt us, either.”

Merrill nodded, her hands closing into small fists at her sides.

He realized what a mad picture the two of them made — templar and, unless he missed his guess, rehabilitating blood mage, side by side — but the world was in the throes of insanity, so perhaps it was somewhat appropriate for the situation.  Cullen stood up a little straighter and squared his shoulders.  He knew his height put him at an advantage — as much as the armor he wore.  If nothing else, Cullen knew he had their attention now.

“You must return to your homes,” he said, letting his voice fill the large room.  “The clinic is to be considered closed until—”

A ripple went through the small crowd.  They exchanged looks, but when their eyes focused on him, all Cullen saw was a sea of stormy faces.  They were angry.  Worst of all, they were _afraid._   Anger and fear seldom mixed well, he knew.  There were times when anger could push you through your fear, but other times, particularly in groups even this size, it was fear that fed anger, making it toxic.  Dangerous.  Volatile.

“Consider the clinic closed for the immediate future,” he said, his voice firm as he reiterated the order.

“Closed?” a voice cried out, ragged with impatience and indignation.  “You mean the healer’s just going to let us all _die_ down here?  Let our _children_ die?”

Cullen felt ill, his own anger surging up within him.  They didn’t know.  They didn’t _understand._

“She’s just a high-born Hightown _bitch_ is what she is,” another spat.  “Comes down ‘ere all _high and mighty_ to slum with us so she can feel better about ‘erself.”  A few jeers rose up at this statement and Cullen shot Merrill a glance from the corner of his eye.  The elven girl looked positively wretched.  He couldn’t blame her.

“It ain’t like she cares what happens to the lot of us.  If she did, she’d _heal us._ ”

“That’s right!  The _last_ healer—”

“ _Stop!_ ”

Cullen jerked, startled, and turned to stare down at Merrill.  The girl’s eyes were still wet with tears, but now the cheeks stained with teartracks were also pink with anger.

“Stop it right now!” Merrill yelled, her hands clenching tighter as she addressed the people milling around them.  Her voice wavered as she spoke, but still she spoke loudly and clearly.  _Anger pushing through fear,_ he thought.  He only hoped what Merrill had to say wouldn’t make the crowd _angrier._

Merrill rose her voice until it shook with either effort or emotion.  “Amelle Hawke has been down in this clinic _night and day_ healing you, healing your _children_ ,” her voice broke on the last syllable as she cast a sorrowful glance at the grieving mother, “since this illness began.  She has foregone food and rest.  When she _isn’t_ here, she’s been trying to find a potion, a _cure_ for you all.  You must _understand._ A mage’s power i-is not— is not infinite.  She has worked herself to _exhaustion_ for you all.  And if she is not using your magic to heal, it is because _she can’t._ ”

Members of the crowd exchanged looks ranging from the stubbornly angry to the shamefaced to the slightly sheepish.

“We will find a cure for this plague,” Cullen said, wishing he felt so confident.  “But you must—”

“What about _her?_ ” a man shouted, thrusting a meaty finger at Merrill.  “She’s a mage!  Why can’t _she_ heal us?”

Merrill bit her lip and shook her head, braids swinging slowly.  “I am no healer,” she answered soberly.  “I-I am Amelle’s friend.  And I help her where I can.  But I am _not_ a healer.”  She swallowed hard and shifted her stance, holding her arms behind her back.

“You must return to your homes,” Cullen told them all, stepping forward.  “Merrill speaks the truth.  Amelle Hawke hasn’t the strength or mana to heal all of you right now and she cannot continue to heal you as she has been.  More attempts to do so will only be to her detriment.”  _And yours,_ he added silently.

“Please,” Merrill pleaded.  “Just give her a little _time._ ”

“In the meantime, basic injuries will be treated in Templar Hall.”  After all, Cullen wasn’t the only soldier in Kirkwall who knew how to stitch a wound.  And he knew the reproachful look Amelle would give him if he told her he’d shut down her clinic without giving people another option.

Slowly, and seeming to mutter darkly under its collective breath, the crowd left, filtering slowly through the large clinic doors.  Merrill hurried to the dead child’s mother and helped her wrap the child in a sheet.  A shroud. Another pyre to be built.  A small one.  The small ones were always the worst.

Cullen sat down hard on a nearby table until the weeping woman left and Merrill approached him, looking nervous, as if he might smite her just for the sport of it now the clinic was empty.

“I-I’m sorry about that,” she said, looking down.  “I probably should’ve kept quiet.  Normally I do.  Well.  Normally I do when there are so many people _listening._   It’s when there aren’t as many people listening that I tend to ramble.  I do that.  Rambling.  I… I’m doing it now, aren’t I?  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have—”

“If you’d not said anything, they very likely would have turned on us,” Cullen said simply.

Merrill nodded, but looked unconvinced.  “I just couldn’t— I couldn’t bear to hear…”  She swallowed hard.  “Amelle… is my friend.  She’s— she’s _helping_ me.  She’s been helping me.”  Merrill wrapped an arm around herself, clutching one hand around the thin forearm opposite.  “You know what I am.  I saw it in your face just then. I… it’s not been easy,” she said, indicating the scars.  “But… things are better than they were.”  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but evidently remembering what she’d said about her rambling, Merrill snapped her mouth shut and she looked away again, scuffing her foot against the floor.

Cullen had never heard of a blood mage that had ever rehabilitated himself—or herself.  Once a blood mage, always a blood mage — that’s what his training told him.  But telling Merrill that — particularly now — seemed needlessly cruel.  

And now he was concerned with hurting a blood mage’s _feelings._   The world was indeed mad.

“We should go back upstairs,” he said.  “Check on Amelle.”

Merrill began to nod, but then she frowned and shook her head instead.  “No.  Better if I stay down here and finish blending those potions.”  At Cullen’s curious look, Merrill grew sheepish.  “Fenris… doesn’t much care for me.  And Amelle doesn’t need a cranky Fenris on top of everything else right now.”

Cullen was fairly certain Fenris was bound to be cranky no matter _who_ was present, but he didn’t say so aloud. Instead, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and said, “I assume Amelle’s given you a key. Lock yourself in when I go, and lock the door behind you later. Don’t open it for anyone except Amelle, Fenris or myself. It will take some time for news of the clinic’s closure—and what happened to bring it about—to spread. If things get bad enough…”

“I’ll come upstairs,” Merrill agreed. “I’m not _that_ frightened of a cranky Fenris.” She bit her bottom lip. “Well, I am, really. He can be very scary. He can do the most alarming things, and always with such a _scowl_. You know, this one time—oh. There I go again.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to smile— _The children are crying, ser. Can’t you hear them crying? They’re crying for me. Ser, can’t you hear them?_ —but he did rise and place a hand lightly on the elf’s shoulder. He felt her jump. “You did well,” he said. “You kept your head. You didn’t… you did well. I’ll make sure Fenris knows.”

Merrill ducked her head, but not before he saw the faint blush overspreading her cheeks. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Nevertheless.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, expression puzzled. “I haven’t met any other templars like you. Mostly they just grimace and growl and threaten, especially mages. Quite a lot like Fenris, really. He would probably make a very good templar. Are there elven templars?”

“I… don’t think so, no.”

“That’s too bad. But maybe you could make an exception. After all, you’re not a very usual sort of templar yourself, are you?”

He huffed a mirthless chuckle. “I suppose I’m not.”

She nodded as if this explained everything, ducking out from beneath his hand to return to her elfroot and her potions. “Amelle’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

Cullen paused at the door. Then he turned back and cleared his throat. Merrill raised her eyes, though her hands kept stirring. “Merrill, Amelle’s lucky to have a friend like you, too.”

“Oh, Creators, you’ll make me blush—” she did blush then, but quickly looked aghast. “Wait. I’m supposed to swear by something else. Body parts of the sad girl in the chantry. Andraste’s… well, I won’t say the dirty ones Isabela’s always going on about. Andraste’s fingernails? Ooh, Andraste’s kneecaps! Kneecaps are nice and sturdy, and you wouldn’t be able to walk without them. I’m sure she had very holy kneecaps, that Andraste.”

Cullen blinked. “I’m sure she did.”

“Tell Amelle… tell her… I swear by—by _Andraste’s kneecaps_ I’ll make as many potions as I can. And tell her… to be careful. She needs to be careful.”

Inclining his head, Cullen left the mage to her work, closing the door firmly behind him. He’d half expected stragglers, but the tunnels outside the clinic were empty. With a heavy sigh, he doused the light above the door, and headed up through the secret passage, back to the estate.


	46. Chapter 46

The fire was still crackling warmly when Fenris carried Amelle, still very much lost in the grip of Merrill’s sleep spell, into the library.  With infinite care he set her upon the divan before covering her again with her blanket.  The mabari paced the room, throwing mournful looks Amelle’s way and whining softly when she did not rouse.  Fenris knew how the animal felt.  Amelle ought to have woken from such a spell by this point, and he wondered for a dark moment what Merrill might have done… but no, she’d used no knives, no blood.  Whatever Merrill had done, it had not been blood magic.

 _She is exhausted,_ he thought, still standing there awkwardly, not sure what to do next and hating that he had no idea.  _Perhaps the spell_ has _worn off and she’s simply… sleeping._   That made sense as well, and Fenris realized that he would likely owe Merrill his thanks for intervening when she had.  Amelle had come close — _too close_ — to casting a spell in the clinic.  If the mage hadn’t summoned her own mana she had, the Knight-Captain would have used his energies to disrupt Amelle’s magic, and that seemed to be leaving Amelle drained as well.  No, sleep was preferable.

Yes.  He would definitely have to thank Merrill.  It was a new and not altogether pleasant feeling.

Letting out a breath, he dragged the backs of his fingers across Amelle’s forehead, smiling faintly when she turned her head into the light touch.  The smile faded, however, as he recalled the sight of her, bent over the child, coaxing potion past her lips.  He remembered all too clearly the tremor that had wracked her, long before the tears came, even before she bowed her head in defeat and exhaustion.  He’d _known_ something had gone horribly wrong, and yet he’d been powerless to help — to do anything but watch.

“Messere?”  

Fenris turned to find Orana standing just inside the doorway.  “What?”  The word came out more sharply than he’d intended, and he could almost hear Amelle’s teasing voice:  _Don’t frighten the maid, Fenris.  We like her, and she keeps us well-fed._   He drew in a breath in an attempt to temper the his irritation, and his concern, then tried again.  “What is it?”

She knotted her hands in her apron as she looked down at Amelle.  “Is… is Mistress Amelle all right?”

He scowled and bit back the urge to say any number of things — all of which, he was sure, would only frighten the young woman further.  “No,” he answered honestly.  “But she is resting, which is as much as I dare hope for right now.”

“Is there anything I can get?” she asked hopefully, clearly wanting to do _something._   Fenris knew the feeling.  “Some food, perhaps?  Or… or some tea?”

At that moment, the last thing Fenris wanted was _tea_.  But it was barely noon and he knew it was for the best that he _not_ drink a dent in Hawke’s wine-cellar, no matter how badly he wished to do so.  He drew in a breath and let it out again.  “No.  There is nothing I require.”  He paused and frowned.  “The… others may be coming up shortly.  I imagine they would… appreciate the gesture.”

Orana nodded, but said nothing right away.  After a second or two she came into the library and walked to Hawke’s desk, pulling the chair out and tugging it across the floor to the divan.  At Fenris’ openly puzzled look, she sent him a tremulous smile.  

“You should sit with her, messere.  I… I think she’d like that.”  Fenris’ puzzled look did not abate as she took a step or two back toward the door.  “And… and Mistress Kiara… sometimes prefers a bit of brandy in her tea.  If you’d like.”

Fenris blinked.  “I… yes, that would be… thank you.”

Orana bobbed a quick curtsey before vanishing out the door.  And Fenris decided never again to underestimate the young woman’s powers of observation.

Fenris was most of the way through a second cup of brandy-laced tea by the time the Knight-Captain clanked wearily into the library and dropped precariously into the chair he’d earlier vacated. The wood gave a groan but held, and the templar grimaced. “I wouldn’t say no,” he said, when Fenris gestured toward the teapot.

“Merrill?”

“Still down there. Locked in. Making potions.” The templar glanced toward the divan, but Amelle was still curled beneath the blanket, snoring ever so faintly. “She’s terrified of you.”

Fenris snorted, adding a splash of brandy to the Knight-Captain’s tea before he passed it over. The templar raised his eyebrows but didn’t protest the unconventional addition. “There is little love lost between the blo—between Merrill and I.”

“So I gathered. She thinks you’d make a splendid templar.”

Fenris refilled his own cup once again and returned to his chair at Amelle’s side. “The restrictions would trouble me, and I fear I am in no way _devout_ enough, but there was a time when I’d have agreed with her.”

“Less so, now.”

Fenris nodded. His hand twitched, eager to reach out and brush the hair back from Amelle’s brow, but instead he curled his fingers against his thigh and leaned back in his chair. After several minutes of silence broken by the sounds of sleeping girl and sleeping dog, the templar said softly, “Fenris, she’s walking a dangerous line.”

“You think I am not aware?”

The Knight-Captain pursed his lips and glanced toward the ceiling. “I’m not sure how aware you are, actually. Oh, don’t mistake me—I know you can see what it’s doing to her, but it’s not her… physical self I’m most worried about.”

“You fear she will become easy prey for a demon.”

The Knight-Captain shook his head. “It’s not as simple as that. I don’t doubt her resolve. A mage—any mage, but especially a mage of her particular skill set— _cannot_ drain herself so completely without facing desperate consequences.”

“You have seen such a thing?” Fenris asked pointedly. “This is not some templar tale to frighten misbehaving apprentices?”

The templar cradled the teacup in his palm, but Fenris knew before he spoke what his answer would be; his expression was too troubled for it to be otherwise. “I have. He was a healer. Very promising. The First Enchanter had high hopes. There was an illness in Redcliffe—nothing like this one, but severe enough that the Tower’s aid was sought. The First Enchanter sent Arron, and the Knight-Commander sent me with several more experienced templars. I was new to the Tower then, so it was an adventure. There was camaraderie around the campfire at night, and Arron showed me how to whittle tiny birds from sticks, no magic required. We knew we were headed into a place of illness and grief, but the journey was…” He sighed deeply. “The illness was worse than we’d expected. Arron pushed himself too hard. He couldn’t bear the suffering. He lasted several days. We templars forced him to rest, but… it wasn’t enough. His mana didn’t come back as quickly as we thought. If he knew, he said nothing; he saw patient after patient. I was… there when I saw him bottom out. I felt him reach and find nothing. He looked at me—looked _right at me_ —and I saw the battle. He didn’t succumb. He didn’t turn into a demon—he didn’t take what the demon offered—but he died for it all the same. It took me three long strides to reach his side. He was dead before I got there. Some mages… life and mana become intertwined. It… seems to happen most frequently with healers.”

Fenris said nothing, but when he looked down on Amelle again, he saw her green eyes open, staring at the templar. He couldn’t read her expression. He wasn’t certain he wished to.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice still weak. “In the clinic? I—the child. I remember that. What happened after? Why am I… how did I get back here?”

“You were going to do yourself harm,” the Knight-Captain said. “Merrill put you to sleep. Fenris brought you back.”

“But what about the _clinic_? There were so many… so many _people_ there. So many _children_.”

This time Fenris did reach out, laying a gentle but firm hand on Amelle’s shoulder as she struggled to rise. “Amelle—”

“I closed the clinic,” the Knight-Captain said.

Fenris felt Amelle freeze, saw her expression grow mutinous.

“Don’t force my hand, Amelle,” the templar added wearily. “I don’t want to smite you, but I will do it.”

“What gives you the _right_?” she snapped, jerking out from beneath Fenris’ palm to sit upright on the divan. Her hands clenched tight around the blanket; her face was livid, eyes sharp, spots of fevered color high on her cheekbones. “How _dare_ you?”

Fenris did not miss the flash of frustration—of righteous anger—in the templar’s eyes, however obdurately calm his expression remained. “I _dare_ because I am your friend, Amelle.” With exaggerated precision, the Knight-Captain set the teacup down. Then he raised his hand, curled his fingers into his palm, and knocked the resulting fist sharply against the burning sword sigil on his breastplate. The mabari whined. Amelle’s breath was audible even over the dull, metallic echo. “And _this_ gives me the right. I am still the _acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall_ , and you are a mage one spell away from abomination or death.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re the Knight-Commander,” she growled. “How bloody convenient. Are you going to drag me off to the Gallows in chains, then?”

“Do I _need_ to?” he snapped.  “Honestly, what do we need to do?  You more than anyone should understand what you’re doing.  And yet you continue to push yourself, _knowing_ it’s only causing damage.”

“I have to _try._ ”

“And what do we — _your friends_ — do when you have pushed yourself so far?  Do you expect us to stand by and _watch_ as you magic yourself into nosebleeds and unconsciousness?  Do you have _any_ comprehension what kind of _power_ you’ve expended by the time that happens?  And yet you call on it again and again and _again,_ showing no respect whatsoever _for_ that power.”

Amelle flinched, but the movement was barely visible.  “Cullen—”

But the Knight-Captain cut her off with a swiping motion and shook his head; his voice shook when he spoke.  “No. No, by Andraste, you _will listen_ to this.  We are _worried_ about you — would you spit on our concern so?  Do you think for a moment any of us enjoyed seeing you watch _powerless_ as that little girl died?  No one is doubting your devotion, and no one is doubting your compassion, but you are _one mage._   There are _limits_ to your power. But over and over you try to surpass those limits without any _thought to the repercussions_.  I am begging you, Amelle: _think._ ”

Something the Knight-Captain had said struck Amelle to the core; Fenris could see it in the way her eyes widened as the color drained from her face.  Her lips parted in shock, and for a moment she looked like she’d been slapped.  

Just then, a soft, uncertain voice came from the doorway.  “He’s—he’s right, Amelle.”  Merrill peered into the room, remaining resolutely on the other side of the threshold, clearly doubting her welcome.  She swallowed hard and for a moment it appeared as if she were blinking back tears.  “You should— _please_ , listen to him.  It’s hard.  I _know_ it’s hard.  I-I know it feels like no one knows your own power better than you do, and nobody knows your limits like you do.  And… and I know what it feels like when you know what you’re doing is _right_ and—and _worth_ the risk.  But the Knight-Commander’s right.  We’re worried.  We’re _all_ worried.”

Amelle looked up at Fenris next, her eyes wide and questioning.  She didn’t _ask_ him anything, but he could almost see her replaying the words he said to her in her chamber the night before:  _“I will not stand by and do nothing while you cause harm to yourself.”_

“The Knight-Captain speaks the truth,” he said quietly, holding her gaze but still checking the urge to touch her hand.  “As does Merrill.”

With a long, deep exhale, Amelle slouched forward, resting her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands.  She stayed like that for some time, breathing slowly as the fire crackled.  Now and then Fenris heard the slightest hitch as she inhaled or exhaled, but when she pulled her hands away and looked at them all, there was nothing but weary contrition upon her face.  Amelle’s hands lay folded in her lap and after a little while, she dropped her eyes and stared at them.  Another breath in and out.

“You… y-you’re right.”  Her throat worked as she swallowed and her fingers tightened minutely before relaxing again.  “You’re right,” she said again.  “All of you.  I…  _Maker_ , I feel like an idiot,” she muttered, pressing her fingertips to her eyes, adding, even more quietly, “ _So_ glad Kiara’s not here right now.”

“Oh, come now,” the templar said, slowly taking his seat again.  “Your sister’s had her _moments._ ”

Amelle’s hands fell again to her lap and she looked up, still contrite, but with a glimmer of wryness shining through, despite the dark shadows that remained beneath her eyes.  “Be that as it may, perhaps we can neglect to mention to her _this_ part of things when we give her a recap, hmm?”

The Knight-Captain sent her a look.  “I don’t know about that.”

Amelle’s smile was a weak one and this time Fenris _did_ give in to the urge to reach out and touch her hand, resting his hand over hers, saying quietly, “Your sister would be proud you saw sense.”  Color warmed Amelle’s cheeks and, he was certain, his own.  

“Thank you,” she replied, just as quietly, giving his fingers a brief squeeze.  Her fingers were cool and that relieved him more than almost anything else.  She hadn’t yet let go when she looked over at Merrill, still lingering by the door.  “Maker’s breath, Merrill, come in and stop hovering.  Sit down.  Have some tea.”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “I don’t want to bother you. I only came to say there are more potions now.  I gave them to Orana. She seems afraid she’ll break them, but I said I thought she would do fine, and maybe to leave them where you’d see them. So I suppose now you won’t—well, I suppose things will go back to how they were—”

“Merrill,” Fenris growled. “Sit.”

Merrill blinked. “Oh,” she repeated. “Well. If you… if you _insist_.”

Fenris glowered, but Amelle sent him a look and patted the seat next to her. Merrill didn’t _quite_ tiptoe across the room, but she never took her gaze from him, and she did move slowly and carefully, as though she feared putting a toe out of line might have him at her throat—or his fist around her heart—before she could so much as squeak.

“Maybe you can help,” Amelle said softly. Fenris glared at her when she attempted to reach for the teapot herself. Instead, he poured Merrill a cup and tried not to notice the way her hands shook when he pressed it into her hands. She stared at it hard before tentatively raising it to her lips.

He wondered if she thought he’d _poisoned_ it.

“Help with what?” Merrill asked. “I’m afraid you’re out of viable elfroot. I might be able to find some in the market. Everything’s been _dreadfully_ picked over since, well, you know, but I could look.”

Amelle only smiled tiredly. “Not with potions. We think we’ve figured out part of the… problem. Part of what’s causing the illness. But it doesn’t make sense.”

“The corrupted idol,” Fenris said.

“Oh, it _exploded_ ,” Merrill said, oddly cheerful. “That’s why you can’t find it.”

“Yes,” Fenris ground out. “We were all witness to that.”

Amelle rolled her eyes at him, ever so slightly. If Merrill noticed, she said nothing, taking another sip of her tea since the first hadn’t killed her. Amelle explained, “It exploded into dust. And the dust got into the air. And people _breathed it in_.”

“I see,” Merrill said thoughtfully. “But the air is clear now.”

Fenris reminded himself the elf could hardly be expected to know information discussed when she had been down in the clinic, and held his tongue. Before anyone could tell her they’d considered this, too, Merrill hmm’d under her breath and said, “It could be in the water, you know. Once it settled. How does Kirkwall get its water? When I was… one time, everyone in the clan got sick. It was miserable. Even Marethari was ill. We looked and looked for the cause. One of the hunters went to the pool that fed the stream and found a great huge stag had died and fallen in. The rot tainted the source and made us all sick.”

“The water,” Amelle breathed, looking up at him with huge eyes.  “Maker, that’s _it._   The dust would have fallen, or—or it would’ve been caught on the wind and…  Oh, sweet Andraste, that’s got to be it.”

Fenris turned to the templar, who looked even more horrified than Amelle.  “Kirkwall’s water source _was_ beneath the chantry.”

“There were two,” the templar explained weakly.  “Two springs. One was — as we all know — below the chantry.  And… and destroyed with the rest of it.”  The Knight-Captain swallowed hard and Fenris could not ignore how _ill_ the man looked _._   “The other is a spring deep below the Gallows.  Which has been supplying water to all of Kirkwall since…”  Amelle made a distressed sound, deep in her throat and the templar sent her a raw, miserable look before going on.  “There are several wells — one by Templar Hall, and two more in the Gallows proper.  They both… lead directly to the source.”

“But…” Merrill began, “but the _Gallows_ is where—”

“Meredith’s sword exploded into dust,” Fenris finished grimly.

“Three points of entry, and no other source of potable water?” Amelle murmured.  She leaned forward again, cradling her head in her hands.  When she spoke, the words were muffled.  “ _Fucking Anders.  Fucking Meredith._ ”  

Merrill blinked at Amelle’s vehemence, but said nothing.  She didn’t have to — her expressive face hid none of her sorrow.  Finally she whispered, “He couldn’t have known.”

Anticipating his anger, Amelle placed a hand on Fenris’ arm, meeting his gaze steadily.  It was enough to induce him to temper his tone, but not his words:  “I doubt it would have changed anything even if he _had_.”

The templar still looked vaguely nauseated.  “My men have been — on top of everything else, my men have been…  Oh, Maker, we’ve been bloody _poisoning_ people.”

“You couldn’t have known either, Cullen,” said Amelle gently.  “None of us could have.  And it’s… blighted bad luck the responsible parties are conveniently unavailable.”

“More the pity that,” Fenris muttered.  The enormity of such a horror wrought by the unwitting cooperation between mage and templar was beyond astonishing.  Anders and Meredith had sickened a city full of innocents.  Anders a healer and Meredith a protector — and yet the mark _both_ had left upon Kirkwall reeked of madness and sickness and death.  

“Can’t you… well, _fix_ it?” Merrill asked cautiously.  “Remove the corruption?”

“What do you suggest?” asked Amelle wearily.  “Straining the spring with a giant piece of cheesecloth?”

Merrill rubbed her nose and looked for half an instant like she was almost considering that.  Then she shook her head.  “I’m not a healer, but Marethari…” she trailed off, biting down on her lip.  “What _is_ healing a person but… but removing the infection corrupting them?  Might the same theory be applied to… to a _thing_ instead of a person?”

Amelle rubbed her forehead as she thought hard, her fingertips massaging the spot between her eyebrows for several long seconds.  “… _Possibly,_ ” she finally answered, shaking her head slowly.  “But I… lately I’ve barely had mana enough to keep a cup of tea hot.  As has been infinitely clear to me during the course of this conversation.  And now… after what happened downstairs…”

Tilting her head, Merrill said, “But it will replenish.”

Amelle did not speak right away. Fenris saw the battle behind her eyes, but had no idea what sides were warring, or what the outcome might be. Finally, she inhaled deeply and exhaled twice as slowly.  “I’m… not sure if it will.” She glanced up, evidently in an attempt to stop tears from falling, but the gesture failed. Her voice breaking, she added, “Something _happened_ downstairs.  Something’s—something’s _wrong_.  When I—when I reached for my power down in the clinic, it was there and then it—it _wasn’t._   Like… it was as if my mind was scraping the bottom of an empty barrel. It _hurt_.  I—I’ve never felt anything—not _not-felt_ anything like it before. There was just… nothing.” She wrapped her arms tight around herself.

The Knight-Captain’s brow furrowed. “You’re not… you’re still _connected_ to the Fade, Amelle. I can feel it. You may be empty, but you’ve not broken the connection entirely.”

“So I didn’t inadvertently make myself Tranquil? That’s… reassuring.”

The templar ignored the edge in Amelle’s tone and asked, “You’ve been having trouble sleeping?”

She shrugged.  “I haven’t exactly made a secret of that. And even if I had, Fenris and Orana have been reminding me on a daily basis to get enough rest.  But I just… there’s too much to worry about.  If I’ve been sleeping, it’s never been for very long, and…” she trailed off, looking down at her hands, helpless frustration written all over her features.

This time the Knight-Captain’s frown took on a more pointed, frustrated quality. “Then you haven’t been _dreaming_.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “dreaming does generally go along with sleeping.” Then she paused, and shock, understanding, and embarrassment swept over her features. “Maker’s _balls_. I haven’t been _dreaming_ ,” she breathed. “Of course.”

“Of course?” Fenris asked.

“We all enter the Fade when we dream,” the templar explained. “But mages _require it_. If she’s not sleeping, she’s not dreaming. If she’s not dreaming, it’s no wonder her connection to the Fade—and to the magic of the Fade—is growing frayed.”

“I suppose you have horror stories involving insomniac mages as well,” Fenris muttered dourly.

The Knight-Captain looked unimpressed, and his eyes darkened. “I _do_ , if you must know. I’ve been a Circle templar my entire life. This… this is what I _know_. People may think—people may have the _impression_ that templars exist to keep non-mages safe from mages, or to hunt down mages that have gone apostate or maleficar, but that is only part of the duty. The _least_ part, truly. We exist to keep mages safe from them _selves_ , more often than not.”

Amelle held up a trembling hand. “I understand. I do. But I _can’t_ sleep. I’ve _tried_.”

Merrill glanced at Fenris, and then at the Knight-Captain. “I—I could _make_ you sleep. If you wanted. If it would help.”

“It wouldn’t,” the templar sighed. “Magic-induced sleep is dreamless.”

“Is it?” Merrill asked. “I didn’t know that. Are you certain—”

“I am certain,” the Knight-Captain said firmly. Fenris heard a strange waver in the templar’s voice, but could not make sense of it. “Mages use magic sleep when they wish to _keep_ someone from dreaming.”

“You went into the Fade to speak with Sebastian,” Fenris said. “Can you not do so again, to replenish your mana? To ensure the… connection you require?”

Amelle threw an abashed look in the Knight-Captain’s direction, already shaking her head. “Usually I require magic to do such a thing. To… to find Sebastian, I used a variation of the ritual Marethari used when we… when we went to get Feynriel. I don’t _have_ that kind of magic right now.”

“You did _what_?” the templar asked, arching an eyebrow at her.  “Now in the Maker’s name—” 

Amelle put a hand up, cutting him off. “Don’t, Cullen.  _Don’t._ I did what was necessary to help Sebastian, and I would do it again.”

But the templar continued glaring at her, and unless Fenris missed his guess, there looked to be a glimmer of betrayal in his gaze.  “You went into the Fade, into Sebastian’s—you might as well have gone _into his mind_.”

Amelle leaned back and sighed, shaking her head.  “He wasn’t recovering from his injury — an injury dealt him, may I remind you, by a templar’s sword.  Something was _wrong_ , and it was something beyond torn flesh and muscle.  So yes.  I… I had paid attention back when Marethari sent us into the Fade to help Feynriel — and I had a feeling those measures would work on Sebastian, too.  But I’d never done anything quite like it _before_ and—”

“And for _good reason_ ,” the Knight-Captain broke in sternly.  Amelle gave a deep, long-suffering sigh.

“I trusted Marethari’s magic,” countered Amelle, tilting her chin stubbornly.  Fenris knew well that particular tilt.  Too well.  

Beside her, Merrill had grown suddenly silent, staring down into the depths of her teacup, her fingers gripping it tightly.

“Don’t you understand how _dangerous_ —”

Amelle tipped her head back and addressed the ceiling.  “Oh, _Maker._   Not this again.  It’s a centuries’ old Dalish ritual, Cullen.  It’s not— it’s not dancing naked and sacrificing chickens under a full moon.  _Old_ magic is not necessarily _bad_ magic.”

“Amelle is right,” Merrill said, never lifting her eyes from her cup.  She fairly radiated with tension as she went on to say, her voice soft as it trembled, “Keeper Marethari w-was no— she was no _maleficar._   She wasn’t an abomination.  She was a good person.  A kind person.”  Her voice broke a little when she added, “A selfless person.”

The templar looked from Amelle to Merrill, and though he clearly looked displeased by this development, he was holding his tongue.  Though, Fenris guessed, just barely.  He inclined his head at the Knight-Captain and said, evenly, “Do not underestimate Amelle’s respect for the danger — the potential for danger — in attempting such a ritual.  She took… precautions.”

“Precautions,” the templar echoed before adding in a mutter, “Maker, I’m almost afraid to ask.  What _sorts_ of precautions?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow, replying, “I stood guard while she was… indisposed.”

Amelle nodded.  “I asked Fenris to… wait and watch, in case I came out of the Fade… impaired.”

“Amelle wouldn’t risk becoming an abomination,” came Merrill’s quiet contribution.  “Not after…  she wouldn’t.”

The Knight-Captain looked at him then, his brow furrowing in undisguised skepticism.  “And you would have… addressed the situation, had she…”

“He would have,” Amelle said firmly, and for a moment Fenris could not help but wonder at the steel in her voice.  “That’s why I asked _him._ I understood and accepted the risks.  I decided the errand was worth that risk.”

But the templar was still looking at him.  Fenris didn’t look away as he said, “Had she come out of the Fade with a demon inside of her, I would have completed the task she asked of me.  Do not doubt that.”

“You would have killed her.”  The templar shook his head slowly.  “How did you know she _wasn’t_?”

“Your confidence in me is _astounding_ ,” Amelle muttered, scowling.

“I did not know at first, as it happened,” Fenris explained.  Something soft brushed his arm and he startled, looking over at Amelle.  She was resting her fingers just below the crook of his elbow, sending him a smile that looked almost… reassuring.  

“After chasing me around his house with his sword for a bit, Fenris decided I hadn’t brought a hitchhiker back with me.”

“ _What?_ ” the Knight-Captain sputtered, his jaw dropping as he looked between them.  His expression said very clearly, _You’re all mad._  

“An abomination would not have suffered such treatment,” Fenris reasoned.  “I attempted to provoke a transformation.  When that failed, I was satisfied Amelle was… Amelle.”

This time it was Merrill’s turn to gape.  She turned and said to Amelle, “Fenris chased you _around the house_?  With his sword?  That whopping big one he’s got?  What did you _do?_ ”

Amelle sent him a slantwise look that held the barest breath of amusement.  “The reasonable thing to do at the time was… well, _run_.”  Then she shrugged.  “I didn’t— I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to use any sort of defensive spell.”

“Well, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you,” Merrill said, smiling now.  Fenris _hated_ that particular version of Merrill’s smile.

Before Fenris could do more than glower, Amelle said, “Oh, no. I knew he _would_ hurt me. That’s what made the whole thing so bloody _terrifying._ It wasn’t until _after_ that I realized we probably ought to have come up with some kind of ‘oh by the way I’m not an abomination don’t kill me’ codeword.”

The Knight-Captain heaved a sigh. “The magic of Dalish Keepers is a… grey area in Chantry law, Amelle, but you are not a Dalish Keeper. Please—please don’t repeat it.”

Just for a moment, her eyes blazed defiance. It faded almost as quickly, however, leaving resignation in its wake. “I couldn’t right now anyway. Which more or less brings us back to square one.”

The templar bent his neck and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Fenris thought, in that moment, it was more than clear Amelle was not the only one having difficulty sleeping. The templar’s weariness was palpable. Then the man froze. “There’s lyrium,” he said.

“In the water, yes. We figured that part out already,” Merrill said gently.

The Knight-Captain shook his head. “The lyrium they use in a Harrowing.”

Amelle gaped at him, aghast. “You can’t be _serious_. I may not be a Circle mage, but my _father_ was. I know what a Harrowing is, Cullen.”

“I do not,” Fenris said coldly. “But the word hardly conjures images of the healing and replenishment Amelle requires at this juncture.”

“Look, no one will be summoning a demon for Amelle to face, but the _lyrium_ —”  The templar stumbled to a halt mid-sentence as three pairs of green eyes glared at him. Muttering a curse under his breath, he said, “Let me explain.”

“Do,” Fenris growled.

“The Harrowing is a test… the test that makes an apprentice a full mage.”

“They have to fight a demon,” Amelle supplied. “Or resist a demon. In the Fade. While templars stand with swords at the ready. If you fail—if you become an abomination—Maker, even if you _take too long_ , they kill you,” she added, voice still tinged with horror.

Fenris arched an eyebrow. “Not unlike how I stood guard over you, Amelle.”

“Andraste’s kneecaps!” Merrill cursed brightly. “I was right! You _would_ make a good templar, Fenris. You’re a natural!”

The Knight-Captain made a decisive cutting motion with his hand. “You’re missing the salient point. It’s not about the Harrowing, it’s about the _lyrium_. There is a way to _send_ a mage into the Fade that does not involve… Dalish rituals. The apprentice ingests a uniquely processed form of lyrium. It _creates_ a connection to the Fade, without the necessity of reaching a deep sleep first.”

Raising her eyebrows, Amelle asked, “And this uniquely processed form of lyrium just happens to be lying around, where? The market?”

“I’m the bloody Knight-Commander of Kirkwall! Who do you _think_ has access to the sodding lyrium?”

After a long, tense, silent moment, Amelle murmured, “Acting.”

To Fenris’ surprise, the acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall only bowed his head and chuckled. “Fine. Acting. But I can still get ahold of the lyrium.”

Fenris tapped his fingertips along his thigh until Amelle reached out and ghosted her fingers along the back of his hand. “I do not like it,” he said. “Even without _summoning_ a demon, the Fade is no place for a mage whose powers are so depleted. Can—” he swallowed hard and cleared his throat before continuing, “can one of us not accompany her?”  He pretended not to notice the speed with which Amelle turned her head to stare at him, eyes wide, lips parted in quiet shock.

“Merrill,” the Knight-Captain said, though he did not sound convinced. “As far as I understand, this is a path open only to mages. And there’s no guarantee they would—or could—even end up in the same… _part_ of the Fade. Apprentices go in alone.”

“Hawke was able to take people with her when Marethari sent her,” Merrill replied primly.

“And can _you_ repeat the ritual?” Fenris asked.

Merrill was already shaking her head sadly. “I… could. Before. But now…”

“No one’s resorting to blood magic on my behalf,” Amelle declared. “ _No one_. Not for _any_ reason.”  The fingers ghosting over his hand settled over his and Fenris looked up to see Amelle’s green eyes watching him steadily.  “I will be fine.  It will be like going to sleep.”  She paused, tilting her head.  “Just like it, in fact.”

Fenris didn’t reply.  He disliked having anyone else present for such a conversation and he suspected Amelle could sense his reticence.  Amelle sighed a little, looking to the templar and asking, “How long do you think it would take to get this lyrium?” 

“No more than an hour or two.  Plenty of time to… prepare.”

Amelle cocked an eyebrow at him.  “And you’re _sure_ you won’t be summoning any demons, just to teach me a lesson?”

The templar’s expression matched Fenris’ own.  “I’m sure,” he answered flatly.  “No matter how tempting you may make such a prospect.”  He pushed to his feet, armor clanking softly and the chair creaking its gratitude as he stood.  “I… imagine you’ll want to start this sooner rather than later?”

With a determined nod, Amelle said, “We’ll need to do this quickly—”

“You cannot rush the process, Amelle.  It will take however long it takes.”

“Then we’d better get started.  There’s a small matter of a tainted water source we need to address later.”

The Knight-Commander shook his head with a grimace.  “Was there ever a time things weren’t utterly mad here?”

“Oh, look on the bright side,” Merrill chirped.  “Maybe things will be _less_ mad now, hmm?”  No one in the room looked convinced.  After a moment, Merrill slumped a little and sighed.  “It was worth a _try_ at least _,_ I thought.”

“Yes.  Well.”  The Knight-Commander’s gaze swept over the room.  “I’ll collect what we require.  As I said, it shouldn’t take me more than an hour, maybe two.”  With another nod, he left, and the front door closed heavily behind him, echoing through the house.

Amelle’s hand remained closed over his as she looked over to Merrill, who at that moment was frowning into the teapot.

“We’re out of tea,” she said mournfully.

“Would you mind terribly taking that to Orana and asking her if she might make another?”

“Of course, Amelle, I’d— oh.  _Oh.”_   Again, Merrill _smiled._   Fenris ground his teeth as Merrill’s smile widened into one more brilliant and beaming.  “Oh, of course.  And… and I’ll stay in the kitchen and _help her_ too, maybe.”  Merrill’s smile dimmed not a bit as she gathered up the tea tray and left the library, taking one very precarious moment to balance the tray in one hand as she closed the door.

Once they were alone, Amelle sighed, clasping his hand in both of hers.  “You’re worried.”

He frowned, looking down at her hands.  “Haven’t I reason to worry?  You are going into the Fade.  You haven’t the first idea what awaits you there.”

“But I’m going in for _myself._   It’s… it’s going to be different than when I went in to find Sebastian.  I promise.  That was… more uncertain.”

“More uncertain than this?” he countered.

“That’s not a fair question,” Amelle admonished.  “I’ve gone to the Fade before — I _should_ go there every night when I sleep, but I haven’t been.  It is a long overdue visit.  Nothing more.”

But he saw the shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. “I still do not like it.”

With a smile, Amelle reached up and brushed her thumb along his cheekbone and he tried to suppress his shiver. “I’d worry if you _did_ ,” she murmured.  “I promise you — swear to you — I’ll be _careful._ ”

He thought of his own singular experience traveling into the Fade.  He remember how quickly _he’d_ succumbed to the demon’s lures, how quickly he’d turned against Hawke — something he never would have even _thought_ possible.  In fact, it still troubled him, years later.  But Amelle had not succumbed.  She had resolve — he knew that.  He’d known it for quite some time.

“Will you…” Amelle bit her lip, ducking her head a little in a gesture that was heartbreakingly uncertain.  “While I’m… in there, will you…”

“Watch over you as I did while you were tending Sebastian?”  

She nodded, still worrying her bottom lip.  “Just in case.”

“I will.”  

Amelle’s resultant smile was both relieved and grateful, and after only the briefest hesitation, she leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss across his lips.  They still had not… _discussed_ this new change between them, but in light of other things, more important things, it was a conversation possibly best put off until… later.  The gesture was still new — blindingly new, in fact, and despite the chasteness, the _shyness_ of the kiss, Fenris’ breath caught as he reached up and brushed Amelle’s hair back from her forehead.  

_If I must spend my last breath to keep you from harm, I will do it._


	47. Chapter 47

**LOTHERING: 9:20 DRAGON**

 

Lothering was a new experience for all the Hawke children.  When Malcolm Hawke explained they would be staying there, _living_ there, and there would be no more running, Maker willing, they weren’t entirely sure how to react.  Surprise quickly gave way to unbridled joy, particularly when this realization brought with it the knowledge that they would be living in a house — their _own_ house on their _own_ farm with their _own_ rooms.  

 _Mostly_ their own rooms, anyway. Carver, being the only boy, crowed about getting a room to himself while the girls had to share, but Amelle, barely eight, did not mind sharing with Kiara.  She didn’t like the dark, and it seemed as if the monsters under her bed had gotten louder lately, whispering more insistently that she come play with them.  Amelle trusted Kiara would keep her safe from the monsters under her bed.  Even Carver thought twice before doing something that might get him in trouble with Kiara, and Carver was already almost as tall as their older sister.

The concept of _staying_ anywhere was a minor miracle to the Hawke children.  They’d never even stayed in one place long enough to so much as have a pet — though now Kiara was asking, as she frequently did, if they could have a dog.  Papa’s answers, which before had always been some patient variation on “no,” had now turned a corner into “maybe” and “we’ll see.”  Mama pleaded their case by pointing out how useful it would be to have a dog that could protect them all as well as the farm.  A good, solid dog, like a mabari, she’d suggested.  But Papa only smiled and shook his head, never giving an answer more definitive than, “We’ll see.”

That day, Mama was taking Carver and Kiara into town; Kiara needed a new bowstring, and Carver simply wanted to tag along for the adventure of it.  

“Amelle and I will be fine on our own,” Papa said.  “I think maybe we’ll work a bit in the garden.”  Carver made a face, obviously glad to have dodged that particular chore, but Amelle saw nothing wrong with spending the day tending the vegetable garden with Papa.

“It’s quite a grand thing you’re putting together out there,” Mama replied, smiling at him.

“Grand?” he grinned.  “Well, it’s hardly the gardens at Amell Hall,” Papa said, putting an arm about Mama’s shoulders.  “But it is our own.”

“And _that_ makes it grand, Malcolm.”

Amelle listened, wondering — as she often did — where that hall was, if it was indeed _hers_.  Their house had only a couple of hallways in it, and none of them had their own _garden_ ; if one of them was her own, she needed to find out which it was.  And if she could ban Carver from that space, all the better.  Amelle was distracted with wonderful fantasies of lording over her brother, ordering him to fetch her and Kiri tea and cakes and then maybe, _maybe_ she’d let him visit _her_ hall.  Carver may have had his own room, but Amelle had her own _hall._   Somewhere.  Papa said so.

“Come along, rabbit,” Papa said, interrupting her thoughts by placing his massive hand atop her head and mussing her hair; her long, dark curls were forever finding their way out of whatever method Mama had used to tie them back. Today was no exception.

“‘M not a rabbit, Papa,” she said, reminding him _again._

“No?” he asked, smiling down at her as he turned and headed outside, Amelle trailing alongside him.  “What are you then?”

“A _girl_ ,” she answered, stumbling over a loose tree root. She stopped to glare at it.

“Ah, I see.  Well, that is handy, as it is a girl and not a rabbit I require just now.”

“To do what?” Kiara was intrigued by the rabbits and pheasants in the wood and just how much practice it would take to actually _hit_ one of them with her new bow and arrow, and Carver was mainly interested in exploring the woods and Lothering itself, particularly in search of other young boys his age, so he might not be constantly stuck with having to play the games his sisters preferred.  But Amelle was fascinated by the things growing in the family’s vegetable garden.  She and Papa had put the seeds in the ground, and they’d waited and waited and _waited_ , until finally _things_ started coming up.  Sprouts, hopeful and green, began poking up out of the soil, unfurling their waxy leaves and reaching up to the sunlight.  Amelle crouched down, peering at some of those determined little seedlings.

“Papa!” she cried, pointing at the cluster of slender young vines, starting to sprout long, green casings.  “Look!  Peas!”  

He joined her, smiling down at her enthusiasm.  “Peas indeed, rabbit.”  Then he pointed at another bit of green poking up through the soil.  “But that, my little one — that’s not a crop at all, is it?”

“That’s a _weed,_ ” replied Amelle, scowling at the intruder.

“Indeed it is.  And there are more of them,” he added with a gesture.  Amelle looked and saw them creeping in from all sides, threatening their little garden.  “Those weeds run the risk of killing all we’ve planted, Amelle. It’s important we keep our garden as free from them as possible.”

Amelle gave him her most authoritative nod.  “I can do it, Papa.”

“I know you can, sweetest.”

Together they knelt in the fragrant dirt and set to work pulling weed after weed after weed.  Amelle was the only of her siblings who didn’t mind this chore; she loved the feel of cool dirt on her hands, even as grit worked its way underneath her short fingernails.  She loved the cool soil, the warm sun shining away above, and she loved working by Papa’s side.

The midmorning sun was high in the sky when a ruckus came from the barn: a displeased wail that sounded a great deal to Amelle like an angry cat.  

Amelle looked up in the direction of the barn, alarmed, suddenly wondering if it _was_ a cat.  She rather liked cats — there was a grey one that always napped on the front steps of the chantry, stretched out in the sunlight, almost blending in with the grey stone steps.  Amelle, on a trip into town with Mama, had once asked if she could go pet the cat, but Mama had said it was better if she didn’t, and then Amelle remembered that there were _templars_ in the chantry, and they had to stay far, far away from the templars.  But _that_ day, one of the templars standing watch had overheard her and then scooped the cat up, carrying it over to them soberly, insisting the chantry mouser hadn’t caught a mouse in days and clearly he required the special attentions only a little girl just her age could provide.

She’d been delighted, and took the lump of sun-warmed fur into her arms and petted it, scratching so carefully, so gently behind its ears, until the cat made a low, rumbling sound, deep in its throat.  She’d looked up at the templar with wide, curious eyes.

“He’s purring,” he’d explained.  “That means he likes you.”

Amelle suddenly _hoped_ it was a cat in the barn.  But Papa only sighed.  “It’s those blasted goats again.”

Not a cat, then.  Amelle let out a despondent little sigh and went back to pulling weeds.

Papa stood, brushing dirt and bits of green from his trousers.  “I’ll be right back, Amelle.  Keep at those weeds while I see what those fool goats are complaining about this time.”

“Yes, Papa.”

With that, he left Amelle to her task and he made his way up to the small barn where the goats were kept.  There weren’t a lot of animals in there — some goats, a small flock of sheep, and a cow — there were chickens, but they lived in a coop closer to the house so Papa could protect them better if a fox or wolf came around.  Amelle felt a swell of pride at that: Papa would protect anyone.  Even the chickens.

She stayed in the garden, obediently pulling weeds.  Sounds from the barn floated down to her — the goats weren’t making that awful cry anymore, just their usual noisy bleating, which wasn’t much better.  Amelle grabbed a large weed as close to the root as she could and pulled, but it was stubbornly entrenched in the dirt and she pulled again.  The sun blazed down from above and made her curls stick to her forehead and along the back of her neck and it was _so hot_ that she could barely stand it.  Wiping the sweat from her face, Amelle reached for another weed and pulled again, harder and harder, as the warmth from the sun soaked into her skin and _made_ her warm.  She felt the contrast of the cool soil below and the sun above and tilted her face up, closing her eyes and basking in that heat, and for a moment she felt like one of the very plants she was tending.

Reaching down for another weed, Amelle took a deep breath and _pulled_. What happened next came too quickly for her to fully understand: a breath of flame licked out from the hand closed around the weed.  In her grasp, it turned suddenly brown and dry before catching aflame itself.  With a surprised squeak, Amelle dropped the weed and stared in horror as the small flame moved slowly along, jumping erratically until reaching the pile of weeds she’d already pulled, the small bit of fire treating it like kindling. The pile began to smoke and smolder, and from underneath Amelle could see the flames begin to grow and crackle hungrily.

“Papa?”  Amelle managed, but in her surprise and terror, she was able to muster little more than a frightened whisper.  She took in another breath, deeper this time, but before she could call for her father, _more_ flame issued forth from her hands — both of them, this time — catching the top of pile of weeds and the vegetables nearest her — the very cluster of vines she’d been admiring went alight.  Flames caught her sleeves and she felt the sudden _heat_ , and this time she _did_ yell, closing her eyes as she breathed in deeply and _screamed._

_“Papa!”_

There were running footsteps followed by a sudden rush of cold.  The fire died with a hiss and the heat traveling up her arms was doused with that icy blast.  When she dared open her eyes, Amelle found herself surrounded by the charred and frost-covered remains of pulled weeds and the ruined fledgling vine that _would_ have eventually produced peas, all of it steaming lightly in the air.  She stared at the burnt, iced-over remains, unable to believe her eyes, even when a pair of strong arms hefted her up, clutching her tightly.  Amelle turned and flung her arms around her father, burying her face in the side of his neck, sobbing and trembling with fear.

“I d-didn’t mean to, P-papa,” she cried, “I’m sorry — I didn’t — it just — I-I made it— _I’m sorry about the peas, Papa._ ”

She felt rasp of his beard as he pressed a kiss against her forehead, rubbing slow circles at her back.  “Shhh.  It’s all right, Amelle.  You’re all right.  It’s over, rabbit.  You’re safe,” he murmured softly in her ear, carrying her inside.  “You’re all right.”

Her sobs slowed as they entered the cool dimness of the house and Papa sat down, situating her on his lap, his arms still securely around her.  Everything smelled funny, and Amelle knew somehow without looking that her hair had been burnt.  Gently her father took her hands into his own and examined them.  The skin was angry and red, and felt sore and tender when she tried to flex her fingers.

“You’ve burned yourself,” he explained gently, wrapping his larger hands around hers and sending a rush of healing energy to the injured skin.  Soon the skin was once again pale and unmarred, but for the dirt streaking her hands and lodged under her fingernails.

Amelle sniffled.  “I… didn’t mean to.”

“I know, little one.”  He cleared his throat and gave her a strange little smile that seemed almost sad.  “It’s going to take practice, but quite a few… young mages burn themselves the first time they come into their powers.  I was just about your age when…”  

As Amelle listened, her eyes grew wider.  “…Papa?”

“It doesn’t _always_ start with fire,” he went on, running his fingers through her hair, smiling sadly as he fingered one ruined curl, burnt and singed beyond recognition.  “But it was fire… for me, too.”

She swallowed hard, listening to the words her father was saying, looking down at her hands.  She’d been too surprised at the time, too frightened, but yes, it _had_ been very like when Papa used his fire sometimes.  But he used it for things like starting the fire in the hearth, and keeping tea warm — Mama scolded him sometimes for that, but she always smiled when she scolded Papa — and sometimes, when they’d all been _very_ good, Papa entertained them with sparks that jumped from one hand to another, dancing through the air like tiny, winking fairies.

She looked again at her hands.  “I’m… like you?”

Letting out a soft laugh, Papa pressed a kiss against her forehead.  “According to your mother, you were all too much like me even before you showed a propensity for making things catch fire.”

Amelle wasn’t sure she truly understood what he meant by that, but somehow it didn’t seem important.  Papa was still holding her on his lap, still rocking her slowly.  “I’m sorry about the peas, Papa.”

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t by your side when this happened.  I’m sorry you were alone and afraid, sweetling.”

Amelle looked up into her father’s eyes, perfectly earnest.  “Was it the fool goats again?”

Something about the question made him laugh, arms tightening around her.  “Yes.  Those silly beasts are more trouble than they’re worth, I sometimes think.”

Just then the door flung open and Mama came in, followed swiftly by Kiara and Carver, back from their trip into town.  “Malcolm, what in the Maker’s name—I saw the garden, dearest, what…” The words died in her throat when she saw Amelle, filthy and tear-streaked, smelling strongly of smoke, curled in her father’s lap.  A strange look passed between Mama and Papa then, and Mama just nodded.

“Is… is she all right, then?”

“A little frightened, but none the worse for wear.  She may need a bath.”

“And a bit of a haircut, I fear,” Mama said with a strange little smile as she came closer, touching a lock of hair, its ends blackened and burnt away.

Kiara stepped forward, peering around their mother to get a better look at Amelle, her eyes shuttering as she pieced together what had happened.  “Papa…?”

“Is Amelle in trouble?” Carver asked, peeking over Kiara’s shoulder.  “She looks like she made a big mess.  What did you _do_ , Mely?”

Carver’s question was sharply accusing and the tears that had stopped only recently welled up again.  Lip trembling, she looked down at her hands, which had started all this trouble in the first place.  “I… killed the peas.”

“No,” their father decisively said, squeezing her shoulder.  “Your sister did nothing wrong.”

Mama cleared her throat and took Amelle’s hand, gently guiding her off her father’s lap.  “Come darling, why don’t we get you cleaned up a little, hmm?”  She looked back at Papa as she led Amelle out of the room.  “I’ll leave you alone so you can…”

Papa nodded.  “I’ll speak with them.”

“They’ll understand,” she said, casting an eye over the remaining Hawke children.

He followed her gaze.  “I hope they do.”


	48. Chapter 48

All things being equal, one could briskly walk the distance between Starkhaven’s chantry and palace in twenty minutes. The streets were broad, and the path relatively straight. Of course, on this particular occasion, things were not at all equal. As soon as they emerged from the house, the guard formed a tight knot around them, conducive to protection from the mob still screaming for murder, but not very convenient for speed.

Sebastian knew speed was paramount. The forty minutes he’d given Captain Elias was a generous estimate, and he feared the hour would expire before then. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain calm, to keep his chin high, to project _Prince_ instead of _terrified fool_.

Glancing toward the unused stake and its unlit pyre, he glimpsed Isabela. She had pulled herself out of the crowd and was standing on the platform, gazing toward the house, alarmingly exposed should any archer take aim. She met his gaze and he saw her tense as though to ready herself for an attack. Very slowly, very firmly, he shook his head. Even at a distance, he saw the surprise on her face. He mouthed the word _go_ and hoped she saw it, hoped she knew what it meant. Starkhaven was not safe for them now. It was safe for no one, but at least he had his name to wear as armor. He hoped it would be enough to protect Hawke, too.

Then Sebastian forced himself to look away, to fix his sights on the palace, and to pray no one in his cadre of guards decided to knife him before they made it before the pretender prince. It went against every instinct he had to be so caught out, so open, so _visible_. He hadn’t even room to draw his bow if he needed to, but he kept it securely in one hand, an arrow dangling from the other.

As they moved—slowly, too slowly—through the square, the crowd parted before them. He kept pace with the guards carrying Hawke. She was completely stiff now, and very pale. When he surreptitiously brushed the backs of his fingers along her uninjured cheek, he found the skin clammy and alarmingly cold. “This is taking too long,” he said aloud. Captain Elias tensed.

“It’s not so easy with a crowd such as this. They’re as like to kill you as throw themselves at your feet, you know. Even with those eyes.”

Sebastian didn’t know about that. Most of the people who caught glimpses of him seemed immediately stunned into silence. Some dropped to their knees. Some bowed. Only a few continued spitting their epithets of hate.

“Captain,” called one of the guards from the front. “There’s a dwarf here giving us some trouble. Says he knows… _him_.”

It had, perhaps, been foolish of Sebastian to assume what Isabela knew Varric would know shortly thereafter. He’d thought them nearer each other. Varric must have been working his way through the crowd as soon as the first arrows flew, with Isabela as his cover.

“Should have been the other way around,” he muttered. “Range covers. Melee attacks.”

“H-highness?”

“Bring this dwarf to me. At once.”

The guard gave him a skeptical look, but reluctantly complied. Sebastian waited, poised, so the moment Varric appeared, shrugging off the guard’s not-so-helping hand, he said coldly, “I do not know you, dwarf.”

Varric’s eyes widened and darted around, taking in the many guards with their many swords. Sebastian knew the instant Varric noticed Hawke, because the dwarf took a step forward and nearly had himself impaled on the nearest guard’s blade. “What—?”

“You would do well to leave.” Sebastian kept his voice grim, grave, and prayed the Maker would give him strength. Strength and the right words. A hint of betrayal still lingered about Varric, and Sebastian was half afraid the man would attempt some mad rescue. With a final intense glare, Sebastian turned away from Varric and pointedly directed his next words to Captain Elias. “We waste too much time tarrying. Let the dwarf go. He will make no more trouble, I think. I imagine he will run right along home, fast as his little legs can carry him. The Champion must have the antidote. Soon. Do not stop again, Elias. For anything. Or anyone.”

Sebastian didn’t dare watch as the guard escorted Varric away. He could only hope Varric would hear the intended message and do nothing idiotic.

Once they were away from the chantry courtyard, their pace picked up. Still not fast enough for Sebastian, but as fast as the soldiers carrying Hawke could manage.

Almost casually he asked Elias, “What happened to Goran?”

Elias looked about nervously and shouted at his men to pick up the pace before answering, “Ahh, the prince had an accident. Riding accident. Skittish horse took a fright. He fell and cracked his head and never woke up again. We’re told. Your Highness.”

“I didn’t think Goran was much of a rider.”

Elias swallowed. “Well, that might account for the accident then, mightn’t it?”

“And this fear of the mages? These… burnings? When did that start?”

“Not sure as I can say. Escalated round about the time Starkhaven heard about Kirkwall, I imagine. Didn’t seem much of anything at first—whispers in the dark, the kinds of tales mothers tell their children to make ‘em behave, naught else. Nothing to alarm. Then Goran had his accident not a week after we learned of Kirkwall and… people started to talk. The prince died so sudden-like, and people started whispering about magic being the cause of it. And then, not two days later, your brother came back. Said he’d been in hiding, afraid for his life after what had been done to the Vaels. But with Goran dead…”

“And what has he done to stop the attacks on mages, this supposed brother of mine? He cannot be ignorant of the trouble. He’s been on his throne more than a month, if what you tell me’s true.”

Elias looked mildly affronted that Sebastian would doubt him. Or perhaps he was offended that Sebastian doubted this new prince of his. “He’s done what he could, Highness, I’m sure, but it’s harder than you think. The people are… angry. Angrier than they’ve ever been. They think everyone’s a mage, or hiding one. Turned against the Chantry, even. So new to his throne, I don’t think the prince wants them turning against him, too.”

In a tone of mockery that soared over the captain’s head, Sebastian replied, “Good to know he’s got his priorities in the right order, then.” 

 The encounter with Varric had cost them valuable minutes, and he knew there couldn’t be more than fifteen left on Hawke’s clock by the time they finally reached the palace gates. There was some discussion amongst the guards and a few threats on both sides before they were allowed entrance. Sebastian noticed which guards saluted him and which didn’t, filing away faces and expressions for later. If he survived until later, of course. He glanced down at Hawke. If either of them survived. Later seemed a very far way off.

Stepping into the palace, walking its familiar halls, seeing its familiar tapestries, noticing the places where they’d fixed—or not fixed—something he remembered broken, bordered on surreal. He half expected his mother to glide around a corner and scold him for having the audacity to appear in public with such people and _wearing such clothes_. But of course his mother could not appear, and his clothing—appropriate or not—was the least of his worries.

Sebastian noticed three things as soon as he and his commandeered escort entered the throne room: it was still decorated in the white and gold of the Vael family, but the tapestry depicting the Vael coat of arms was gone from behind the throne; the room was entirely too full of courtiers for a random midweek morning; the man sprawled in the great golden seat was _not_ a brother of his.

Shifting his grip slightly, he brought his bow near. The Starkhaven Longbow. He remembered his grandfather upon that throne, wise and evenhanded and merciful, promising his young grandson a legacy, if only he could prove himself. His grandfather would have been disgusted to see the state of the room now. For a moment, the bitter taste of bile choked him. Outside innocents were burning, but here they were drinking wine in the middle of the day, laughing at inanities, listening to the troubadour in the corner, paying court to the fraud sitting in his father’s chair, his grandfather’s chair, the chair belonging to six generations of Vaels.

The impostor hardly shifted when the band of guards entered. He lifted his eyes only briefly before turning back to the lovely girl offering him wine. A lazy smile pulled at his lips, even as he pinched the servant’s bottom in full sight of the gathered court. Sebastian grimaced, but held his tongue. “Captain Elias,” the pretender said, “I trust your mission was successful?”

The voice was close, just as the appearance was close, but Sebastian _knew_ his brother. He _remembered_ the way Connall had moved and smiled and never would have treated the throne with such disdain. 

“You are no brother of mine. You are no true Vael,” Sebastian declared, his voice ringing through the chamber. A rustle of whispers followed his words, and more than one lady with delicate sensibilities swooned into the arms of a convenient gentleman. His lip curled. The artifice of it all was maddening. A glance down at Hawke brought him back to himself, reminding him that more important things stood to be lost.

At the sound of Sebastian’s pronouncement, Captain Elias raised his hand. _Maker, let it be swift_. But the rain of arrows or forest of steel Sebastian expected did not materialize. Instead, the entire escort of guards stepped backward, fanning out around Sebastian in a half-circle that could have been as much to guard Sebastian as to protect the false prince. The knights beside him lowered Hawke gently to the stones. She did not so much as twitch. The rise and fall of her chest revealed just how beleaguered her breathing had become.

“Elias! What is the meaning of—”

Sebastian saw the moment the false prince noticed him. All the color drained from the pretender’s face, leaving his skin grey above the white and gold of his fine doublet. He put his hands to the arms of the throne and made as if to push himself upright, but failed. “S-sebastian. Brother. We thought… we thought you dead. W-we were _told_ —” The fraud shook his head, gathering himself together, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “Thank the Maker, brother! We heard rumors, of course, so many rumors, but we never thought to see you alive! Our family rises from the ashes—surely Andraste herself smiles upon us. Embrace me, brother; it has been too long!”

By the end of his speech, the impostor was smiling again, his cheeks flushed, his pallor vanished. His crowd of courtiers applauded lightly. He made a fine sight sitting in his golden chair, the sunlight falling through the stained glass windows illuminating his face and sending colored shadows dancing over the white silk he wore. The man wore his finery with casual ease, and he certainly _looked_ the role, but Sebastian could sense the lies on him. The man stank of deceit. 

And so Sebastian remained unmoved. “It is a clever disguise, I’ll grant you that. I am not surprised—disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised—it was enough to convince the court. Andraste smiles upon our family? Did she not smile for Mother and Father then? For Angus? For your wife and daughter? You may wear something like his face and speak in something like his voice, but you are not Connall Vael, and I will not embrace you.”

A wounded expression flitted across the fraud’s face, and he slumped back in the throne, glancing around the room beseechingly. He looked for all the world as though _he_ was the one with the right to be injured, the right to be affronted. The courtiers murmured behind their raised hands, their raised fans, but the guards were a silent wall between him and them. 

Sebastian’s grip tightened on his bow, whitening his knuckles.

“The antidote for Maker’s Light. Give it to her.”

“Her?” asked the impostor lightly, as though the murmurs of the crowd had fed him, had given him security of place once again. He sipped from his goblet. “You cannot be serious, _brother_. I _ordered_ her… neutralized. The Champion of Kirkwall is an enemy of Starkhaven. She deserves her fate. As do all who stand against the Crown.”

Sebastian had an arrow readied and the bowstring pulled taut in less time than it took the pretender to blink. A flicker of fear erased the man’s smile; Sebastian considered his action worthwhile if only for this.

“Give her the antidote.”

“You cannot pretend to be ignorant of her crimes, brother. It was she spurred the mages to rebel, she who chose to side with the maleficarum.” The pretender leaned forward, eyes on Sebastian’s. The eyes disturbed him the most—they were too much like his own. They were Vael eyes, but not ones he knew. The piercing blue so like his father’s, his grandfather’s—his real brothers.

“I will not ask again. Give her the antidote.”

The pretender rose, and all his courtiers rose with him. He waved them down and tilted his head, regarding Sebastian as a master might regard his disobedient dog. “Or what? You’re not going to shoot me, brother. You’re practically a man of the cloth. What would the Maker think?”

And then the fraud _laughed_.

_Put the point through his throat. See how he laughs then._

Aiming carefully, Sebastian released the arrow. It arced through the air, the white fletching flashing. It did not pierce the laughing prince’s throat. It nicked his left ear and sliced through a lock of red-gold hair before thudding into the throne behind. Blood mixed with the fine strands as they fell to the impostor’s white-clad shoulder. One hand shot to the injured ear, and the man was so startled wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet. A deep red stain seeped down his front.

“What is the _meaning_ of this? _I am Prince of Starkhaven!_ I will not be attacked in—”

“ _Give her the antidote_!” Sebastian roared, starting a fresh round of whispers. “Give her the antidote, or so help me the next will not be aimed to startle.”

“Guards! Seize him! Seize him at once! The bastard _shot_ me. Would you stand idle as assassins take your prince?”

And still, the guards around Sebastian stood silent as statues, watching.

Captain Elias took a single step forward. “Prince Connall,” he said. “My men will seize him at once if you can tell me what words your father spoke to you the first time you fell from your horse.”

The impostor was livid with rage. With his face so twisted by hate and fear and distress, he no longer resembled Connall at all. “You would _dare_ —?”

Sebastian vividly remembered the day Elias spoke of. A great deal had been made of Connall’s first riding lesson—it was the first step out of the nursery and toward manhood—and he’d been so _jealous_ of his big brother sitting atop his pony. Sebastian remembered clinging to his nursemaid and weeping for sheer envy. 

Then Connall had done the unthinkable—he’d fallen from the horse’s back. Whilst the horse was standing _completely still_. Everyone had laughed—it was hard not to when confronted with the image of a tiny prince sitting startled in the mud, glaring at the horse as though it had somehow betrayed him.

The angry false prince jabbed his wine glass in the direction of the guards. “Seize him! And seize Elias! They conspire against me.”

The serving girl beside him said meekly, “But, Highness… why not simply answer him?”

The impostor slapped her so hard she went tumbling to the dais in a puddle of skirts and spilled wine. Before he could raise his hand a second time, Sebastian’s second arrow struck through the very center of his palm. The false prince screamed, staring at his arrow-pierced hand as though he did not recognize it.

Spittle flew as the prince rounded on his court. “Andraste’s fucking _tits_! You would stand by whilst this monster murders your prince? You are all traitors! _Traitors!_ ”

No one moved to help the bleeding prince. No one whispered now. No one spoke at all. Two or three ladies swooned, but this time their fright was genuine. The room was eerily silent, save for the quiet whimpering of the injured serving girl and the false prince’s ragged breathing.

Into the silence, Sebastian said, “Everyone laughed at Connall save Father, when he fell. Father crouched next to his embarrassed, frustrated son and said gently, ‘It’s not the falling off that counts, Con. It’s the getting back on after you’ve tumbled.’ Then he offered Connall his hand instead of simply picking him up like a child, and when Connall accepted it and hauled himself to his feet, Father added, ‘And don’t blame the horse, boy. He was just doing his job. Always be first to accept the blame if you’re at fault.’”

“Aye,” said Elias. “That is exactly how it happened. Exactly what was said. And later, Prince Connall repeated those words to his own daughter, when she first fell from _her_ horse. They are not words he ever forgot.” Turning to Sebastian, he asked, “Highness? What do you want us to do with him?”

“Put him in the dungeon. I would speak with him later. First, the antidote. Please.”

Elias gestured to his men, and four of them split away from the escort and moved to surround the pretender. The impostor was trying desperately to pull the arrow from his bleeding hand, but it stuck fast.

“You can’t do this to me! I’m the bloody prince of Starkhaven! My word is law! I’m the _prince of Starkhaven_!”

“No,” said Sebastian wearily, “you are not. I am.”

Captain Elias dropped to one knee, hand over his heart. His guards followed suit. Slowly, a ripple went through the crowd, until everyone knelt, silently pledging their allegiance. Sebastian only felt cold. So many years of fearing it would take armies to overtake his homeland. So many years of avoiding this moment, and it had all been so… simple, really. Two arrows and a story.

Two arrows, a story, and a wound Hawke might never recover from. If these were the price of his crown, Sebastian thought it far too dear indeed.

Sebastian did not recognize the court healer who attended them, though he recognized the insignia upon the breast of her blue robes. She moved to aid Hawke but Sebastian extended his hand and she reluctantly dropped the tiny vial into his palm. He opened it and sniffed; it bore the signature scent, sweet and strange, of the antidote he remembered his old archery master passing around.

Such a little thing. Kneeling at Hawke’s side, he lifted her until her head rested in his lap. It took some force to pry her locked jaw open— _too late, too late_ —and she would wear bruises when she woke. By gently massaging her throat, he made sure she swallowed every drop.

_Don’t take her, don’t take her, don’t take her._

A litany of prayers ran through his mind, each chasing the next until his mind was a jumble of pleas and invocations and even demands upon Andraste, the Maker, Fade spirits of Hope and Faith and Compassion. He bowed his head over Hawke’s prone figure, her head so inert and heavy upon his legs, unwilling to let the gathered court see his tears.

“Your Highness,” the healer said softly, “I fear—”

“No,” Sebastian said. “She is stronger than this. I know her. She is stronger than this.”

But he knew it was too late. The hour had passed.


	49. Chapter 49

Amelle prepared herself for bed—for sleep, really, since one didn’t generally think of _bedtime_ happening in the middle of the day—the way a soldier prepared to go to war. She debated a bath, because hot, fragrant water had always been part of her ritual, but even if the water in the Hawke estate well _wasn’t_ tainted, she couldn’t bring herself to waste so much of it. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem _fair_. So she settled for scrubbing her face with a damp cloth. She brushed her hair and her teeth and then her hair again, just for good measure.

She dressed in a dress that wasn’t a nightgown, but had nightgown-like tendencies, in that it was soft and loose and she would probably never have worn it anywhere but at home. When Orana brought her warm, honeyed milk, she drank it dutifully, but without the pleasure it would normally have afforded. She was far, far too nervous for pleasure. The milk didn’t make her sleepy in the slightest.

For all her washing and cleaning and brushing and dressing, Amelle didn’t feel prepared at all. Even the fifteen minutes she spent alone with Fenris after all her ablutions were done but before Cullen had returned could not soothe her, not entirely.

It did feel nice to have Fenris’ hand stroking circles on her back as she rested her head against his shoulder and tried not to think about demons.

She didn’t want to be thinking about demons before she entered the Fade. Who knew what thoughts might drift toward them, waiting only for her to cross the Veil? Better to think of… of pleasant things. Home. Safety. The hand on her back.

She hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake, but she knew it was a risk she had to take because by the time he returned to the estate, Cullen had been gone almost three hours, and Amelle’s mana hadn’t replenished _at all_. Psychic fingers still scraped the bottom of their barrel. For the first time in recent memory, she lit all the candles in her room by hand. Fenris helped.

When Cullen found them, she was relieved to see him out of his heavy plate. He still wore templar garb, but the lack of full armor was reassuring. His expression, however, was not.

“You were not able to obtain it?” Fenris asked, giving voice to the question Amelle had been thinking but unable to speak.

“Oh, I obtained it,” he replied wearily. “Maker knows what the paperwork is going to be like later, but I _obtained_ it.” Cullen pressed his fingertips to his temples as though fending off a headache, and then he sighed. “I read the First Enchanter’s notes. As far as I can tell, you have only to take the lyrium, and sleep—dream sleep, Fade sleep—should follow almost at once.”

“But then I’m on my own,” Amelle said softly.

Cullen nodded, expression still tense and pinched and troubled. “You’ll have to bring yourself out of it. I-I don’t know _how_. In a Harrowing… in a Harrowing the apprentice wakes when they’ve fought off the demon the enchanters summoned. Or… or when they’ve allowed the demon—”

“You’re afraid the Harrowing lyrium is somehow… tuned to the defeat of a demon?”

Cullen grimaced, pacing from one end of her room to the other. He paused at the window but didn’t throw back the dark curtains. Without turning to face them, he said, “I saw no mention of such a thing. But I am afraid it is not mentioned because it’s simply _known_.”

“Were you not aware of this before?” Fenris asked, voice low and displeased.

Cullen laughed a mirthless laugh. “I rather thought there would be better instructions. One thing about the blighted Order—they love _paperwork._ But in this case, the Order’s duty is to guard and to—well. And I’m afraid the First Enchanter’s notes were not as clear.”

“And it’s not like there’s anyone to ask.” Amelle sighed. “Still, we’d better try. I’m… I’m not exactly getting better on my own. And it’s not my first visit to the Fade. I will _find_ a way to return.”

Amelle took the potion, which at least tasted like regular lyrium potion.  Despite its pleasant blue sheen, the flavor of lyrium was almost like bitter almonds, its aftertaste strangely smoky-sweet.  It was a taste that always reminded her of something else, a memory always slipping away before it could fully form.

She lay back on the bed, still trying to place the subtle flavors lingering and playing upon her palate.  Fenris stood facing the fire, limbs twitching with a restlessness he did not indulge by pacing.  Cullen returned to the darkened window.  With another sigh, Amelle closed her eyes and that smoky-sweetness drifted upward.  As she breathed in, the air coming into her lungs tasted cool and sweet, nothing like lyrium, and it stirred memories of early chores, of the earthy smell of a barn, of morning mist swirling atop the grass, and the air mingling with the scent of a welcoming fire blazing away in a modest hearth, and the pleasant smell of bread baking.

Hearth and home, smoky and sweet.

Amelle rolled over and blinked her eyes open with a grimace as she pulled one hand from the warmth of her covers to shield against the bright rays of sunshine pouring unapologetically through the window — Kiri had left the curtains open again.  She squinted and sat up, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, realizing suddenly the bed was far narrower than it ought to have been.  Narrow, but soft and warm — warm, despite the early spring chill clinging stubbornly to the air.  An identical bed was pushed up against the wall on the opposite side of the room, covers mussed and pillows dented.

Kiri never made her bed.

Amelle breathed in and out again, rubbing her face and trying to remember.  She was in the Fade — that much she knew.  It was imperative she _be_ here, in this land of dreams.  Imperative she _dream_.  Important.

 _Well, I’ve got that covered, at least,_ she thought, rubbing a hand over her sleep-tousled head.  The lingering memory of something _wrong_ hovered on the edge of her mind, and she recalled the sensation of her chest tightening with worry, the sting of tears, but then it slipped out of her grasp.  She was here, and she was safe.  She was in Lothering.

Well, not really.  She knew that too.

Amelle swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, linking her hands and stretching them high above her head, breathing in the crisp air and looking around her.

Sunlight filled the room, catching an array of potion bottles and amulets glinting happily from a nearby table.  Upon the wall, over Kiara’s bed, hung a number of different bows, from the oldest and more careworn to the grandest, of carved and polished wood.  A quiver hung from the bedpost, its leather gleaming warmly in the light.  And there, perched upon one pillow, was the stuffed red fox given her for her twelfth birthday.  Amelle knew without looking there was a grey and white rabbit on her bed, snuggled up next to Lizzie, her doll — her favorite doll, with dark hair and a blue linen dress and bright blue glass eyes framed with thick lashes.  Amelle turned, seeing them propped lovingly against her own pillows.  Smiling, she reached out and ran her fingers along a long, floppy, dappled ear.

She straightened and went to the window, looking out over the farm.  The softest bleating of goats and sheep came from the direction of the barn, and somewhere out of sight she heard the clucking of the chickens in their coop.

But there was something else — something that did not quite _belong_ here.  At the end of the path leading to the main road, Amelle spied two wolves.  One of them, with fur of richest auburn, sat stoically, eyes closed, head tipped up into the sunlight bathing it, catching the deep red-gold tones in its coat.  The other was as agitated as the first was calm, pacing back and forth, lip curled, showing sharp fangs as pristine as its snow-white coat.  Every so often it would throw a glance over its shoulder and _look_ at her — directly at her — before shaking its head with a jerk and resuming its restless pacing.

 _Wolves at the gate,_ she thought.  It seemed like it should bode ill, but Amelle felt no malice from them.  The white wolf looked again, and for the barest sliver of time it seemed as if its eyes were deep and cool, the color of moss…

“Rabbit!” a deep voice boomed, yanking Amelle’s attention away from the world beyond her window.  The resonance of it struck Amelle suddenly, _filling_ her as she whirled around, staring at the doorway.  “Rabbit!” the voice called again, amused and affectionate and gently chiding.  “No sleeping the day away, sweetling — the garden isn’t going to weed itself!”

“Coming, Papa!” she called back.

On her way down the hall, Amelle paused to peek into Carver’s room. Carver _never_ let her into his room, so of course she couldn’t help _wanting_ to peek. It was smaller even than the room she shared with Kiara. The narrow bed was made with military precision—to prove his superiority over Kiara, Amelle thought, not that Kiri _cared_. Peering closely, she saw the big, brown eyes of Carver’s stuffed bear glaring mournfully out from beneath the pillow.

Even with the familiar stuffed animal, something about Carver’s room sat ill with her. It seemed somehow barren, and whereas the rest of the house smelled of life and warmth and the whiff of something baking, Carver’s room smelled… empty. Where there ought to have been scents of leather and oil and _boy_ , there was nothing. Amelle swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself as she leaned against the doorframe, unwilling to enter. The knot in her chest felt tighter, squeezing like an angry fist.

 _Come tell me to get out of your room, Carver_ , she thought desperately. _Come barreling around the corner. Tell me to mind my own business. Please._

But Carver didn’t appear, and after another moment Amelle closed the door gently, pressing her forehead briefly to the worn wood.

“Rabbit?”

Keeping her eyes on the floorboards, she walked past the closed door to her parents’ room. She didn’t want to look in there. She didn’t want to feel those feelings. Instead, she followed the aroma of baking into the kitchen, and found her papa sitting at the table, slathering fresh butter over a thick slice of bread, a mug of tea steaming at his elbow. He smiled at her when she entered, but the smile faded quickly. “Something the matter, sweetling?”

“Where’s Carver?”

“Ahh,” her father murmured knowingly. “He’s with your mother.”

“But where?”

“Sit down, rabbit.”

“I don’t want to.”

Her father gave her a stern look and pushed a plate across the table toward her empty chair. The bread dripped with honey and butter, and Amelle’s mouth began to water. “Is Kiri with Mama and Carver, too?”

He smiled again, gently, nudging the tempting plate closer. Amelle’s fingers twitched with the desire to grab the slice of bread and devour it. Her stomach gave an approving, urgent growl.

“Sit, sweetling. Your sister’s not with your Mama. She’s not here, either, but she’s not… she had to go on a journey, that’s all. Eat. You’ve let yourself get too hungry, haven’t you?”

Her legs moved without her permission, and she sat. The smell of the food was almost unbearable. “Why didn’t they take me with them?”

“Because you needed to be here. Eat, Amelle. Please.”

She resisted only a moment longer, and then as soon as the honeyed bread touched her tongue, she had no idea why she’d been denying herself. It melted, hot and sweet and perfect, better than any bread she’d ever tasted. The hard knot of… of _whatever_ it was began to loosen in her breast, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. “Why aren’t you with them, Papa?”

“My rabbit needed me.”

She finished the first slice of bread, licking her lips to catch the last drops of honey. When she looked down at the plate, however, a second was already waiting for her. This one was slathered with blackberry jam, and her stomach growled again. “Papa, I thought we had to do the weeding. Otherwise all the bad plants will choke the good plants and we won’t have any vegetables for the winter.”

“There is a great deal of weeding to be done, yes. But every good farmer knows you can’t work on an empty stomach. And your stomach is very, very empty, rabbit.”

“I… I am so hungry, Papa.”

“I know. I’ve been worrying about you. Everyone’s been worrying about you.”

She sighed, tears gathering on her lashes. “I was trying so hard.”

He reached across the table, opening his hand. When she dropped her palm into his, his fingers curled around hers. They were warm, and calloused, and strong. Her papa always had such strong hands. Had.

“Oh,” she said. “I remember now.”

Her father—her father’s face—nodded slowly, knowingly. Sadly. “Eat, rabbit. You have to eat.”

She lifted the bread to her lips, but could not bring herself to bite from it. “Why him?”

“A… kindness. I thought it might bring you a measure of comfort. You are… direly in need of comfort.”

She looked again at the bread, the dark jam spread thick across it.  Her mouth watered.

“And you are in just as dire need of sustenance, Amelle.  You need your strength.”

She hesitated, then bit into the second piece, half expecting it to taste like ashes, but instead she tasted sweet bread and sweeter jam and she closed her eyes, savoring every bite, licking a smudge of purple from her thumb when she’d finished.  A hot mug of tea was pressed into her hands and she drank from it, tasting the snap of ginger and the golden sweetness of yet more honey.  When she looked up, she still saw her father’s face, but his eyes were not his eyes — Kiara’s eyes, steel grey and ever-watchful — but rather a too-bright jewel-green.

“It _is_ you.  I thought perhaps… yes.”

Compassion nodded, still wearing the appearance of Malcolm Hawke.  “You use the words spirit healer, Amelle, but what do you truly know of what you are?”

Another slice of bread appeared before her, this one sprinkled heavily with sugar and cinnamon.  The tea had been refilled.  She ate slowly as she considered the question.  “Father taught me basic healing spells when I was young.  As time passed, I… honed those skills.  They always seemed to come easily to me.”

The Fade spirit tilted his head, brows furrowing slightly.  “You became what you are without planning it.  Most curious.”

Amelle shrugged a little, looking down into her cup.  “Father taught me as much as he could in the time we had.  He taught me the different schools of magic, never to consort with demons, never to use blood magic — he taught me how to hide from the templars, how to survive.  We didn’t have time to…” her voice broke a little, “to plan my future.”  Oh, but if they had.  Amelle allowed herself a moment to imagine a lifetime of lessons with Papa, learning under his eye, growing and developing her powers with his help, rather than trying to figure out so many things on her own.  She tore away a piece of the bread and gnawed slowly on it.  “He told me a spirit healer has a unique connection with the Fade that allows them to… channel the power of the Fade into a more intense healing energy.  He told me it takes years to become one and that most people never do — it takes years _just_ to build up a rapport with a Fade spirit.”  She allowed herself a tiny smile.  “Most Fade spirits don’t really want a lot to do with humans.”

“And yet you achieved what many have not.  Do  you remember when you realized this new… power?”

The memory was so _sharp,_ so vividly violent, Amelle shivered as she nodded.  “We’d been in Kirkwall a time.  A few years.”  _The Arishok, plunging his sword into Kiara, red blood splattering the marble floors.  The horrible sucking sound nearly drowned out by her agonized screams as he hefted her up upon his sword and let her fall further and further down on it._

“Years spent assisting the mage Anders in his clinic.”  At Amelle’s scowl, Compassion sighed.  “There is no shame in that, Amelle.”

“He was a traitor. A murderer,” she said dully, picking away at another piece of bread and chewing on it.

“Whatever he was or was not, it was the _work_ you cared about.  You did not help _him_ , you helped the people who sought him.  There is a difference.”  Compassion sat back in the chair, folding both hands upon the table.  “Such acts attract attention.”

“Attention from the Fade spirits, you mean.  So I was building a rapport the whole while?”  At Compassion’s nod, she leaned back in her chair and shook her head.  “And here I figured I was just lucky to catch the eye of one with a little free time on its hands.”

Malcolm Hawke’s lips curved into a smile as he breathed a laugh.  “Not quite.  Tell me.  When did you notice something was different?”

“When did I realize what I was and what it meant?  My sister.  At the end of that horrible—it wasn’t even a battle _._   It was—he nearly massacred her.  _He would have._   There was so much blood, and…” She closed her eyes, but all she saw was her sister, deathly pale and grimacing in pain as Amelle, with shaking, bloody hands, put parts back into her body.  She’d nearly died — and Amelle had felt it, had felt Kiara’s spirit weakening, its connection to her body fraying, and as she’d knelt there, blood slicking her hands and soaking into her dress, she’d reached and reached and _reached_ , and then something… _happened_.  “It was like I felt… hands over mine, and… and warmth and reassurance and… and a whisper in my ear not to worry, that I had nothing to fear.  And then… then Kiara wasn’t dying anymore.”

“And so you forged your… rapport with a Fade spirit.”

“I suppose I must have.  Like you had with Anders… before.”  

“Over time it became evident there was another I could… assist in a similar capacity.”  The look the spirit sent her, still wearing her father’s face, was so undeniably _Papa_ Amelle found herself caught between laughter and tears.

“ _You’re_ … the… spirit I— _you’re_ my healing spirit?  You?”  

 When Compassion nodded, she sank back in her chair, surprised to discover her plate empty and her tea gone.  “You never mentioned it.”

“We seldom do.  There is usually no need to… introduce ourselves.  We do not _interact_ with humans in that way.  Do you understand this?”

“I… I do, I think.”  She canted her head at him.  “I think it explains a lot, in fact.”  After a moment’s thought, she looked up and narrowed her eyes at the spirit.  “Wait.  It was you, wasn’t it?  My mana was so low, I couldn’t… feel anything when I tried to—you were… withholding your power from me, weren’t you?”  She wouldn’t have thought a spirit could look sheepish _,_ and it was an expression doubly odd upon Malcolm Hawke’s face, but there it was, nonetheless.  “I thought Fade spirits weren’t supposed to interfere with spirit healers!”  She scowled at him.  “ _You_ broke the rules.”

“Yes.  You would have done yourself irreparable harm had I not.  It was my hope you would eventually come to the conclusion you reached.  You have a difficult task ahead of you, and it isn’t only my help you’ll need.  Now, eat.”

“But I finished my—” but when Amelle looked down again, she saw a wide bowl of stew, riddled with lamb and potatoes and carrots, fragrant with rosemary.  Though it didn’t seem possible, her stomach gave another growl and as she breathed in the scent her mouth watered. 

Compassion fell silent then, and even when she attempted to ask questions of him, he only shook his head and gestured toward the ever-replenishing plates of food. After the stew came the better part of an entire roast chicken, complete with vegetables and potatoes fried in butter. Then a rich, thick pea soup with smoked ham. A platter of duck in a fruit glaze. A haunch of roasted mutton.

She ate. She ate and ate, and finally she began to feel full. It was an incomparably odd feeling, a little like she’d never properly eaten enough in her life, though she knew this wasn’t true. When she cleaned off the plate containing the latest offering—a delicate trout in a creamy dill sauce—with a heel of crusty bread, an aroma even more familiar than all the rest overwhelmed her.

She looked down to see a plate of Orana’s sticky buns, perfectly glazed and still hot from the oven. A new cup of tea accompanied them, and she recognized the color as belonging to Kiara’s favorite blend, perfectly brewed. It had been presented in one of Mama’s porcelain cups, gold leaf gleaming against the blue and white. This time Amelle did not blink away the tears, but now they were not tears of sorrow.

“This is cheating,” she said lightly, pushing one of the pastries across the table. “I’d never had Orana’s buns when we lived in Lothering.”

“They live in your memory. Potently, at that.”

She couldn’t argue with that. If she had to pick a flavor—something pleasant to represent her life in Kirkwall—it might very well be exactly the current contents of the table.

Amelle managed one full bun before pushing herself back from the table. This time, Compassion did not protest. He smiled at her, rose, and the table was clear. Orana would love that trick.

“Is there still weeding to do?” she asked.

“You know there is.” His smile echoed the one she remembered so often gracing her father’s face, but Amelle thought she’d never seen her Papa quite so sad.

“Some things you’ve planted cannot be allowed to grow,” Compassion continued as they left the warm kitchen behind, entering the garden. “They will only choke the good out.”

The garden wasn’t quite right. At first it _looked_ like the garden she remembered from Lothering, with its lines of neatly planted vegetables, but it was also all the riotous herbs and flowers of the garden at the Hawke estate. It was even, somehow, the windowboxes of the clinic, though the windows floated in the air, without walls to hold them in place. 

Thoughts of the clinic made her cringe, and that was followed by a flash of rage so bright and brilliant she was momentarily blinded.

At the end of the path, the ruddy-coated wolf raised his head and howled a long, mournful cry.

A hand brushed her shoulder, and when she turned to look, she found she could see through her father. Compassion’s expression was troubled.

“You must be careful,” he cautioned.

“Of the wolves?”

“No, Amelle. Of yourself. Of what you might invite. Of the weeds.”

Glancing down, Amelle saw an entire line of delicate pea shoots smoking as they curled and blackened. The scent of ashes clung to her, choking the air. The scent was far stronger than the burning of the tiny plants ought to have produced.

“I’m sorry about the peas, Papa,” she whispered under her breath.

Though she had not precisely meant the words for Compassion, he still answered. “It doesn’t matter, Amelle. But you have to pull the weeds. They have no place here. Do you understand me?”

Rage still prickled beneath her skin, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. It was the clinic. The clinic was _hers_. What right did a meddlesome templar have manipulating his way into her life, into her trust, and then destroying what she held dear? All the bloody templars were the same, interfering bastards who—

“ _Amelle_ ,” Compassion pleaded.

The darker wolf howled again. Amelle knew animals—she had cut her teeth healing animals—and she recognized the sound a wounded creature made.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He did not mean to cause you harm. He feels it keenly.”

Amelle closed her eyes and fell to her knees, muddying her dress. Her hands reached out of their own accord, desperately plucking weeds from amongst the plants she wanted to save. Every weed she pulled made her feel calmer, quieter, more centered, _less angry._

“What was he to do?” Compassion asked, resting upon his knees to her right.  “Potions were gone and you were ill.  They were growing angry, disillusioned. Was he to leave the doors open and encourage false hope amongst those who would have waited tirelessly for a healer too broken _to_ heal?”

One weed stuck stubbornly in the ground and Amelle pulled, then pulled _harder_.Tears prickled behind her eyelids as her arms ached with the strain.

“He did what he knew how to do,” said Compassion softly.  “He knows how to protect.  Whatever else you may think, you must know he was protecting you from yourself.  The templar is your friend, and he is _worried._ ”

Another howl filled Amelle’s head and heart until both ached.  She gritted her teeth hard and pulled, and when the weed — knotted and gnarled so deep beneath the surface — finally came free, it was with a choking sob that made Amelle’s throat burn.  The weed fell from her hands and Amelle wrapped her arms around her body, hunching forward, head bowed.  Her father’s arms folded around her — so strange he should feel so solid when she could still see through him — and it was Compassion’s voice that murmured soothingly to her.

“I said—I said horrible things t-to him,” she said, her voice breaking.

“And he forgave you the moment you said them.  Can you forgive him?”

As Amelle gave a silent nod, the weed she’d struggled so desperately with began to wither and dry, shrinking and shriveling until nothing but dust remained.  As it blew away in the breeze, Amelle’s head and heart ached less.  Her body felt lighter.  Stronger.  She let out a deep breath.

“Good work, rabbit.  But there is more to be done.”  Compassion gestured at a different portion of the garden where a knot of weeds strangled herbs and flowers.

Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, Amelle crawled to that thick patch of weeds and reached out to touch one twining, choking vine.  But when her fingers brushed one rough leaf, Amelle yanked her hand back with a gasp, tears blinding her anew.  Cold, leaden fingers squeezed her heart, her lungs, her throat, squeezing her, _crushing_ her with an icy, heavy grip.

“No…” she breathed.  “I can’t.”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” the Fade spirit asked gently.  “Failure always does.”

The child — that poor little girl, so miserable and hot with fever, trembling beneath her thin sheet and whimpering for her mother.  A child — _a child_ had been brought to her, and she had been _powerless_ to help.  Powerlessness made her desperate; desperation made her reckless.  Had she even paid attention as she mixed the potions?  How could she have thought she could give lyrium to _a child_ — 

“Pull the weeds, rabbit.”

“I can’t,” she breathed, trembling.  “I _can’t._ ”

Compassion’s voice grew stern.  Uncompromising.  “You must.  You must _try._ ”

Swiping at her face with her sleeve, Amelle reached out and grasped the vine, whimpering as cold, heavy fear froze her insides.  She pulled at the weed, but its surface was slippery — she had to hold it more tightly, inviting the cold even further inside, so cold it burned _._   She pulled until fear gripped her so tightly she could barely breathe.

And then the weed began to give.  The soil buckled as she pulled it free, revealing a truly hideous, slithering length of vine that disappeared farther into the ground.  But as the vine’s grip on the earth released, so did the grip of fear on Amelle.  The warmth of her fingers melted the burning cold, and still she pulled until the entire weed slid from the soil.

“You could not have saved her, rabbit.  It is tragic, and it is unfair, and I know you feel that acutely.  But you cannot take responsibility for her death any more than her mother can be held responsible for giving her tainted water to drink.”

“But I am a _healer_ ,” she insisted.

“You are but a mortal human with limits to her power.”

Again rage threatened. Fire licked languidly at another patch of green leaves, turning what ought to have been squash to ashes and dust and disappointment. This time the Fade spirit earned her glower. He was even more transparent; she could clearly see the cottage through his form. “ _You_ could have helped. _You_ could have loaned me the power to save her. But you held back. You let her die.”

Compassion bowed his head, baring the back of his neck to her. It was an oddly submissive gesture, and a shiver ran down her spine. Without raising his face, he said softly, “I am not mortal, perhaps, but I am constrained by the vessel. We have both witnessed what becomes of a mortal whose… relationship with a spirit turns for the worse. I might have saved the child, had I lost myself in you. Had I forced you to lose yourself in me. But then you would no longer quite be Amelle Hawke, and I would no longer quite be Compassion.”

“Oh,” she whispered, hardly louder than an exhale of breath. “That’s how it happens.”

“Yes,” he replied, still staring at his knees. The mud did not touch him, and the dampness that overspread her skirts did not seem to affect him. But he was still so terribly, terribly translucent. “That is how it happens. I wish to help, Amelle. I do not wish to _become._ ”

“I… understand.”

“I believe you do.”

She worked carefully, freeing roses from the clutches of choking tendrils, rescuing rosemary and sage and thyme and peppermint from spear thistle and dandelion. Her hands ached and her arms were weary; the work was harder than mere weeding ought to have been, but still she persevered.

When the sun began to set, Amelle glanced at the shadow of her father. Compassion watched her carefully, his green eyes gleaming in the gloaming. He hardly looked like Malcolm Hawke anymore, but she couldn’t tell if it was only because of the light, or if he was actually _changing_.

She hoped he wouldn’t take Anders’ form again. She was weary enough that even the rogue thought of the mage didn’t stir anger.

“Am I finished?”

Compassion shook his head. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange and hollow, and she had to strain to understand him. “You know you’re not, rabbit.”

“I am,” she protested. She swept her hand around, encompassing the manicured garden.

“Hiding it doesn’t make it go away.”

“I’m not _hiding_ anything.”

Compassion doubled over entirely, placing his palms flat on the earth. They did not disturb the ground. His shoulders rounded and his breathing was harsh and audible in a way his voice no longer was. This time when Amelle reached out to touch him, her fingertips slipped through the space where his physical form out to have been. Her heart began to thud against her ribs. “What is it?” she begged. “Tell me. I don’t know what it is. I promise I’ll face it, but I don’t know what it is.”

She heard no sound. She couldn’t have said why she looked up when she did. The cold finger of panic ghosted down her spine, and when she turned her head she saw the white wolf sitting in the middle of her garden, head cocked to one side, green eyes dark in the twilight.

Though he was silent, the wolf looked poised to spring. He was a creature of coiled energy and volatile temper, that much was more than evident. Raising her hands, she took a step backward. The wolf began to growl, deep and low in his chest, distant thunder heralding the coming storm.

“No,” she said, and even she couldn’t be certain if it was a statement or a question.

The wolf bared his teeth.

“Papa?” whispered Amelle, taking a quick, frantic look around her, but she found herself alone in the garden.  The shade of her father was gone.  Compassion was gone.  She was alone with the wolf. Amelle took another slow step back, when the wolf curled his lip, baring those sharp white fangs at her.

 _No,_ she thought wildly.  _This isn’t right.  He wouldn’t hurt me.  He_ wouldn’t.

But the icy fear twisting her insides and clouding her mind was alleviated not at all by these attempts to reassure herself.

The air shuddered and Amelle _felt_ the presence behind her even before she heard the silky chuckle.  “Oh, the poor little _bunny_ is all alone with the big bad _wolf_.”

That voice, that terrible voice with its velvet caress and razor edges that made the sweetest promises even while it cut deeper and deeper until secrets welled up and spilled out like the heart’s lifeblood — Amelle knew that voice.  And because she knew that voice, she felt dread rather than surprise when she saw the desire demon, all voluptuous curves and shimmering skin and nails like talons and teeth like knives smiling at her as it stood, one hip thrust out confidently.  By the demon’s side sat a wolf just as white, just as large as the one sitting opposite.  But the eyes of the demon’s wolf glowed violet.

Amelle shook her head and told the demon, “He won’t hurt me.”  But her voice held a tremor of uncertainty, and the demon’s smile widened _._   The wolf’s growl grew deeper then, and Amelle could hear every one of its teeth in the sound.  She swallowed hard against the fear and her heart hammered in her chest, but still Amelle stood and faced the demon, more afraid of turning her back on it than of the wolf behind her.

The demon cocked its head as if listening intently, and Amelle was suddenly and entirely sure it could hear Amelle’s own heartbeat.

“Do you really think you can trust a wolf?  A beast like that?” Desire purred at her, purple eyes with slitted pupils sliding over to where the first wolf still sat, still growled, snout wrinkled in a snarl, baring so many teeth.  The demon gave a soft, tinkling laugh, like breaking glass.  “Can you trust that _?_   Can you trust he won’t tear out your throat and dine upon your heart at the first provocation?”

Amelle’s mouth was suddenly too dry to speak as she stood frozen to the spot.  Something about this pleased the demon greatly.

“You want to,” Desire murmured, resting one clawed hand upon the other wolf’s head, slowly stroking.  The animal remained by the demon’s side and pressed its head into the caress, looking up in slavish adoration as its tongue lolled harmlessly out of its maw.  Desire sent an indulgent smile down at the animal and the wolf whined softly before licking the demon’s hand.  

Bile rose in her throat and Amelle swallowed against the sensation.

“You want to trust him.  I know how badly you want it.”  The demon leered at her as it said these words, shooting Amelle a sharp, terrible smile that hardly seemed like a smile at all.  “But you’re afraid.”

“That’s not true,” protested Amelle weakly.  “I trust Fenris.”

“And you’re so sure he’d never turn on you?  He’d never accuse you of giving in to your _true nature?_   You know he has no love for your kind.  You know _he_ does not trust _you._ ”

Behind her, the wolf’s growl deepened, lowering into something even more menacing.  Amelle shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself, but felt no warmth when she did.  The demon exhaled a knowing chuckle and looked once again at the wolf sitting by its side.  

“Show the little rabbit,” Desire commanded the animal.  “Show her what I can give her.”

This animal, with its strange violet eyes, padded docilely forward and licked Amelle’s hand once before it shoved its head beneath her hand, closing its eyes contently.

The demon gave a languid stretch, running one hand up its hip and across its bare stomach.  “Come with me and I’ll show you so much more.”

With that word, the wolf suddenly wasn’t a wolf anymore, but _Fenris_ — or some versionof him, Amelle realized, for he was strangely translucent but for those dark, dark eyes — who stood before her, smiling such a smile as she’d never seen grace the elf’s lips.  A smile that wanted her, one that desired her.

“It’s what you want,” whispered Desire as this other Fenris ran gentle fingers along Amelle’s cheekbone.  When she looked up into his face she saw nothing of a glare or glower — no scowling censure or lips twisted into a frown.  His cold fingers kept touching her face, gently, almost reverently, gliding down to her chin and grasping it, tilting her head back as his thumb ghosted along her bottom lip — and it was a ghost of a touch, for Amelle wasn’t entirely sure he was really _there_.

For a moment, the beating of her own heart drowned out even the other wolf’s growls.

She lifted her eyes to his, feeling her resolve weaken, but when she met that gaze, she found those violet eyes too dark, too wrong.  Fenris’ eyes were supposed to remind her of the deepest, quietest corners of the lushest forest.  

His smile ought not to have been _fanged._

 _Trust yourself, choose well and wisely, but_ remember _that all trust requires a leap._

Her breath catching in her chest, Amelle jerked her head back, but the ghostly grip upon her chin tightened.  Gritting her teeth she grabbed the shade’s wrist and _pulled,_ but its hand was creeping down around her throat, those cold, gentle fingers squeezing slowly, tighter and tighter.

There was barking behind her.  Furious, enraged barking, edged in snarls and growls, and Amelle bared her own teeth then, raising her other hand and shoving the shade as hard as she could, drawing a struggling breath…

And then she felt it.  Mana swirled and pulsed, alive and vibrant within her, and as she pushed against the shade’s chest, lightning bolted from her palm, the raw force of it knocking the monster — for a monster it was — back and sending her stumbling backward, landing hard upon the ground, directly at the snarling wolf’s feet.

Amelle tensed. She didn’t want to, but she could feel the wolf’s heat, and somehow the low growl was loud enough to reverberate in her bones. Tendrils of mana swept through her veins, begging to be put to use, and Amelle’s hands began to tingle with the promise of fire. The desire demon laughed its silken, monstrous laugh. “Oh, yes. Do please use your magic. He does so _love_ that, doesn’t he?”

Clenching her teeth, Amelle pressed her hands to her stomach and curled around them as if the physical action might somehow stop the magic from leaping away from her. She _wouldn’t_. Not even if he—not even—she hazarded a glance in the wolf’s direction. He was still growling deep in his chest, but his eyes—his moss-green eyes—were fixed on the demon. The other wolf—the one Amelle’s power had thrown back—was a wolf once more, curled in a pathetic heap at the demon’s feet. Even as she watched, it staggered to its feet, white fur singed.

Her wolf looked down at her, just for an instant, and the rumble in his chest became a thin whine. Then he leapt, all his contained energy released, a blur of white in the encroaching darkness, and landed on the other beast.

They rolled, jaws snapping, claws raking. She couldn’t tell one from the other, and she didn’t dare watch them. The desire demon was no longer smiling, no longer laughing, and the hands that had been caressing curves only a few moments before were now extended toward Amelle, all talons.

“Do you think you’re clever?” the demon hissed, eyes narrowed to glowing slits. “Wolves are wolves; he’ll turn on you when he’s done. You’ve already chased your own benefactor away, with your rage and your pride and your sweet, sweet fear. What have you to return to, pretty little mageling, save more death and more despair and more failure? Better to stay here, in the house you loved. We can fill it with everyone you’ve lost. Mama and Papa and twin brother. And they will _love_ you.”

“No,” Amelle gasped. The desire demon’s words were like stones, weighting her down, pulling her deep. Faintly, as though from a great distance, she heard the auburn wolf howl again. He no longer sounded wounded—he sounded frustrated and angry and above all _urgent_. The darkness made it hard to see, but she could sense his movement as he paced from one side of the path to the other. The white wolf still rolled and snapped with the demon’s wolf; both were heaving and yipping and whining in pain, their white sides streaked with dark.

“If only you were stronger,” the demon whispered. “If only you weren’t alone. Let me help you, let me give you strength. With me you could do anything, you could be anything, you could _heal_ anything. Everyone will worship you, _desire_ you. You will be magnificent.”

Amelle fought the crushing power of the words, dragging herself to her knees. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she half-turned her head to see what had caused it.

There, beneath the wide leaves of rhubarb she’d so painstakingly weeded around, sat a small grey and white rabbit. Its pink nose twitched. Its emerald-bright eyes blinked at her.

Amelle smiled, and felt the weight lift from her. The rabbit hopped to her side, and as she gathered it into her hands, holding it tight to her chest, the desire demon threw back its horned head and shrieked.

“No,” Amelle repeated, her voice stronger, her hands gently stroking the little rabbit.  “You have nothing I want, nothing I need.”

“You’re a _fool,_ ” the demon spat, hovering over Amelle, eyes blazing.  “They none of them want you.  Even your dear _sister_ couldn’t wait to leave you.  You have no idea what I _offer you._ ”

“The price is too high,” she answered calmly.  _This is_ my _dream.  This corner of the Fade is_ mine _.  The house, the garden, Lothering itself —_ my _memories._

Amelle closed her eyes and breathed in, not at all surprised when she felt the familiar weight of a staff resting against her back.  Giving the rabbit one final scratch, she set it gently down and pulled the staff into her hands.  It was a simple wooden stave, but felt worn and smooth and _right_ in her hands.  Somewhere off to the side the wolves still fought, still snapped and snarled and barked and yipped as they rolled.  Then one wolf grabbed the other by the back of its neck and flung it to the ground before diving upon it, jaws locking upon the other animal’s throat.  There was an inhuman shriek of pain that ended abruptly and with a sickening crunch.  The victor stood above the dead wolf, his muzzle stained with blood, and then threw back his head and howled, a rich, deep, triumphant call.

Then he looked at her and eyes as deep and green as the forest shone in the near darkness.  

Amelle turned to the demon, raising the staff as a gout of flame poured forth, brighter and hotter than anything she would have imagined could come from such a plain weapon.  The demon hissed as a miasma of magic gathered around her claws, shimmering into a shield that caught most of Amelle’s fire.  From behind that shield, Desire released another spell, and a swirl of ice and frost wrapped around Amelle, sending a chill straight to her bones, and for a moment she was too cold to move, too cold to _breathe —_ but breathe she did, and mana rushed and buzzed through her veins, flickering into flame at her hands, melting frost and cold away.  Breathing in, she summoned more flame through the staff as she sent a jagged, crackling bolt of lightning at the demon.  Orange light warred with flickering white and the demon screamedas the foul stench of burning rot rose into the air.

On it went, until a swirl of magic slid past Amelle’s defenses, and as it twined about her, sinking into her skin, she felt her knees begin to buckle, her arms too heavy to hold the staff aloft.  She planted her hands on the ground and tried to push herself upright, but weakness made her limbs too heavy, her muscles too sluggish to obey.  As she struggled under the force of the spell, the desire demon towered above her, lightning and ice — two spells mingled — dancing around its hands, gathering strength before being released in a rush of crackling cold.

Amelle saw the white wolf leap, his bloodied muzzle open in a snarl. It was not a graceful jump. It was fueled by desperation. He meant to take the blow, Amelle knew at once. He meant to throw himself between her and the desire demon’s hideous power.

And he was too late. Everything was happening too quickly and not quickly enough, all at the same time. She couldn’t move. She tried, she _tried_ to bring her staff up, reaching urgently for her magic, and she couldn’t. The demon was too fast and she was too slow. Even the white wolf was too slow. 

The crackling shards of ice-lightning slammed into Amelle’s chest, flinging her backward. She felt herself fly, momentarily airborne. She felt herself fall, head rebounding off the ground with a crack. The wolf landed, crouched over her inert body, and howled.

Amelle felt her heart stop.

She’d always thought it would hurt more. Instead she felt nothing at all. It was like a sigh, soft and sad and so final.

 _Spirit healer_ , whispered a voice in her mind. It was her father’s voice, and her mother’s, and even Carver’s. It was Anders’ voice. It was Kiara’s. 

 _No_. _This cannot be._ It was Fenris’.

It was an impossibly horrific feeling, being able to look down at oneself, but still Amelle looked. Her poor body was small and pale and oddly broken. One hand still clutched the staff, but the fall had broken the wood into two pieces. Her eyes were open, staring, glassy. A lock of hair had fallen across her brow.

_This can’t be happening. This isn’t possible._

_Spirit healer, listen. You must listen._

“Oh, yes,” whispered the desire demon, taloned hands already reaching down toward the unmoving Amelle’s body. “Take her now.”

The wolf took a step toward the demon, snapping, but Amelle could see his struggle—for all his desire, he could not actually attack. He was part of her construct, after all, and she was—

Amelle would have gasped, would have screamed, but she had no breath to do either. 

And then she saw the rabbit, trembling beside her fallen form. Its white whiskers quivered. _Spirit healer_ , she thought. _But I’m—_

_You have done this before. Bring yourself back. Now, before it is too late. Now, before she takes hold._

Rules were not rules in the Fade. Rules were guidelines. And guidelines were not absolute. Perhaps even death did not have to be death. The rabbit hopped closer, nudging its small head against Amelle’s shoulder. Both wolves were howling now, and the dark of night had fully fallen. She could no longer see the garden. She couldn’t see the house. There was only the broken body upon the ground, the slinking demon with her claws, the whining, wounded wolf.

And her. She was… still _something_. Not quite the body. Not quite a ghost. 

 _Spirit healer, you must not tarry._  

_What you seek, child, is easily found if you know where to look._

The silver-blue glow began faintly, hardly noticeable compared to the violet fire the desire demon surrounded itself with. Then brighter, brighter, until the spirit-Amelle was a silvery-blue sun, a swirling miasma of mana and energy and life and _revival._

 _Wake up,_ she told herself. _Wake up,_ now!

Her fingers clenched hard around the broken staff, and in a motion so swift she knew even Kiara would have been proud, Amelle inhaled deeply, desperately, and slammed the shattered end straight through the desire demon’s nearly-naked breast. For an instant the expression on the demon’s face was almost comical; it looked impossibly surprised.

“No,” Amelle repeated. “You have this all wrong. You die. I don’t.”

The demon sank to its knees, head flung back in a silent scream as it clawed at the jagged piece of wood lodged in her chest.  Black blood oozed slowly from the wound, nearly invisible in the dark, and as the violet fire guttered out and died with the demon, Amelle found herself alone and victorious in the dark with only the crescent moon above shining down.

No, not alone.  

The white wolf, still wounded, still bloodied, sat in the dim moonlight.  He watched her silently, turning his head toward the path where the red wolf still waited, still paced.  From somewhere in the dark the red wolf howled, calling out to the pale one.  When the white wolf answered, the two calls crossed over themselves, blending in the air as the sound arced over her, and for a moment it was one of the most beautiful sounds she’d ever heard.  She wanted nothing more than to follow it.

The rabbit sat serenely upon the ground, its nose twitching.  Amelle crouched down and hugged her arms around her knees.  Compassion’s bright green eyes were dimmed not at all by the darkness and for an instant Amelle could see forever in them.  _I’ll be more careful now that I know_.

The rabbit looked up at her, and in that familiar ghostly, echoing voice, simply said, _Yes, I know you will._

“It’s time to go,” she said softly, running her hand over the wolf’s head.  The animal’s expression did not change but for a single blink that seemed to say, _And not a moment too soon._

The pale wolf padded alongside her all the way up the path were the ruddy wolf paced, impatience and frustration all too clear in the sweep of his tail, in the pricking of his ears.  As she stepped out onto the main road — it led all the way up to Lothering and into the Bannorn, or _would_ have, had this not been the Fade — the red wolf got behind Amelle and hurried her along, nipping at her heels.

“Pushy templar,” she murmured as they three followed the road over the next hill.  

Above them, the crescent moon glowed brighter and brighter, and seemed to stretch and grow until all around her there was more moonlight and darkness.  Light — so much _light._ It filled her body and mind until she floated, like a cloud, or the moon itself, up and up, higher and higher, until the Fade grew smaller and quieter and farther away.  

And then she wasn’t floating anymore.  There was a pillow beneath her head, the pillowcase cool against her cheek.  

She wasn’t alone.  She could hear them moving around, trying to keep their voices down.  

“—I’m not trying to alarm you,  but if this were a true Harrowing, she would have been given up for lost _three hours ago._ It’s taking too blighted _long._ ”

“It is not a simple task she is undertaking.  Give her more time.”

Cullen’s frustration made his tone terse. “I’ll give her all the bloody time she needs. Maker’s breath, Fenris, I’m _not threatening her_ , stop gripping the hilt of your sword like you want to use it to take my head off. I’m only saying the Order has limitations for a _reason_. There is a correlation between time spent within—especially under the influence of lyrium—and the likelihood of possession. I’m _concerned_ , not murderous.”

“Perhaps those of lesser ability cannot stay as long within the Fade, but Amelle was within twice as long when she went… for Sebastian.”

Cullen’s response was not words. It was a choked sputter. If she’d not been still half asleep, Amelle would have laughed at the expression her imagination supplied.

Fenris, however, continued with imperturbable calm, “And she emerged from that ordeal without succumbing to a demon. We do not yet have cause for concern.”

This did make her laugh. It emerged a sleepy chuckle, and it still took a great deal of effort to pry her eyelids open, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Ssomething about _Fenris_ being the unflappable one in this situation struck her as _beyond_ amusing.

“Amelle?” Cullen’s face appeared, pinched with concern. “You’ve been—”

Clearing her throat, she swallowed past the dryness and said, “Asleep for some time, evidently. Maker, Cullen. Your face is liable to stick that way.”

He didn’t smile. If anything, his expression darkened, and his brow knit even more.

“Do not alarm her, templar. Stand back.”

Amelle turned her head, smiling wryly. Fenris might give the impression of being calm, relaxed, _certain_ , but she could see readiness in the looseness of his limbs, and she didn’t think she was imagining the faint glow of his markings. “Can you give me a minute before we play Exalted March again? For a dream that was bloody exhausting.”

Not to her mana, though. She could feel her power within her, like a cup filled to the brim with pure, cool, refreshing water. Indeed, if she was a cup, the contents were sloshing over the rim ever so slightly, but out of joy instead of lack of control. She felt _alive_.

And her stomach felt full to bursting _._

“Amelle,” Cullen repeated, “are you—”

“I’m fine. Well, mostly fine. I did have to take out a _very determined_ desire demon.”

The growl in Fenris’ voice suddenly put her very in mind of a stark white wolf. “You said there would be no demons, templar.”

Cullen raised his hands. “There weren’t meantto be.”

Fenris’ hand was white-knuckled around his sword’s hilt. “Was this some… stratagem to force her into a Harrowing?”

“No!”

“Boys,” Amelle said calmly, trying—and failing, she feared—to keep amusement from her tone. “Fighting each other helps no one. I might be an abomination, here.” She sighed as she allowed a rejuvenation spell to sweep through her. Only when Cullen narrowed his eyes at her did she remember she probably ought to have warned the resident templar before she attempted anything magical. She turned her lips up in an apologetic smile, and pushed herself to her elbows and then to a sitting position against the headboard. “Sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. Rejuvenation.”

Before she—or Fenris—could do more than blink in surprise, Cullen dropped down beside her and tucked her tightly into his arms. She could just barely see over his shoulder—enough to catch Fenris’ glower.  She held his gaze long enough for the glower to subside minutely — long enough for Amelle to see that, yes, he too had been worried, he too was relieved.  Amelle raised her eyebrows at Fenris, who closed his eyes and gave a brief shake of his head.  After a moment she nodded and sent him a tired smile.  Though Fenris didn’t quite smile in return, the expression in his eyes warmed slightly.  That was enough.

After a moment she patted Cullen’s back reassuringly and mumbled, “Is this how you greet all mages after their Harrowings?”

Releasing her, he sat back and shook his head. “You were gone too long. If it had been a proper Harrowing—”

“I heard that part. I… _would_ have come back sooner. But I had to eat, and then there was so much bloody _weeding_ , and then the demon showed up…”

“This is no jest, Amelle,” he replied sternly.

“Believe it or not, I’m really not joking.”

Finally, a little of the concern melted from Cullen’s face, revealing relief. “And you are… you are yourself.”

“I should think so,” she replied. “Though if one or the both of you _needs_ to chase me about the house with weapons drawn…”

Fenris sighed and sank down into the chair beside the bed. “Perhaps our time might be better spent figuring out what to do next.”

Amelle flipped her palms over and stared into her hands. “We heal the bloody spring under the Gallows. That’s what we do next.”

She wasn’t entirely sure if it was reassuring or alarming that Fenris and Cullen only shared a glance between themselves before looking at her and nodding, not quite enthusiastically, but without protest.


	50. Chapter 50

Amelle hated tunnels.  Amelle also hated the Gallows.

So it was doubly unfortunate that where they were going was at the end of an endless tunnel, deep below the Gallows.  Deeper still than the underground passage where they’d encountered Ser Alrik.  She suppressed a shudder.

The map of the Gallows and what lay beneath it was spread out over — and took up every available inch of — the desk in the Knight-Commander’s office.  Amelle was less than thrilled to be there at all, and had caught more than one wary glance from more than one wary templar on the way in.  She was gratified to notice, however, there were some she recognized — some she’d healed in the aftermath of that horrible battle, mending bones broken or deep gashes cut by animated statues — and those men and women acknowledged her without hostility, at least.  In truth, they looked as if they didn’t quite know _why_ she was there at all, much less why she was with the acting Knight-Commander.

Amelle, at least, knew _why_ she was there.  Even if she didn’t _like it._  

Cullen tapped a portion of the map with his index finger.  “This is the access point.  Easy enough to reach, but it will be quite a walk.”

Fenris frowned at the map.  “It looks as if it is below the water line,” he said, indicating a point where the Gallows’ exterior walls doubled in thickness.

“Because it is.  The Gallows itself is built upon a body of land — the structure isn’t an island, but was established on one.  The freshwater spring isn’t just under the Gallows, it’s _underground._ ”

Clearing her throat—she _hoped_ nonchalantly—Amelle said, “So we go… into the dungeon—”

“ _Through_ the dungeon,” corrected Cullen.  “Underneath it.”

“And it’s… _how_ far?”  All she could picture were tunnels — dark, tight, winding tunnels stinking of damp loam and— oh, _Maker_ … Amelle sucked in a quick breath and looked at Cullen.  “And these… these aren’t the Deep Roads, are they?  I mean, we aren’t going _that_ far down, right?”

“It is likely at one time there may have been underground — and underwater — tunnels,” Fenris said.  “Recall the Gallows was once controlled by Magisters.  Not only would they have been able to seal and reinforce any such tunnel of dwarven make, they would have worked escape routes into the design.”

Cullen frowned at Fenris.  “This map was drawn after the Tevinters left Kirkwall, but why would they have wanted escape routes?  In the event of a slave uprising?”

The look Fenris sent him was a wry one. Wry and just a little bitter.  “The one person a magister would wish a speedy escape from is another magister.”

“Cutthroat politics, not really a metaphor in the Imperium?” asked Amelle, brows raising.  Fenris nodded.  “But still, if they’re escape tunnels — even if they’re caved in or closed off, they’re still tunnels _out_ and not into the Deep Roads.  That’s all I need to know.”

Cullen sent her a curious look.  “Not a fan?”

“Not in the least.  It took a trip there to help me realize how supremely _thankful_ I am my sister left me behind when she went the first time.” Amelle gave a shudder.  Corypheus.  As if she needed another example _not_ to follow.

Fenris gave her a long look before remarking, “I do not recall it was so at the time.”

“Yes, well.  Live and learn.”

Mirth teased the corners of his mouth, and though she was glad to see him less dour, she was less thrilled it was at her expense. “How pleased Hawke will be to hear it,” he opined. “It will be good for her to know the slammed doors and shouted threats and tears were all for naught.”

Amelle tore a page from his book and sent the direst glower she could muster in his direction. This only pulled his lips into a most definite smirk. “I… did not slam any doors,” she countered, mustering up her wounded dignity.  “And I certainly didn’t _cry_ over it.”

Fenris inclined his head, but the smirk remained and Amelle blushed. “I was _young_ ,” she groused. “And Kiara was going on an adventure _without me_. Of course I was… annoyed.”

Cullen’s smile wasn’t quite a smirk, but it was near enough as to make no difference. Rolling her eyes, Amelle pointed at one of the twisting paths noted on the map. “This is it, then?” she asked pointedly. “You’re certain?”

Cullen arched his eyebrows. “Inasmuch as I’m hardly an expert on these things, yes, I believe that’s it.”

“Then we should go. At once.”

“And?” Cullen asked, just as incisively, “What do we do _then_?”

She grimaced. “Heal the spring.”

“That’s the entire plan? It may lack something in… detail.”

She put a hand to her head and inhaled slowly. “I don’t know. You’re saying jumping in head first and hoping for the best isn’t a solid strategy? It always seems to work for Kiara.”

Fenris snorted. “Yes. Always.”

“Fine,” she relented with a grimace. “It works more often than not.”

“Hardly the kind of odds one might desire before undertaking an endeavor such as this one,” Fenris said, folding his arms over his chest. “It works for Hawke except when it _doesn’t_. And when it doesn’t? Things tend to go _astoundingly_ wrong.”

Amelle paced from one side of the room to the other, tapping the end of her staff in patterns against the floor. “Cullen, can you get me a glass of water?”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s… tainted, Amelle.”

“You don’t say. Still. Please?”

When the water was produced, she pushed back the map and set the glass on the desk. It looked like water. It smelled like water. When she held it to the light, it was as clear as ever she’d seen water be. Fenris and Cullen wore identical glares when she raised the cup to her lips, but she ignored them. It tasted like water. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except, of course, that it was _killing_ people. Frowning, she nudged the glass toward Cullen. “Now that you know what we’re looking for, can you sense anything? _Anything_?”

Skeptically, he took the glass in hand. After putting it through much the same ordeal Amelle had done—minus the tasting, she noted—he closed his eyes. His hands began to glow, ever so faintly, like the prelude to a cleanse or a smite, but before it manifested into anything stronger, the light dimmed and he opened his eyes again. “Maker, Amelle. That was a _guess_. But yes, I can sense _something_ , and only, I think, because I knew what I was looking for. It’s like a ghost.”

“Lyrium?”

“Corruption,” he replied, gently setting the cup back on the desk and pushing it away.

“But you’ll recognize it if you need to look for it again?”

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, expression uncertain. “I believe so. This is… all rather uncharted territory.”

Amelle huffed a disconsolate laugh, waving her hand toward the maps. “Oh, it’s charted. Tunnels and tunnels and tunnels all under the sodding ground. Maker’s _balls_ , but I hate tunnels.”

Sitting in Cullen’s chair, she pulled the glass of water toward herself once again. Her fingers tightened around her staff. She’d chosen it because it aided healing. She’d chosen her robes for the same reason—and how _strange_ it felt to wear robes again, the magic-imbued fabric brushing against her limbs, so much more _alive_ than mere linen or wool or silk. Closing her eyes, she reached toward her magic and found it already waiting, willing and compliant and still overflowing its cup.

A glass of water was not a body. Her usual methods seemed _wrong_ , but the _theory_ , the theory of it was the same. An illness did not belong. The corruption—the lyrium—did not belong. Cullen was right about that, at least—once she started looking, it was the corruption she found, lurking in the water just as illness might lurk in the blood. Once she thought of it _that_ way, it was only a question of applying the right amount of power in the right direction for the right duration. The blue-silver glow grew around her hand, enveloping the cup and its contents, and then it faded.

And when she searched, she no longer felt the corruption. It was only a glass of water, pure and simple. She raised her head and sent Cullen a querying look.

“It’s gone,” he said wonderingly. “I—it’s _gone._ ”

“Good,” Amelle said firmly. “At least now we know it works.”

Fenris still looked unconvinced.  “I imagine the body of water you’ll be dealing with is far larger than that.”

“And there’s no way to recreate the circumstances to run a test-healing,” countered Amelle.  “We know it works — we know there’s a _chance_ it’s going to work.  We know the _theory_ works.  It’s just a matter of putting theory into practice.”

Cullen frowned faintly as he rolled up the map.  “The problem with theory and practice, Amelle, is that one is far easier to control.”

She got to her feet with a sigh.  “We’re as prepared as we’re going to get.  I recommend we actually _go_ before my better sense takes hold of me and reminds me of how much I sodding _hate_ tunnels.”

Cullen straightened, holding the rolled map loosely in both hands, giving her a particularly strange look.

“What?” she prompted.

“Your better sense is choosing _now_ to show up?  I’d started doubting whether you had any at all.”

#

Walking past all the cells was the worst.  And as often as Amelle tried to reason with herself that it would certainly get _far worse,_ particularly once the tunnels were involved, she still couldn’t look away from row after row of little rooms, all of them precisely the same, with precisely the same lock upon the doors.  She couldn’t _imagine_ it, couldn’t imagine living in such a dismal, depressing place.  Madness seemed a foregone conclusion when faced with an existence such as this.  She shivered before realizing Fenris was watching her intently — gauging her reaction to the cells, she imagined.  Or perhaps he was thinking only of their previous use, when they’d held slaves instead of mages.

She still didn’t think Anders had the right of it.  But that didn’t mean she _liked_ the idea of human beings being locked away like criminals or prisoners.  

Especially given how close _she’d_ come to joining them.

Amelle shoved the thought away and walked a little faster.

Cullen led them through several locked doors and eventually, they stood at the top of a steep stone staircase.  There was no light whatsoever, and the darkness was only superseded by the oppressive _silence._   She tried to picture the map and where they were on that map, but the way down was so _dark_ and the walls seemed too narrow by half.

“There are torches on the wall, but—”

With a breath and a flick of her fingers, every torch burst alight.  _There_.  Better.  Less dark, less narrow.  

“Amelle.”  Fenris looked at her, his eyes narrowed in either wariness or concern.  “Are you certain you—”

“ _Very_ useful expenditure of mana, and you won’t convince me otherwise,” Amelle riposted.  No small part of why she hated tunnels so was because they were so _bloody dark._   She hated the dark.  She hated the dark and she hated tunnels, and by the Maker if she could do something about _half_ of that problem, she was going to do it.

“Besides,” she said, aiming for cheerful and falling short enough that Fenris’ expression only grew _more_ concerned, “I only had to _light_ the torches; they’ll do the rest.”

Still, she lingered as Cullen began the descent, until she felt Fenris’ hand against the small of her back. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, she found his markings glowing just enough to illuminate the bubble of space they occupied. “Best not let the templar get too far ahead,” Fenris said softly.

With a deep, fortifying breath, Amelle nodded, peering into the tunnel, her eyes making out the flat, smooth stones lining both the stairs and the walls — the stones had possibly at one time been white, but dulled to grey over the years.  It made sense — rock would erode with age and water, but with such a steep decline, a dirt path was far more dangerous, particularly if the spring ever flooded.  

“Well, well.  At least there are stairs _,_ ” she murmured. Cullen had paused to wait for them, and she was grateful when he only nodded and said nothing of the discomfort she was certain was evident. “This is positively civilized compared to the Wounded Coast.”

“You know, before the wells were dug, this was likely how people fetched their water,” Cullen said.  

Amelle blinked, imagining every bath or pot of tea originating _here_. “It’s no wonder they dug the wells, then.”

“Thank the Maker for modern conveniences,” Fenris intoned dryly.  

Amelle heard what he wasn’t saying: that it would have been slaves sent for the water that long ago, a time when Kirkwall had been a part of the Imperium. Day in and day out, there would have been people whose entire lives revolved around these stairs and the spring below, to keep Magisters in baths and pots of tea. She turned and sent him a meaningful look. “Except for when the modern convenience gets poisoned by a crazy woman’s crazy-making sword, I suppose.” 

“Indeed.”  He tilted his head and looked down into the tunnel, frowning at the torch-lit shadows.  She read every one of his doubts and reservations as they passed across his face.  They mirrored her own.

“It really does look as if we’re the first ones down here in years,” Cullen observed.  

“Lucky us. I’m sure nothing dangerous or creepy has taken up residence in the meantime,” muttered Amelle. 

They continued down the stone steps, the only noise all around them coming from their own echoing footsteps and breathing. The torchlight was better than nothing, of course, but it cast long shadows and did little to ease the chill of the air. A soft rush of sound traveled up the tunnel, and though it was soft, it sounded like claws — thousands of tiny claws — scratching and scrabbling against the stone.  Amelle felt a shudder slide down her spine.

“Rats,” she breathed.  “I _hate_ rats.  Maker, the best part about getting _out_ of Lowtown was getting away from those bloody, flea-bitten nuisances.”  She readied a fireball, letting the magic build and buzz at her fingertips, her hand growing warmer as the spell built.

“Amelle,” Fenris said warningly, “the torches perhaps, but wasting your mana against mere _vermin_ —”

Fenris didn’t get a chance to finish his admonishment. A rat the size of a small dog leapt out of the shadows, landing on Fenris’ shoulders. This beast was followed by half a dozen compatriots. She felt somewhat gratified to hear Fenris yelp as the first rat scrabbled at him. _Mere vermin, indeed._ Cullen was already dispatching as many as his sword could reach, a precise application of fire took care of the rest, and by the time Amelle turned back to him, Fenris had wrenched the huge rat off his body and flung it, twitching, against the wall.

“What was that about vermin?” Amelle asked archly.

Fenris turned and glared at the remains of the animal that had been on his shoulders only moments before.  “Once a rat grows to the size of a mabari pup, it ceases being vermin.”

“And dealing with them is no longer a _waste_ of mana,” she teased.  “As long as we’ve got that cleared up.”

“And if _this,_ ” Cullen said, indicating the slain rats all around them, “is any indication of what is waiting for us, I think it might be best if we temporarily remove the word _mere_ utterly from our collective vocabulary.”

“Andraste’s _ass,_ ” Amelle grumbled.  “Do _not_ tell me giant rats means giant _spiders._ ”

Cullen exhaled hard through his nose.  “Let’s put it this way — if these… _rats_ were at the top of the food chain, do you really think they’d be this far up?”

“A pleasant thought, templar,” Fenris growled, and unless Amelle missed her guess, he shuddered slightly as he said it.  

“That’s our Cullen,” Amelle said cheerfully as she clapped the Knight-Commander on the shoulder, the light blow against his plate armor echoing dully around them, “always pointing out the bright side.”

Fenris frowned more deeply before remarking, “Then let us continue. The sooner we face any more such creatures, the sooner we may dispatch them.”

“And even _more_ shining optimism,” drawled Amelle, leveling a smirk at Fenris.  “At this rate we hardly even _need_ these torches.”  It was strangely reassuring they were both as unnerved as she was.  _Misery loves company,_ she thought, _but perfectly rational, perfectly bone-deep terror loves it more._  

“Fenris has a point,” Cullen said, sheathing his sword.  “We haven’t even reached the spring yet.”

Amelle adjusted her grip on her staff.  “Then I assume we’ll have no more talk of me _wasting_ my mana.”  Both Fenris and Cullen gave her identically disapproving looks and she sighed.  “Okay, you two,” she said, her sharp tone echoing dully off the stone as she slung the staff on her back and folded her arms.  “A rats-the-size-of-dogs-infested tunnel isn’t the ideal locale for this discussion, but it looks like we haven’t a host of other options available.”

“Amelle…” Cullen began, but she shook her head at him.

“No, Cullen.  If we’re going to do this?  If we’re going to _succeed,_ I have to know you both trust me.  _And_ that you trust me to use my abilities without wondering every other moment if I’m overextending my mana.  I _understand_ what happened to me — I understand it better now than I think either of you know.  I know the damage I nearly did.  I _know._   But if you’re both going to _look_ at me and wonder if every fireball I throw is going to end in nosebleeds and fainting spells, then we’re doomed even before we begin _._ I know this isn’t going to be easy, and I know it’s going to take a significant expenditure of power.  I _know_ that.  But I also know that I can _do_ this.  I’m strong enough to do this.  And there’s no room for doubt—there _can’t_ be room for doubt, because once something like doubt or fear worms its way in…”  The little Fade garden flashed through her mind, the weeds that had taken hold, their horrible twisting roots driving so far beneath the surface.  “Once you let in doubt, it’ll only choke out everything good, everything _strong_ and _certain_.”  Narrowing her eyes shrewdly, Amelle looked pointedly at Fenris, then Cullen.  “And if that’s the way it’s going to be, then I might as well go back above where there are no terrier-sized _rats_ and Maker knows what else and enjoy a nice steaming cup of tainted tea while you two figure this mess out without me.”

“You can hardly blame us for our concern, Amelle,” said Fenris, brows lowering as they knit together.  

She shook her head.  “I don’t blame you for your concern.  _Either_ of you.  Believe it or not, I…”  A hint of heat touched her cheeks as she swallowed.  “I… I’m thankful for it.  But you can’t both treat me like I’m—I’m _fragile,_ or worse, some kind of invalid.”  And how could she explain it to them — how _good_ she felt, how _whole_?  She felt _alive_.  _Well_.  _Healthy._   “I feel better than I have since… since _before_.”  With that, she planted both hands on her hips and leveled her own glare at both elf and templar.  “And the next one to ask me if I’m _sure,_ or to question my own mana usage in _any way_ , is going to be treated to a fireball to the face so you can experience for yourselves just how much _better_ I’m feeling.”

Fenris was the first to speak.  He let out a long, deep sigh.  “Very well.”

Amelle blinked.  “Just like that?  Maker, I’d expected more of a fight over this.”

Cullen shifted his weight from foot to foot and raked a hand through his hair.  “If your mana is replenishing itself as it ought—”

“And it _is_.”

“Then perhaps… you… possibly have a point.”

“The templar’s saying the apostate’s got a point?” mused Amelle, frustrating fading from the tight line of her mouth as it relaxed into a smile.  “Oh, we’ve _got_ to survive this, Cullen, if only so I can mark this day on the calendar when we get home.”

#

When all was said and done, Cullen would have preferred actual _enemies_ to fight. Instead, after that first swarm of too-large rats, they met only with the _sounds_ of creatures in the dark. When there were no eerie scritchings or scrabblings, even the silence felt heavier, weightier than normal silence, as if the lack of sound was only a preparation for more rats or spiders or _Maker_ only knew what. He could feel Amelle’s power, coiled near the surface, ready to spring, but he couldn’t tell her how much that ever-ready power _bothered_ him. A glance at Fenris revealed a similar kind of tension in the elf’s stance and the way his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. His greatsword gleamed in the firelight. Cullen knew the elf would not allow himself to be caught off guard again.

Cullen felt unsettled, but he feared it had little to do with rats—even dog-sized rats—or darkness or even corruption-tainted water and everything to do with whispers and memories and the icy grip of a fear he’d thought he had control over.

Truthfully, Cullen had felt… disconcerted since Amelle had woken, and the close walls, long shadows and uncertainty of their current venture did little to alleviate that discomfiture. It wasn’t that he feared her compromised—he did not. He was still templar enough that even friendship would not have stopped him from doing his duty if he’d thought an abomination had woken instead of Amelle Hawke.

 _I did have to take out a very_ determined _desire demon._  

His breath caught when he heard yet another skittering sound in the gloom.

“Sorry,” Amelle said sheepishly. “I kicked a rock.”

 _You didn’t think you could_ escape _me, did you, Cullen?_ whispered a cruel, sweet, sibilant voice in his head. _You can’t ever escape me. I still know what you want. I can still give you what you want. And I’m still here, just waiting for you to fall asleep._

Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword all the tighter and blinked rapidly. Now was not the time. Real was the torchlight, the tainted water, the small-dog-rats. Real was the stone beneath his feet and his hand on his weapon. Real was the mage behind him and the elf behind her.

The voice in his head was an echo, a memory, a _nightmare_ , but it wasn’t _real._ He knew it wasn’t real. He wasn’t trapped in a violet cage of dreams and desires and a thousand little deaths. He was beneath the Gallows, following the twisting tunnels deep, deep below the earth. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t a _trap_. He wasn’t _held._ The scratching was the sound of rats—just rats, nothing but rats—and not a desire demon’s long talons scraping along the inside of his skull.

“Templar—” Fenris began.

Cullen snapped, “I’m fine.”

Amelle blinked. Her hand twitched, as though she wished to reach out and soothe him; he was grateful when she did not. “I think Fenris was only going to ask which path we should take. We’ve reached a fork.”

“Left,” he said at once.

She frowned. “Are you—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated, turning toward the left.  “And the other passage leads to one of the escape tunnels.  It’s this way.”  

Amelle and Fenris exchanged a brief look, but Cullen bit back the retort that felt like acid upon his tongue.  They didn’t know — they _couldn’t possibly_ know — and now was not the time to admit that he was hearing voices, whether they were imaginary or not.  He took a deep breath of dank air and let it out again.

“You know,” Amelle began, almost achieving the conversational tone Cullen was fairly sure she was hoping for, “I’ve never seen rats that big.  How do you suppose they got to _be_ that size?” she asked.  “Since I’m pretty sure _fresh air and sunshine_ isn’t the answer.” 

Fenris snorted.  “We have seen any number of strange things in any number of caves and tunnels, Amelle.  You ask this now?”

“I ask now because _this_ tunnel is closed off from all the rest.  It’s isolated.  Did the templars know there were giant rats beneath the Gallows, Cullen?”

“You saw the doors we came through, Amelle,” he answered, almost relieved for the conversation — it made the silence less oppressive, even if their words did echo strangely all around them.  “Did it look as if anyone had even been down here to discover the giant rats?”

“True, but if living in Lowtown taught me anything about rats is that they tend to go where the food is.  So why hadn’t those things tunneled up to the Gallows larder?”

“How do you know they didn’t?” Fenris asked.

Amelle’s answer was dry and almost humorously flat.  “Pretty sure _that’s_ the sort of thing Knight-Commander Meredith would have paraded out as proof of blood magic threatening Kirkwall and the whole of the Free Marches.”

Cullen shot the mage a stern look over his shoulder.  “Amelle.”

But Amelle looked entirely unperturbed.  “Oh, please.  Tell me she wouldn’t.  Giant rats in the larder?  And you think for a second she _wouldn’t_ have put one out on a pike in the square for all to see, railing about,” and here Amelle slid into an eerily passable impression of his former superior’s strident tones, “ _blood mages working their evil magic at every turn!_ ”

He’d opened his mouth to argue the point, but he could all too easily see the scenario Amelle was putting forth, could all too easily imagine Meredith Stannard’s voice shouting those very words.  And for a moment, just a moment, the imagined voice of his former superior drowned out that other, softer, far more insidious whisper.

“Does it not stand to reason that if exposure to the corrupted lyrium affects people then it likely affects any other living thing near it?” Fenris asked.

“Are you suggesting those rats were… sick?” asked Cullen, glancing at Fenris over one shoulder.  

“It’s… definitely possible,” Amelle mused.  The tunnel took a sharp turn and an even sharper descent.  Evidently Amelle’s earlier attempt to light _every_ torch fell a bit short, and had Cullen not felt the swirl of magic as she reached for her mana and lit the corridor, he would have believed the mage had mustered the fire with the power of one very annoyed look.

“I suppose,” Cullen replied.  “The area is far more contained, and a rat is much smaller than a human—”

“After seeing those rats, I’m not sure I’d say they were _much_ smaller,” Amelle interjected.  “And I think I’m rather thankful the effects on the rats weren’t echoed in the human victims.  Dealing with fevers and madness is far preferable to dealing with— _aaagh!!_ ”  There was a sudden bright _surge_ of power, white and crackling — not quite fire, not quite lightning — that lit the tunnel to blinding brightness for the  course of barely a second or two before fizzing out again.  With a rush of adrenaline Cullen turned, sword drawn, ready to cut down Maker only knew what — behind Amelle, Fenris had already drawn his and was every ounce as alert as Cullen himself.

Heedless of either of them, Amelle was stomping her booted foot down upon the stones looking for all the world like she was trying to put out the tiny blaze she had undoubtedly started.  There appeared to be a pile of… _something_ that looked to be the consistency of dark paste smeared across the stones.  Cullen felt his eyebrow creep upward.

“Amelle, what in Andraste’s—”

“ _Spider,_ ” she supplied tersely.  “ _Spider._ On my _arm._ There was a _spider. On. My. Arm.”_ Her foot came down emphatically with each syllable.

Fenris watched Amelle a second or two longer as she brushed imaginary bugs from her robes, even ruffling her fingers through her hair.  “I could be mistaken,” he said evenly, “but I believe you’ve dispatched it thoroughly.”

Cullen was just turning away again, headed deeper into the tunnel, when Fenris _shouted_ , his voice jumping half an octave. “ _Venhedis!_ Get it off!”

By the time Cullen whipped around, sword already at the ready and shield raised, Amelle had already released another flash of magic. Her lips were also twisted in a very decided smirk. “Maker, Fenris. You seem to be inviting retribution with every sarcastic remark.”

“What was that?” Cullen asked.

Fenris had gone as pale as Cullen had ever seen him, his green eyes wide in the flickering light. “Spider,” he gasped. “Bigger than the rat.”

“On his head,” Amelle added smugly. “Which may stop him from pointing fingers.”

Fenris muttered a string of syllables so violent and harsh, Cullen could only _presume_ they were very, very spirited curses. “The spider on your arm was an entirely _normal_ spider,” Fenris retorted. “It was _not_ the size of a dog.”

“Medium-sized dog,” Amelle supplied helpfully. “Not even a small dog.”

“Pray, then,” Cullen said, “we run into nothing the size of a mabari, if dog sizes seem to be the trend.”

Amelle and Fenris fixed him with identically horrified looks. “W-why would you even _say_ something like that?” Amelle whispered.

“Have no fear, Amelle,” Fenris added wryly, “whatever it is will doubtless attack my head first.”

“There is that,” she replied with a hint of cheer. Fenris rolled his eyes at her. 

Cullen blinked at them. “Really?” he asked, incredulous. “Joking?”

Amelle huffed a laugh. “Oh. You run in Kiara’s circles long enough, you get used to laughing in the face of danger. It’s… sort of her thing.”

He felt his eyebrows rising. Fenris only shrugged and said, “Hawke is Hawke.”

Cullen tried to remember if he’d ever heard either Greagoir or Meredith laugh about _anything_ and he drew a complete blank. Then he saw the easy way Fenris brushed at Amelle’s sleeve, and the way Amelle nudged the elf with her shoulder and thought maybe—just maybe—Hawke was on to something.

Laughing was better than terror, after all.

#

Fenris was grateful when—in spite of the Knight-Commander so clearly tempting fate—nothing _mabari-sized_ came bounding out of the darkness. They dispatched an additional swarm of too-large rats, and once he caught a glimpse of skittering movement in the darkness above them that might have been another spider, but it remained where it was. Just as well. He did not care for rats or spiders, but his dislike was nothing to Amelle’s. He could read her hate—and her fear—in the tense line of her spine and in the whiteness of the knuckles clenched around her staff.

Still, every once in a while she turned and offered him a smile, and every time it caught him off-guard. He had to stop himself from peering over his shoulder to see who might deserve such a look from her. Each time, he found his breath catching when he remembered _he_ was the one she was looking at, smiling at.

Another sound whose source he could not see in the dim firelight reminded him that now, however, was perhaps not the time to think of kisses against walls or fingers tangled in soft hair or promises of _later, later_ no matter how much he wished it to be so. They would do this thing—like her sister, Amelle was nothing if not determined, and Fenris had yet to see the force that could successfully stand in the way of a Hawke—and there would be time for talk later. Talk and— 

“Do you hear that?” Amelle asked softly. “I think it’s water. The spring?” 

Fenris saw the Knight-Commander nod, though he noted the templar had not so much as lowered his blade since the first rats.

For all that he had been incredibly wary of Hawke’s choice in protector when first he’d discovered it (and just a little affronted that she thought him incapable of watching Amelle on his _own_ ), he now found himself pleased with her foresight. Now that his… jealousy had faded, Fenris could appreciate the templar’s steadiness. The Knight-Commander had proven himself able, and his insight, while… different, was no less valuable.

It was strange, thinking they would not be here without him.

“Watch your head, Fenris,” the templar said, strain evident under the lightness of his tone, brow knitted over the faint smile, “animals congregate around water, too.”

Fenris snorted. And checked his grip. Just to be certain.

The tunnel they’d been following gradually widened, its ceiling growing slowly higher — and the sound of rushing water growing slowly louder — until it opened into an enormous cavern.  It was lit only by the torches lining the tunnel behind them, revealing little more than shadowy darkness.  Amelle lifted her hand and with a swift gesture, orange flame flickered into existence, latching onto yet more torches on the wall, flames jumping from one torch to the next and on to the next until the entire cavern was ringed with fire.

“Maker’s _blood_ ,” breathed Amelle, staring at what the torches revealed.

The cave’s walls and ceiling were not rocky, but smooth, with a finished look that implied nature had not done the work, but hands.  Whether they’d been the hands of dwarves or slaves, Fenris could not say.  The entire cavern reflected the cold grandeur so favored by the Imperium.  High above them, jutting out from the rock, was a circle of bronze statues, not unlike the ones that graced the rest of the Gallows.  Featureless slaves seemed as if to float above them, their arms stretched out in supplication.  Beneath their feet, intricate stonework composed a high, circular ledge around the pool of rushing water, fed by a series of square holes lined with shimmering silverite, through which foaming, rushing water cascaded into the the rest, making the water churn with an angry current, swirling with any number of tiny whirlpools.  Fenris could picture all too easily the water gathered here, carried up countless steps and delivered to countless magisters by countless slaves. Some slaves had likely seen nothing but the inside of these walls, these tunnels, every day spent in an agony of repetition. 

He turned away with a jerk, but not before catching Amelle’s concerned look.  She lifted her eyebrows inquisitively, but he shook his head.  Perhaps it wasn’t _nothing,_ but it was nothing he could change, nothing he could do anything about now.  She reached out, fingertips brushing his elbow briefly. 

 _Yes,_ he thought.  _Later._

The Knight-Commander nodded at the other end of the pool, where the water swirled and seemed to be pulled smooth.  “Look there.  I imaging the water travels out to the wells through a… waterway of some sort beneath the surface.”

Amelle looked up and then down again.  “How do you suppose the water level stays constant?  Why doesn’t it flood?”

“A dwarven craftsman could explain it better than I could hope to, Amelle,” he replied, shaking his head.  “I imagine it recirculates… somehow.”

“Of course it recirculates,” Amelle said on a grimace. “All the better to spread the death and destruction in the form of corrupted lyrium dust.”

Fenris looked behind them at the stone steps, at the high ledge upon which they stood — safeguards, he was sure.  He looked at Amelle and said, “Just because it has not flooded in recent memory does not mean such a thing is impossible.”  He saw her look up again at the high, domed ceiling, barely suppressing her shudder.

“Pleasant thought,” she muttered.  “Forget I mentioned it.”

For his part, the Knight-Commander had lapsed into a thoughtful sort of silence as he walked partway around the reservoir.  He turned back to them, shaking his head.  “That’s a great deal more than a glass of water, Amelle.”  

Amelle looked similarly troubled as she rubbed one hand over pursed lips and nodded.  “Believe me, I’d noticed.”

“The water is also moving,” said Fenris, giving Amelle a pointed look.  “Another factor out of your favor.”

“Maybe, but maybe _not_ — it’s possible the current will carry the healing energy to the rest of the water.”

“Possible.  Not probable.”

Letting out a deep sigh, Amelle twisted one of the enchanted rings upon her finger as she went to the edge of the ledge, staring down into the churning, tainted water.  “You know,” she said, frowning into the depths, “It’s a damned good thing no one told me this was going to be _easy_.”

“Amelle…” he began. On her very pointed glare, he inclined his head. “I was not intending to voice doubts.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Not _precisely._ I do understand the importance of the undertaking.”

“But?”

He frowned, considering. “Once you have begun, I believe it will be… more difficult for you to remain objective. We must decide when… when enough is enough. That is, after all, why the Knight-Commander and I are here.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he saw anger and disappointment and worst of all _betrayal_ flit behind them. “You think I’m going to fail.  Maker’s _balls_ , what did I just _tell you both_ —”

“I do not _think_ such a thing,” Fenris broke in, cutting her off. “But nor will I see you… martyred to this cause. If the worst happens, Kirkwall can be evacuated.”

She uttered a mirthless laugh, shaking her head. “Sure. We’ll just take them all… where, exactly? Starkhaven? Val Royeaux?”

“Refugees once arrived on these shores,” he countered, “and Kirkwall absorbed them. There are other cities in the Free Marches. There are ships in the harbor.”

From the way the Knight-Commander was gazing at him, Fenris knew the templar had been considering similar thoughts, and likely making similar plans. 

“Cullen?” Amelle asked sharply. “You can’t think _abandoning_ the city is a good plan.”

“It is better than losing the city to madness,” the templar replied. He sighed. “There is a chance—a very slim chance—this may work. But Fenris is right. If it _doesn’t_ , you have to be prepared.”

“To give up?”

“To admit defeat.” The Knight-Commander looked as though he wished to cross his arms across his chest, but he was still hampered by his drawn sword and the shield on his arm. “Please don’t misunderstand me. We’re not defeated yet. But this is…”

“A lot more than a cup of water,” Amelle finished wearily. “I know.”

“And it _stinks_ of corruption,” Cullen said.

Fenris smelled only earth and stone and dampness, but he knew the Knight-Commander was not speaking of _physical_ scent. Even without templar skills, Fenris couldn’t help feeling uneasy, and it had little to do with thoughts of the Imperium or darkness or even too-large creatures on the prowl. Instead, it had everything to do with the foulness he’d sensed in the shard they’d once found in Bartrand’s house, and in the blade Meredith had carried. His markings flared, illuminating the shadows, casting back that faint echo of yearning song pulling at him, drowning out its sinister sweet voice.

Amelle shivered, running her free hand along her other arm in a vain attempt to warm it. “It’s a taste to me,” she explained, pulling a face. “Like ashes. And thirst. A dryness no amount of swallowing eases.” Closing her eyes briefly, she added, “You’re right. I… hope it does not come to it, but you’re right. I… there is a _chance_ may not be able to remain… _objective_ , as you say.”

“I’d rather we didn’t come to nosebleeds,” the Knight-Commander said.

Amelle’s lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. “Magic and blood are always… uncomfortable bedfellows. I’d really rather it didn’t come to that, either.”

“That is out of your control, however,” Fenris remarked. “It only occurs when you have _already_ gone too far.”

Lowering her head, Amelle shuddered again. “You… aren’t wrong.  _But_ neither do I want either of you… stopping me before I’m ready to stop. You are neither of you mages. You are neither of you _me_.”

Sheathing his sword, the Knight-Commander dropped a hand on Amelle’s shoulder. When she looked up, Fenris could see the strain writ clear upon her face—the strain, and the desire to succeed.

She was too much like her bloody sister.

“I’ve felt you go too far twice,” the templar said simply. “I will know.”

“And you’ll stop me.”

“I’ll _protect_ you,” he insisted.

A strange smile played at Amelle’s lips and her eyes shone with sudden tears. “It’s what you know how to do.”

The templar’s answering smile was a mirthless one, almost sad.  “Would that more of my fellows and yours understood that a little better.”

“This apostate daughter of an apostate understands it.”

“It _took_ her long enough,” he replied gruffly.  Then, turning, the Knight-Commander looked out at the water, dark but for the reflected firelight that shone upon its tumultuous surface.  “Out of curiosity, what _is_ your plan?”  Fenris had been wondering the same thing.

Amelle followed the templar’s gaze out to the water and exhaled hard through her teeth.  “I keep reminding myself the theory isn’t that different — a human’s heart beats and the blood moves through the body.  It moves.  So does this.”

“On a much larger scale,” added Fenris.  Amelle nodded.

“I did bring lyrium with me — it’s a large task, as we’ve discussed.  Better to have the extra boost should I need it.”  Amelle didn’t say it, but Fenris could almost hear her unspoken _And I probably will,_ in the ensuing silence.

“Then… whenever you’re ready, I suppose.”  With that, the templar stepped away, holding his hands behind his back, looking watchful.  Wary.  

Amelle nodded and hefted her staff, still looking out at the water.  She was perfectly still a moment, and then a thought seemed to occur to her and she looked over her shoulder at Fenris, a faint smile at her lips, as if she were trying to push aside her own concerns for his benefit.  In truth, Fenris was harboring enough concerns for both of them.

“Fenris?” she asked.  “Do me a favor and… keep an eye out for any more rats or spiders?  I’d rather not be in the middle of this spell and have something land on my head.”  Her eyes widened as another thought occurred to her, and she added, “Or run up my robes.  Andraste’s ass, why doesn’t anyone make enchanted _pants_?”

“Nothing will touch you, Amelle.  I give you my word.”

The smile she sent him by way of answer held a peculiar quirk around the corners as she arched one eyebrow almost… _playfully._   As she turned away she said — so softly that the words were nearly lost under the rush of water — “Maker, I hope _that’s_ not true.”

If the templar heard any of this exchange, he didn’t reveal it — much to Fenris’ relief.

After what felt like several minutes of silent preparation, Amelle breathed in deeply, one arm outstretched, her other hand gripping the stave tightly as the blue-white glow began emanating from her hands, thin strands of light circling them like — appropriately — so many fireflies.  The pale stone at the tip of her staff began to glow with the same energy as the light began to creep slowly up both arms, nearly to her shoulders as it gathered and built and _brightened_ — truly, there was no need for the torchlight anymore — before Amelle finally released the spell into the dark, churning water, which began to glow, but faintly.

The entire cavern was bathed in the glow of Amelle’s magic, chasing away shadows as those threads of light pushed through the water.  And as Fenris looked more closely, he did see that the spell was _pushing_ through the water, as if fighting resistance — or infection.  The light surrounding her pulsed brighter — she was pushing _harder_ — and more of the watery shadows vanished.

Narrowing his eyes, Fenris watched the water cascading into the reservoir — it was still dark, and though he knew that did not necessarily mean the incoming water was tainted — only that it wasn’t illuminated by the spell — he could not help but notice that the newer water made darker shadows dance and tease along the outer edges of the pool, as if the corruption was pushing back, fighting her.

A bead of sweat trickled down the curve of Amelle’s cheek, though the cavern was clammy and cool. Fenris was, for a moment, so transfixed by the droplet—was she already pushing herself too hard?—he almost missed the large spider descending from the ceiling, its eight eyes glowing blue-silver in the light of Amelle’s power. Fenris leapt, spinning, and his blade caught the creature squarely, sending it halfway across the chamber, far from Amelle.

She was so focused she did not even seem to notice.

Fenris stalked across the cavern, but the spider was dead, its limbs bent and twisted beneath it. The Knight-Commander sent Fenris a grateful nod, but did not move; he, too, was bathed in a ghostly glow, but it was the white of a templar’s power, not the blue of Amelle’s.

Another sweep of the room revealed no more beasts waiting to spring, and Fenris returned to Amelle’s side. The first bead of sweat had been joined by more, and Amelle’s hair now clung in damp tendrils to her neck. Fenris frowned, but did not interfere; exertion was not _over-exertion_ , after all, and he trusted the Knight-Commander to intercede if things went awry.

With a heavy sigh, the light around Amelle began to fade, until even her staff went dark. The water still glowed faintly, and the templar did not relax simply because Amelle did.

“It is _working_ , I think,” she said softly. “There’s just so… _much_ of it.” Dashing the back of her arm over her forehead to catch the errant moisture, she squinted into the reservoir. “One _sodding_ idol.”

Fenris said nothing. Amelle winced when she glanced around and saw the dead spider. Then she said, “I think… it _feels_ like it’s lessening. Cullen?”

The templar nodded briefly. “Yes. And no. Even now, the corruption swirls into the… the _healed_ water, tainting it again.”

Amelle scowled down into the pool. “Tainting it less, maybe?”

On an unsure frown, the Knight-Commander shrugged one shoulder. “Even a little salt makes water undrinkable.”

Leaning her staff against her shoulder for a moment, Amelle stretched out her arms and cracked her knuckles. “Just as well I’ve got plenty of life left in me yet. And it _is_ working.”

This time the Knight-Commander added nothing, but Fenris saw worry in the other man’s eyes. Working, perhaps. _But for how long?_

#

Closing her eyes, Amelle sought out the still, safe place where her magic resided. It was there, waiting for her like an old friend. It felt _hopeful_ , and Amelle found she dearly needed the hope. She hadn’t lied—she _could_ feel the corruption receding like a reluctant tide.

But there was so _much_ of it. 

It was as though the particles of idol had slipped into the water and agitated all the rest into joining it. Perhaps it _had_ gone something like that. If the idol could push a person toward insanity, perhaps it could do the same to… other things. She remembered—and wished she didn’t—how quickly Varric had begun to fall to the shard’s lure. Perhaps one grain of corrupted lyrium was enough to taint all the water around it. Like salt, as Cullen had suggested.

It was an unpleasant thought. It was the kind of thought that bred doubt, and Amelle had no room for doubt. Wrestling it away, she focused instead on the warmth and life and resilience of her power as it gathered at her fingertips and spread once again up her arms. She felt it amplify as the staff took her raw magic and focused it further. When she’d gathered as much as she felt able to control, she released it once again toward the water.

For an instant she felt bereft, heartbroken, as though such power would never be hers again. But almost as swiftly as she identified the feeling of longing, she felt her mana begin to pool once again in that still, safe place. If it did not fill quite as quickly, or quite as full, there was still _plenty_ to work with. Now that she knew what to look for, she could almost _sense_ the aid from beyond the Veil, like a comforting hand on her shoulder or arms around her waist. The image of her father sitting in a perfectly manicured garden with a small grey and white rabbit on his lap flashed through her mind and she smiled, redoubling her efforts.

The longer Amelle pulled at her mana, the more she felt the enchantments in her rings and amulet — even the magic-imbued material of her robes — buzz and hum against her skin, augmenting her abilities, feeding her as she used the staff to focus it, _direct_ it into the water.  The pool seemed to be glowing more completely now, though she was still troubled by the new water coming in, dark and churning, a constant influx of shadowy corruption.  Amelle breathed in and felt her mana swirl and pulse in answer as she tried to push her healing magic up _into_ the new water coming in.  The force of the infected water resisted Amelle’s efforts, though, and she dug deeper, pushing _harder_ against the current.

 _Easy, rabbit_ , a voice whispered.  There was a time she would have thought it nothing more than her own conscience, but Amelle found she wasn’t quite so secure in that belief anymore.  _It’s fighting you.  Don’t wear yourself out when there’s so much yet to be done._

“Almost… there,” she ground out under her breath.

_Rest, rabbit.  The corruption will be there after you have rested yourself._

Amelle thought suddenly of the little kitchen in Lothering, of plate after plate of all of her favorite foods, of how _ravenous_ she’d been, of how utterly _empty_ she’d felt.  

No, she would not walk such a line ever again.

But just as she was pulling back her magic — only a sliver of a second _before_ , in fact — there was a sudden _whoosh_ followed by a wave of brightest white light.  The glowing energy in the pool _pulsed_ suddenly, making her ears pop, and for an instant the light was brighter, _stronger_ — but then Amelle’s power guttered out like a candle left in a draft.  She whirled around to face Cullen — for it could _only have been_ Cullen, flinging out one arm and pointing to the pool.

“Did you just _see_ that?”

#

It was perhaps not the reaction Cullen had expected when he let loose the rush of cleansing energy — but neither had he expected to see the pool react so abruptly to Amelle’s healing spell.  In fact, the very moment _after_ he’d released the cleanse, there had been the briefest span of time when he’d very nearly given himself a mental kick for it.  If Amelle had been _that_ close to such a marked change in battling the corruption, had his timing compromised it?

No, Cullen had to believe that was not the case, even if Amelle was now glaring at him, arms folded over her chest, betrayal fairly radiating from her eyes, her jaw set.

“Did you _see_ that?” she asked again, and despite her obvious displeasure, there was something else lurking in her voice, in her eyes — something like _hope._ She walked closer, narrowing the distance between them.  “Something… something nearly _happened_ down there _._ ”  

“I… I saw,” he replied, still staring hard at the water, the depths of which still glowed gently with healing energy.  “What _was_ that?  I suspect _that’s_ the better question.”

“I have no idea, but—”  And here Amelle jabbed her finger against Cullen’s solid breastplate, “what’s the bloody big idea, Cullen?  A cleanse?  _Really?_ ”

He pulled his attention away from the pool to level a glower back at the mage.  _Whatever happened to “It’s what you know how to do,” I wonder?_   “Amelle, I did warn you I’d—”

But Amelle didn’t let him finish.  She was already shaking her head as she cut him off, saying, “I was pulling _back_ , Cullen.  I was about to rest — of my _own volition_.”

“I… ah.”

Fenris strode up, looking between them before frowning at the water.  “Then perhaps the Knight-Commander should be commended on his timing.”  Amelle exhaled hard, her brows knitting further together before the displeasure and betrayal gradually smoothed out of her expression.

“ _Timing,_ ” she mumbled.  “Timing, he calls it.”

What could he tell her?  How could he make her understand that by this point he _knew_ the way her magic felt, he knew its unique resonance, knew precisely in the _way_ it alerted his senses that it was Amelle’s energy and hers alone?  Not only that, but he could sense her strain, like a note held too long on too little breath.  He’d _felt_ it, and he’d known beyond a shadow of doubt that Amelle was in dire need of a rest.  And the longer she did not take one, the more his concern grew.

But apparently Amelle had been all too aware of it, too.  Cullen regretted acting too soon, but he could not find himself overly concerned, even if the cleanse was a premature measure; the result was the same — Amelle would rest and let her mana replenish itself.

Setting her staff down, Amelle sat upon the stones and began rifling through the supplies she’d brought with her.  From within the pack he spied the sheen of lyrium potion, but it was a skin of water she pulled out first.  

“So, any ideas on what happened just now?” she asked, taking a long drink.

“Did you… alter the application of your magic at all?” asked Fenris, frowning first at Amelle then at the water, as if trying to search for some echo of the strange pulse of light.

“Not even a little.  Like I said, I was planning on pulling back and taking a rest.”  She looked up at Cullen, offering him the waterskin.  “Maybe it finally started to respond?”

“That would make everything about this errand much easier,” he replied, taking the waterskin.  “And something about _that_ makes me deeply suspicious.”

“Come on, Cullen,” Amelle murmured wryly, “where’s that renowned templar faith?”

He gave her a slightly sour look. “Forgive me my skepticism, but if I’ve learned _anything_ recently it’s been suspicion of anything happening too easily.”

Amelle frowned. “It was hardly _easy_.”

He shook his head. “But you just _said_ you did nothing differently.”

“Might it not have been some—interaction between your powers?” Fenris asked, still gazing down into the water. The froth of the falling water swirled on the surface as the last of the light from Amelle’s healing faded. Cullen didn’t think it was simply _desire_ that made the water feel different.

Cleaner. Clearer. He scowled, as though scowling might somehow bring answers forth.

Toying with a small bottle of lyrium potion, Amelle gazed up at Fenris, thoughtful. “I don’t know. By nature they… sort of cancel one another out, don’t they? I mean, isn’t that the point of a cleanse? It stops what I’m doing and uses itself up in the process? Unless…”

“Unless?” Cullen asked.

“Well. It’s _cleansing_ , isn’t it? It’s not… once you release the power, it’s not _exactly_ specific, right? I mean, if Merrill was standing beside me, it would stop her power as well as my own?”

“Within a certain radius, yes.”

Amelle nodded, still contemplative, fingers still twisting the neck of the little vial. “Can we try it again?”

Cullen blinked at her, jaw dropping. He made a choked sound, swallowed, and then managed a less strangled, “ _What?_ ”

“I want to try an experiment.”

“You… want to try an experiment,” he repeated slowly. “I’m sorry, Amelle, are you _asking_ me to use my powers against you?”

A quick smile flashed across her face. “You sound so _scandalized_ , Knight-Commander. There was a time you would have smote me for, I don’t know, opening a _door_ too quickly.”

Cullen’s cheeks burned hot. “I—it wasn’t a smite. And it wasn’t because you opened the door too quickly.”

“What is this?” Fenris growled.

On a heavy sigh, Cullen explained, “It wasn’t recent, it wasn’t a smite, I did not know Amelle, and it was my _duty_. Stop making trouble, Amelle.”

Fenris still looked borderline murderous, but Amelle only smirked. “I want you to try cleansing the water.”

“But it’s not… it’s not magic the same way your power is magic. There’s no mana to drain or connection to the Fade to sever.”

“Humor me?”

“Humor her,” Fenris added. Menacingly.

Cullen glared helplessly at the elf. “Fenris, it wasn’t _recent_.”

Fenris only jerked his chin toward the water. Rolling his eyes, Cullen gathered his will, ignoring the weariness already beginning to tug at his senses, already gathering in his limbs. It mightn’t have been tied to mana the same way Amelle’s was, but his power did not come without a cost. He heard Amelle sigh when he released the cleanse—the cavern was not quite large enough for her to avoid the aforementioned radius. Nothing out of the ordinary disturbed the darkness or the silence; whatever had happened the last time had evidently not been solely down to him.

And yet the water did feel… different. Not _clean_. Not… _untroubled_. But different.

“Okay,” Amelle said. “I _definitely_ want to try the first thing again.”

Cullen stared at her.  “What precisely do you mean by _the first thing_?”

“I want to try healing it for a while, and then you, Cullen,” she said, pausing to down the contents of the vial of lyrium, grimacing and shaking her head “are going to release a cleanse.”

Cullen knew perfectly well what effect that would have on Amelle _and_ her healing spell, and he was shaking his head even before she’d finished.  “I don’t think—”

“We need to _try_ this.  Even if it’s just to rule it out as a possibility.”  And then she _grinned_ at him, and he saw for what was possibly the first time just how deeply she _trusted_ him.

Somehow, that made him feel _worse_ about it all.  “Amelle…”

“Amelle realizes what she is asking of you, templar,” Fenris broke in, a trifle impatiently.  “If she is asking it, there is a reason.”

“An _excellent_ reason,” Amelle added, pushing to her feet.  “Shall we?” she asked, tipping her head at her staff.

“You’re quite certain you’re recovered?” Cullen asked.  “You cannot rely too heavily upon lyrium potion to replenish—”

“Fireball to the face, Cullen.  Remember?”

“Right, then.”

Striding to the edge of the walkway, Amelle looked down into the churning water for a moment.  He wondered how much of the corruption _she_ could sense — was it a ghostlike whisper, a subtle flash of uneasiness passing too quickly to properly identify?  Or did she sense things differently?  After a little while, she squared her shoulders and hefted her staff.  Once again the healing energy pulsed out from her hands and made the stone at the top of her staff glow brightly.  Once again the magic built and built and _built_ , the light engulfing her arms, pulsing with that same pale luminescence, threads of illumination twining around her.  And once again she released the spell, sending it into the pool.

Cullen waited as Amelle worked, watching intently as the water slowly came alive with the spell.  More than that, he _thought._   He knew all too well what Amelle was _hoping_ would happen — the water would be cleansed and healed, all corruption removed — but he didn’t understand _how_ such a thing could happen.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try, however.  When the pool was entirely alight, save for the dark tendrils of new water rushing in, he stepped to the edge and looked down, then drew in a deep breath and focused his will, gathering it and shaping it, _visualizing_ that white energy, brighter than sunlit snow on a winter morning.

Then, beneath the buzz and hum of their respective powers — Amelle’s filling the space, resonating everywhere, while his own was still so contained — he heard Amelle’s voice whisper, “ _Now,_ Cullen.”

He released the wave of cleansing energy, _trying_ to sent it directly into the water, but what he’d told Amelle about a certain radius held true even in this instance.  But before the holy energy counteracted the healing spell, Cullen saw the water in the reservoir pulse with light — white light, flickering strangely in the depths of the pool, rather like watching lightning flash and dance deep inside a thundercloud.

“Quickly, Cullen — what do you feel?  What do you sense?”

He closed his eyes and stretched out his senses, trying to _find_ it, the ghost, the whisper, the _scent_ , but for that moment, Cullen sensed nothing but… water.

“I… think it — Maker’s breath, I think it _worked_.”

But as the light faded and as more new water rushed into the pool, bringing fresh corruption and lyrium with it.  From the look on Amelle’s face, Cullen was sure she sensed it as clearly as he did.

“It did work,” she said, peering down at the water as if the secret to vanquishing its infection could be seen if one just _looked_ hard enough.  “It worked,” she said again, “but it didn’t _last._ ”

“Templar.”  Cullen looked up to find Fenris watching him with an inscrutable expression firmly in place.  “Have you any control over the… intensity of such energy?”

“Are you asking me if I can produce a… very _little_ cleanse?”

Shrugging, Fenris said, “It is a fair question.  A holy smite is a much more powerful… event, after all.  It stands to reason the opposite would be true as well.”

“A less experienced templar would produce a… a _weaker_ attempt, certainly.  But it wouldn’t… do what it’s supposed to _do,_ then.”

Amelle whirled around then, her green eyes wide.  “Which means I’d be able to maintain the healing spell.”  She sent a radiant, beaming smile the elf’s way.  “Maker, Fenris, you are a _genius._ ”

#

The longer Amelle looked at Fenris, the more she became acutely aware of the fact that she was _looking_ at him.  Her pulse skittered in her veins and a sudden warmth flooded her cheeks when she realized he was looking _back_ at her and then her heart beat just a little harder in her chest _._

 _Oh, Maker, this is not the time for this.  Later,_ she promised herself.  _No, not_ later. _Soon._   _Very, very soon._

It was excellent incentive to clear up the matter of this blighted spring as quickly as possible.

She turned to Cullen, who still looked puzzled, and said, “If you keep the cleanse at a very low — but constant — level, you’ll still be affecting the water without affecting _me._ I can push my way through a _weak_ cleanse, Cullen.  I just can’t quite manage it when you’re _trying._ ”

“Good news for me,” he replied dryly.  “Not quite so good for my recruits.”  

She knew what she’d seen in the water _that_ time — and whatever had happened, it had been Cullen’s cleanse that had done it right before killing the spell entirely.  For that _moment,_ something unbelievable was happening — something _vital,_ she was sure of it.  But it wouldn’t work as long as Cullen kept counteracting her magic.

“Can you do it?” 

“Yes, Amelle.  I can.”  But every one of Cullen’s misgivings were etched clearly on his face.  Amelle recognized them all.  Keeping a spell alive despite even the weakest cleanse would use up her mana quickly.  And she’d brought as much lyrium as she could carry, but once that was out, _she_ was out.  And Amelle already knew perfectly well what happened _then._

“Fenris?” she asked, nudging her pack nearer to him with her foot. “If this has any hope of working…”

“You wish me to… keep you in lyrium potion.”

She nodded, frowning down at the sack. “I’ll put my hand out.”

For all that Fenris was attempting to keep his face expressionless, Amelle could see concern in the faint tilt of his brows and the tightening of his lips.

“I promise I’ll rest after this,” she said softly. “I am aware of the risks. I won’t so much as light a candle for a week. Lyrium will be off-limits for the foreseeable future. But this… this might work. It… it _does_ work, but I— _we_ —need to sustain it.”

He nodded reluctantly, bending to hook the straps of the bag over his forearm. The bottles within clinked ominously.

With a forced smile, Amelle stretched, cracked her knuckles once again, and retrieved her staff.

“Cullen?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Amelle huffed a laugh. “You and me both.” With her free hand, she reached out and touched the back of Cullen’s hand. He smiled down at her, but, like Fenris, was unable to completely hide his concern.

“You know I may not be able to stop you if you go too far,” he admitted. “Not if I’m using my own abilities this way. And… and taking so much lyrium…”

Amelle bit her bottom lip, nodding. “I know. I’m hardly going to be the best judge. But we have to try. It _works_.”

He closed his eyes. “Very well.”

This time when Amelle began to harness her power, she felt the faint tug of Cullen’s cleanse like a fly buzzing about her ears. It was a faint irritation, but not so distracting she couldn’t work. 

Working took a great deal more effort, however. _That_ she could not ignore. Every wave of healing magic she poured into the spring had to fight past the white barrier of Cullen’s abilities. Wisps and threads of silver-blue were sucked into oblivion before they ever touched the water.

She felt her stomach sink when she was forced to reach for the first lyrium potion much sooner than she’d expected. The glass was tucked into her fingers as soon as her hand darted out, and she drank it down gratefully.

It wasn’t going to be enough.

#

The pack was growing too light too quickly. Fenris could see the strain in Amelle’s eyes, and every time her hand reached out for another potion, he knew she was reaching her limit faster than she’d expected to. He had no idea how much time had passed, or how much water had circulated through the strange combination of healing and cleansing, but even the air felt clearer and cleaner around them.

This time when Amelle’s hand shot out he noted that her fingers were trembling, and it took twice as much effort for him to get them to close tightly enough around the neck of the vial. Fenris kept his hand around hers, guiding the glass to her lips. She swallowed hard, reflexively, and caught even the errant drips on her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. Her eyes were wide, pupils far too dilated, dreamily unfocused.

Fenris had seen such things before. Danarius had always… enjoyed his excesses, and lyrium was no exception. The intoxication had always heralded unpleasantness for Fenris. And it had been _dangerous_.

“That’s the last one, Amelle,” he whispered. 

She uttered a horrible, choking cry and shook her head in disbelief. The lyrium intoxication made her voice thick, the vowels heavy on her tongue. “It can’t be. We’re so close.”

They were. But Fenris, observing, wasn’t certain his idea of close and hers matched up. Clearly she believed they were close to healing the spring entirely. Fenris feared she was close to losing her life to a fruitless task. Neither she nor the templar had power enough to sustain the effort, for all that the effort was effective.

The Knight-Commander had driven the point of his blade between the stones, and his hands were clenched tight around the hilt; Fenris suspected this was as much to keep himself upright as to act as a focus. The templar was murmuring broken prayers under his breath, and his sweat-damp face was ashen and grim in the white glow of the holy light. 

Amelle looked worse.  

Sweat plastered her hair to her head and made her pale skin glisten in the glow of her magic.  The blue-white light cast an unnatural pallor across her skin, making her hair look unnaturally dark as it streaked across her forehead.  The robes she wore were stained with perspiration, and as Amelle trembled with effort, the flowing material quivered as if with the sheer force her magic.  A droplet of sweat dripped from the tip of her nose and splashed upon the stones.  Suddenly Amelle shook her head and sent more droplets flying as she blinked sweat from her eyes.  Those eyes now had shadows under them, deep and dark as any bruise.  

But it was her eyes themselves that truly sparked Fenris’ concern.  The pupils swallowed up nearly all of the iris, leaving only the thinnest ring of green around too-dark depths.  And the green barely _looked_ green anymore: there was a strange silvery-blue sheen to her eyes, as if the power she was expending was growing too unfocused — or worse, as if she was losing control of her magic or herself.  

Amelle’s fingers were clenched tight around the staff, but her grip was definitely slipping.  How far had she left _to_ slip?  Not far at all, was Fenris’ guess.

Frowning, Fenris looked out at the water, magic and holy energy clashing in a kaleidoscope of light beneath the surface.  Flashes of white lit the depths of the pool as the threads of Amelle’s healing magic circled and swirled, illuminating not only the reservoir, but the whole of the cavern.  It was too much — they were both pushing themselves _too far_ , and while the water was undoubtedly clearing, the corruption was fighting them — the new water pouring into the reservoir was still shadowy, still had the element of infection to it.  Their combined efforts were working, but they were working far too slowly.

He knew — he _knew_ — Amelle had not the mana left to maintain that level of healing energy for much longer.

He thought of the templar’s tale of that other healer, straining and stretching his limits until he perished.  Fenris could not let that happen.  He _would_ _not_ let that happen.  There was yet something he could do.

“Amelle,” Fenris said, his voice echoing dully off the stones.  But Amelle did not respond; she only kept staring straight ahead — she barely _blinked_.  Fenris then strode in front of her, _forcing_ her to look at him — to _see_ him.  _“Amelle,_ ” he said again, sharply as he let his markings flare bright as daylight.  Suddenly Amelle blinked, her eyes clear again.

“…Fenris?” she murmured weakly, staring at him as if she had no idea how he’d come to be there.

There was no time for talk, no time for explanations.  Fenris doubted Amelle was in any condition to understand anyway.  He glanced briefly over his shoulder at the water, then back at Amelle.  “Do you trust me?” 

_#_

Amelle stared at Fenris.  His markings were so _bright,_ he seemed to glow with not only the twining lyrium brands, but also with the light of her own magic.  So bright.  It was hard to look at him.  He glowed so _brightly._   Bright like the sun, silver like the moon.  

There wouldn’t be very much light at all, soon.  Her head was throbbing, pulsing, _aching_ the more she pushed, the more she fought against the resistance all around her — like holding a door open in the wind.  She could hear little more than the buzz of her magic and the pounding rush of blood in her ears, and when Fenris said her name, she barely heard him.  He seemed so far away, _too_ far away — too far away to hear, to touch, to speak to, certainly.

He looked so _angry._

No.  Not angry.  He looked worried.

_He is afraid for you, rabbit._

“We’re so close,” she whispered, not knowing _whom_ she was telling.

Then his hands were on her arms, fingers scything into her flesh and he wasn’t so far away anymore.  He was close enough that she felt the heat pour off of him — or was she simply that _cold?_   She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore; the hotcold thrum of her magic had dulled her to everything else.

_We’re so close._

Fenris’ fingers tightened and she looked up.  Her head felt heavy — _Maker,_ and it _ached_ so.  But he was there and he was holding on to her — not too far away to reach, not at all — and he was _saying something_.  But her pulse was echoing through her head.  Her magic buzzed in her ears.  She couldn’t _hear_ him. Then Fenris’ gauntlets clattered to the ground, the sound filling the whole cavern — she heard _that,_ certainly, and it made her head ache even more. 

His gauntlets were gone.  Bare fingers dug into her flesh now, not sharp metal.  

Then, _clarity._   As if the pain pushed everything else aside for a moment — for just long enough of a moment — and she shook her head, sending the cobwebs flying.  Fenris then lifted his voice above the noise and shouted:

 _“Do you trust me?_ ”

_Trust yourself, choose well and wisely, but remember that all trust requires a leap.  And with every leap comes a landing._

The white wolf flashed in her memory, the strange sight of it standing over her still, pale body, head thrown back in a mournful howl.  Eyes that were moss-green and forest-dark were watching her now, but the wolf wasn’t howling, not yet.  

Amelle stared dumbly at Fenris for a moment before finally breathing a single word as she exhaled, “ _Yes_.”

He nodded once, his markings flaring _impossibly_ bright.  It _hurt,_ that much light.  She could barely look at it.

Amelle had only a second to think before Fenris’ glowing hand reached into her chest.

_Are you so sure he’d never turn on you?_

_With every leap comes a landing._

And then—and _then_ —oh, _Maker_. Whatever she’d thought was power, was joy, was _life_ before this moment was dashed to dim memory. She wanted to weep and scream all at once, but instead she only gasped, and focused her magic—oh, oh, such _magic_ —on the spring. Either the light was bright unto blinding, or Amelle herself was blind, but in that moment she found she couldn’t care. Lyrium sang in her veins, burned from toe-tip to hairline, igniting everything in its path.

She felt the power sweep through the water—for an instant she _was_ the water and she was pure and clean and _perfect_ so bloody _perfect_ —and then she heard a voice in her ear, in her head, all _through_ her, whispering a word she dimly recognized as her name.

“Amelle. Stop.”

She wasn’t the water. She wasn’t even the magic. She was a girl with fingers around her heart.

And then she was darkness.

#

By the time Cullen felt the change, it was already too late. The sudden spike in Amelle’s power—Amelle’s power laced with something else, something _so much more_ —startled him so intensely that he lost control of his already-flagging resources and released the remainder of his own power in a flash of holy fire caught somewhere between a cleanse and a smite. He cried out—in warning, in fear—and opened his eyes. The cavern was not merely bright. At first he could see nothing except the spring engulfed in cascades of silver-blue-holy-white fire.

And then he saw Fenris, glowing just as bright a white as the spring, with his hand—oh, _Maker, Maker_ his _hand_ —

“What have you done?” Cullen whispered. His own hands trembled around the hilt of his blade, and his arms were like lead when he heaved the weapon up. He held it as he’d held his  greatsword, back in Ferelden when that had been his weapon of choice; the shield on his back was impossible for him to even consider. “Fenris, what have you _done_?”

The elf said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Amelle’s. Cullen managed a staggering step toward them before falling heavily to one knee. Every breath came harder than the one before, ragged and harsh in the eerie silence.

A voice, sibilant and cruel, laughed in his head. _You were watching the wrong one all along, weren’t you, my sweet, foolish templar? Always looking in the wrong direction when the ones you care about fight their battles. Give up, dear Cullen. Give up. Sleep. Give in._

Cullen growled a curse under his breath that would have startled his recruits, were they present to hear it, and dragged himself another foot closer to Amelle. She was still wrapped in more power than Cullen had ever felt. Every instinct bade him silence it; all his training told him _smite, smite now_ but he had nothing left to give.

And then all that power snapped, sudden as a branch breaking. Cullen gazed up at Fenris through tear-blurred eyes in time to see his hand leave Amelle’s chest. If not for his other arm wrapped tight about the small of the mage’s back, Cullen felt certain Amelle would have fallen.

It didn’t matter. He was too late. He was always too late.

Cullen couldn’t feel her. Her magic had blown out like a candle caught in a breeze.

“Fenris,” Cullen whispered again, brokenly, “what have you done?”


	51. Chapter 51

Floating on her back, Kiara kicked lazily through the water. The sun was warm on her cheeks, and the sky a perfect blue dome, unmarred by even a single cloud. Dragonflies spun above her, jewel-toned and sparkling, and the birds in the trees serenaded her. One of the dragonflies dipped lower, dancing figure-eights just above her nose. The world smelled of wildflowers and summer, and she was _happy_.

A stone crashed into the water near her head, spraying her with water, ruining her sun-drenched reverie. The dragonflies fled. The birds stopped singing. Startled, she nearly took in a mouthful of water. Flipping around to see where the disturbance had come from, she spied her brother on the bank of the pond, one hand on his hip and the other idly toying with another stone.

“You planning on staying in there forever, lazybones?” he called, throwing the second stone. It flew far wide and the splash didn’t even touch her.

“Good to know you still can’t aim to save your bloody life,” she shouted back, grinning. She swam toward him with great, distance-eating strokes. The air was slightly chilly when she pulled herself from the pond, and Carver held her warm, dry clothes out of reach a moment before relenting and handing them back to her.

“What are you doing here, Kiki?”

Kiara wrinkled her nose and shook her head, spraying them both with droplets. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Sitting next to her in a patch of sunlight, Carver nudged her shoulder with his. “Come on, K. There’s no one here to hear it.”

Fixing him with the most disdainful look she knew how to give, Kiara sniffed loudly. “I was having a lovely swim until some big thug ruined it.”

Carver’s smile seemed odd and out of place, too sad for the occasion. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, Kiara. Mother will be upset. Where’s Amelle?”

Kiara paused, caught in the middle of wringing the vestiges of pond from her hair. “I don’t remember.” The water dripping down her spine was suddenly icy, and her hands trembled with cold, aching to the bones. Her teeth chattered as she sought Carver’s gaze. Her brother seemed glum—more so even than usual—and Kiara reached out to grab his hand, but he pulled away.

“You can’t stay here,” he said.

“Why? You think this is your bloody pond now?”

“Not the pond, stupid. _Here_. Mother’ll kill me if she finds out. You were supposed to be watching Amelle. What’ll she say if you show up here now?”

Rolling her eyes, Kiara lay back. She still felt cold, but the heat from the sun began to warm her the instant she lay still and closed her eyes. Peaceful. Quiet. “Amelle’s a big girl now, Carver. She can look out for herself. She’d probably prefer it, frankly.”

 _Carver_ , she thought. Something sat just on the edge of memory, teasing her. Something about Carver. There was a flash—red and noise and anger and tears and _Carver, wake up, the battle’s over_ —but Kiara couldn’t place it. “Carver? Don’t be an ass. Let’s go for a swim and forget about this, okay?”

Carver didn’t answer.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. This puzzled her only an instant and then even the confusion was gone, too. She was sprawled next to the edge of a different pool, one not nearly so sweet and blue and perfect. The pillow of grass had been replaced with hard stone. She shivered. Dank water dripped from above, filling the little basin. The air smelled slightly but persistently of sulphur. The mild phosphorescence of the stones would have seemed almost beautiful if not for the pressing darkness everywhere else in the little cavern. A lone fish, bright jewel-green and slender, twisted its way through the water of the little pond, pausing every time it passed beneath her gaze.

“Of course it would be you.” The voice was strained and ragged and pushed to the limits of endurance. The sound send the fish darting away, and when Kiara turned her head, she saw Anders. He was naked, his body covered in dirt and grit and blood, his hair loose about his shoulders, lank with sweat and grime. “The Maker’s sense of humor is a cruel one.”

A spike of rage brought her to her feet, but as soon as she was standing, she couldn’t for the life of her remember why she’d been so angry. Anger seemed so useless, really. And it wasted so much energy. When she spoke, her voice was even and steady and perhaps even a little bit genuinely interested. “What are you doing?”

Anders gazed at her, sullen and wary. “I should think it’s fairly obvious. I’m trying to dig my way out.”

He turned away from her then, and began scraping his nails along the stone. His fingertips were raw, mangled, hardly recognizable as human. For every furrow he managed to gouge out, a tiny rain of stones and earth fell from above, filling the grooves.

“I don’t think it works that way,” she remarked. “Why don’t you just heal your hands?”

“Why don’t you just shoot me and end this? Isn’t that what you said you’d do if you saw me again?”

She held her hands wide. “I have no bow.”

He mimicked her gesture, his lip curled in derision. “I have no magic.”

The water dripped behind her, steady as a heartbeat, and she scratched her head. Something seemed strange here, too, and not just because she’d never heard of a mage _losing_ his magic before. At least, not without becoming Tranquil in the process, and there was certainly nothing tranquil about Anders. The mage watched her with the intense glare of a caged animal, waiting for punishment. Growling a curse under his breath, Anders turned back to his futile digging. For every handful of dirt he loosened, another handful fell to take its place. Again, and again, and again.

“Is this the Fade?” Kiara asked. “Everything seems strange here. Not quite right.”

“You’re the one who’s not quite right, Hawke. I’m just trying to escape.”

“You always were.”

Anders whirled at this, eyes very nearly glowing blue. Sparks of _wrongness_ filled his gaze. For some reason, this didn’t startle her. A part of Kiara—a very dim, very far away part—urged her to be angry, _so very angry._ But the anger was distant, wasn’t really a part of her, wasn’t worth worrying about. 

“I deserve freedom. We all deserve freedom,” Anders spat.

She shrugged, and Anders slammed a fist into the wall. She heard bones break, and then a deeper, lower, more menacing rumble. A fine rain of dust swiftly became a downpour of earth. She was covered to her knees before she knew it, and to her waist before she even attempted to move.

Unsurprisingly, she met with little success. The stones pressed in upon her, covering her breasts, her neck.

Anders laughed, wild and mad. “Freedom,” he said the moment before the falling rocks covered them both. “Of course. This is the only way. It was always the only way.”

“You broke it,” Kiara whispered back as everything disappeared in a flash of red light and screaming and _there can be no turning back_. “You broke the whole world.”

When she opened her eyes this time, she recognized the clinic in Darktown. Turning her head, she saw the filth had been scoured from the walls and windows. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating window-boxes above her bed, filled to overflowing with herbs and flowers. She recognized a few as things Amelle had always asked her to keep an eye out for: elfroot, Harlot’s Blush, spindleweed.

Kiara tried to push herself upright and failed. Her arms remained frozen at her sides and her legs were anchored, immovable. Panic set her heart racing, but only for a moment. Then an eerie sort of peace fell. It wasn’t so much that she stopped panicking—the panic simply… faded until she was aware of it, but no longer _feeling_ it. She felt her heart slow within her breast, and she smiled, because at least she was in a pretty room.

“What under the Maker’s blue sky are _you_ doing here?”

Kiara’s smile widened. “Amelle,” she said by way of greeting. “Mely, I’ve been looking for you _everywhere_. Come over here. I can’t see you. And I … can’t seem to move just now.”

Her sister wore a pretty blue dress—far too pretty for the clinic, certainly—and a troubled expression, not unlike Carver’s. “Carver,” Kiara said aloud, “How odd to think of Carver after all this time. Poor, stupid, heroic idiot.”

“What do you mean you can’t seem to move?”

“Just that,” Kiara replied. She’d have shrugged if she could manage it. “It’s not terribly important. I’m just so glad to see you. But are you unwell? You look so tired.”

Amelle did look tired. Above the blue dress—blue as a sky, blue as a pond, blue as the gown of a favorite doll—her skin was too pale, her cheeks too thin. Even her green eyes seemed too pale, drained of their usual color. A little cat with bright green eyes leapt up onto the bed and padded over to Kiara’s side. For a moment, she thought it was an orange tabby, but then the light shifted and she saw it was grey. Strange. But not strange enough to waste a thought on. Thoughts were so very hard to grasp.

Amelle touched the top of the cat’s head and it leaned into her fingers. None of the worry disappeared from her sister’s face. “Let me try healing you, Kiara.”

“Don’t worry,” Kiara said. “I promise to hold still.”

For some reason this struck her as the funniest thing she’d ever thought in her life, and she began to giggle. It was difficult. Her breath was hard to catch. When Amelle stopped, mid-gesture, and frowned at her, Kiara only giggled harder. “Don’t you get it? I can’t move. Of _course_ I’ll hold still. It’s _funny_ , Mely. You should laugh, because it’s _funny_.”

“Kiara…”

“Oh, you sound so concerned. It’s fine, Amelle. Everything is fine. Mother won’t be angry now I’ve found you. Carver was sure she’d be mad. But here you are, safe and sound.”

Amelle pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed gentle circles there. Kiara almost asked her to do the same for her, but Amelle looked as though she needed it more. The cat, so small it hardly registered as weight, leapt onto Kiara’s stomach and walked echoing circles before curling into a tiny ball. Kiara wished she could reach out and cup her hands around it, but her limbs remained resolutely fixed.

“Amelle? Do you remember that doll? The one with the blue dress?”

Amelle’s eyes widened slightly and her hands dropped heavily back to her sides. “Lizzie?”

“You brought her everywhere with you. Carver used to laugh at you and call you a sissy. But you didn’t care.”

Amelle’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “I loved that stupid doll.”

“I remembered something though, when I was thinking about her dress. You would get mad at her. Whenever I got mad at you, you’d get mad at Lizzie. You’d say ‘Grow up, Lizzie. Be a big girl. Be bigger and nicer and happier and Kiri will let us play with her. Be better, Lizzie. Be _better_.’”

The smile slid from Amelle’s face as she bit her bottom lip, and her eyes were oddly bright in the clinic’s golden light. “I don’t remember that, Kiara.”

Kiara found she could not even move her neck now, but she could still smile. Apologetically. She rather wished breathing didn’t hurt quite so much, but as there was nothing to be done about it she merely took what breath she could and said, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Mely. Sometimes… I was jealous of that doll in her pretty blue dress.” Kiara paused, considered, continued, “And I was jealous of you. Your secret magic lessons with Father. His eyes lit up. He doted on you. It was… Carver took it worse, but that _look_ on his face. The _pride_. He was so _proud_ of you. So sometimes I was mean to you, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Kiara, please, you sound… very odd. Your breathing. Your… words. Let me just…”

“No, there’s no time. I have to go to sleep or I’ll never wake up, and Sebastian will be angry.”

Kiara felt the faintest hotcold thrum of Amelle’s power as she closed her eyes, but then, like everything else, it too was gone. Gone in a moment of pain at her cheek, and blue eyes, and silence.

This time when she opened her eyes—or thought she’d opened her eyes; it _felt_ as if she’d opened her eyes—she was met only with darkness. No familiar faces or places. No water or dragonflies or glowing stones or clusters of medicinal herbs. No sister or sweet little kitten. She could _feel_ the dark against her skin, slithering and cold and _wrong_ , like a million insects with a million legs and bellies and wings, but she could not move. She could do nothing but stare and blink and pray to wake, gasping and pulling for each breath while the dark pressed in and her heart beat on, too slowly.

She’d always been so very afraid of the dark.

#

Because he couldn’t be at her side every moment of every day, and because he didn’t trust that some fear-mongering fool wouldn’t slip in and try to end the Champion of Kirkwall for good, Sebastian had guards—guards Captain Elias trusted—posted at all times. One outside the door, and a second inside.

He knew how easy the palace walls were to scale, after all. He used to do it himself, when he was hiding from nursemaids and avoiding court functions. He rather wished he could do so now. On the first day he’d been utterly overwhelmed with requests for audiences and meetings and calls for him to preside in judgment over some case or another. On the second day, there was another burning in the city. By the time he dispatched Captain Elias, the victim was dead and the crowd dispersed. He asked for more patrols. He was cynical about how much they’d help.

Also on the second day, Sebastian had been somewhat relieved to find his father’s steward, Corwin, still alive, and he wasted no time restoring the man to the post Goran had chased him from. The man was an invaluable font of information. He knew exactly which requests were important, and which could be shuffled to lower lords and magistrates and secretaries. Sebastian, a little wild-eyed, let the man do as he wished, listened when he spoke, heeded his advice, and began to feel a little like his new position might be manageable after all.

Hawke had been… sleeping for three days. He refused to even think the word _dying_ , though he knew the antidote—had it been viable—should have shown signs of working long before this. While he attempted to make sense of his new role, while he organized staff, while he fought off fawning attempts at ingratiation, she slept, and struggled to breathe, and—he had to believe— _fought_.

When he wasn’t reading missives, hearing reports, or answering questions, Sebastian prayed. He recited the Chant with as much fervent belief as he’d ever felt. His knees ached and he was exhausted from lack of sleep, but still he prayed.

And for as many hours as Steward Corwin could steal for him each day, he sat at Hawke’s side. He prayed there, too.

But on this, the third day, Corwin had orders to turn everyone away. And Sebastian took himself to Hawke’s room, to wait.

Sebastian inclined his head to accept the guard’s salute before entering the chamber. The second guard also saluted, and Sebastian thought he recognized the same dark eyes as he remembered from the trap. Before he could ask, however, the knight inclined his head and closed the door, leaving Sebastian alone with the healer.

Turning away from the bed, the healer curtsied hastily. She was a small woman, her dark hair liberally threaded with silver, over a face he imagined must have been considered beautiful in her youth. It was worn now, as though time had not been kind to her, but her eyes were still large and pale and lovely. He found he could not meet them for long; their color reminded him too sharply of Elthina’s eyes, of Hawke’s.

Her brow furrowed and she clasped her hands before her. “Y-your Highness, I would have sent for you if there was any change. She is… as she was, I’m afraid.”

He nodded, unsurprised but still wounded by her assessment. “Thank you,” he said. “You have been very dedicated, and I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.”

“Jessamine, Your Highness.”

Sebastian sighed as he crossed the room. Hawke rested pale and unmoving, her labored breaths coming too few and far between. The scratch on her cheek had faded so much he had to squint to see it, and only managed to spot it because he knew where to look. Her hair had been washed, brushed, and fanned out around her, a bright cloud. Too bright, really. For someone on her—no. 

“Your accent, Jessamine. You’re from Kirkwall originally?”

“Yes, Highness. Many years ago now, but… but I thought it might be safer. If I tended to her. I-I know what it means to be Champion of Kirkwall. I do not share the prejudices… so rampant in Starkhaven at present.”

He regarded her steadily for a moment, willing to risk the sadness stirred by the sight of her eyes, before repeating, “Thank you. I will see you commended for your loyalty. But for now… for now you may go.”

“Go, Highness?” the woman took a startled step backward and nearly fell when the back of her leg knocked into a chair. “Have I displeased you in some way?”

“Not at all. It’s only… it has been three days.”

Realization widened her eyes. “I… understand.”

“I thought you might. I would… be alone, for this.”

The woman curtsied again, deeply. When she rose, she hesitated a moment before gently pressing her fingertips to the back of his hand. “Your Highness. Try not to give up hope. Even if—it is important never to give up hope. We cannot know the Maker’s plan.”

He turned away before she could see the tears her words had brought to his eyes. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said. “Whatever else happens—thank you.”

The second guard left with the healer, closing the door quietly. As soon as they were gone, Sebastian sank to his knees beside the bed and took Hawke’s cold hand between his warm ones. It seemed impossible that such delicate, slender fingers had the strength to handle even the most troublesome bows, but he’d never seen her lift a weapon she couldn’t shoot. They were hands that couldn’t fight their way out of this scrape, though. It troubled him these hands had spent nearly all their time warring. He… he wished she’d been able to see peace, for a time. There was… there was too much she’d yet had to do, too much life left to live.

Maker’s Light always killed on the third day. Always. It wasn’t hopelessness. It was reality.

“I pray you aren’t suffering. I hate to think of you suffering,” he told Hawke. Her eyelashes fluttered. “I-oh, Kiara. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

He knelt at her beside until the candles began to gutter. Then he rose, joints creaking their displeasure, and began to light a new round. He was determined she would go in light, in warmth. It seemed the least he could do.

“Mmm,” came a soft noise from behind him. His heart stopped and only started thudding again when the taper he held burned the ends of his fingers. He dropped it and it extinguished itself before it hit the desk. He—it could have burned the entire palace down, and he’d neither have noticed nor cared. It was Hawke’s voice, he was certain of it.

He’d never heard of a Maker’s Light victim making noise. Never. _Never_.

“Mmmllle.”

 _I’ve fallen asleep_ , he thought as the blood rushed to his head and the world around him began to spin. _I’m dreaming._

But it was no dream. Hawke’s eyes were sleepy but open, and she’d managed to turn her head in his direction. And he realized then her breath no longer sounded quite so strained. He stumbled and half-fell beside her, his fingertips brushing her hair, her brow, her cheekbones. One hand closed around her fingers. She was _warm_. She blinked at him, the corner of her mouth twitched, and she sighed a syllable that almost, _almost_ could have been the beginning of his name.

He bent his head and wept.

It occurred to him he ought to have called for the healer at once, but… but for some reason he could not shake the strange feeling that Hawke’s current wakefulness might be a miracle that would be shattered if another person witnessed it. He held tight to her hand, she kept blinking and breathing, and after an age she whispered, “Don’… cry. S-s-sorry.”

Her voice was weak and rough and so very tentative, but it was _hers_. It was hers and she wasn’t dead. He turned from her in a frenzy, nearly crashing into one of the posts at the foot of the bed. His hands shook as he poured water into a waiting glass. More liquid splashed to the ground and over his trembling hands than actually entered the glass, but he kept pouring until it was full. Then, as carefully as an acolyte thinking his cup full of Andraste’s ashes, he crossed the room and set the glass on the table beside the bed.

Sitting next to her, leaning against the headboard, Sebastian tenderly eased Hawke from the bedcovers, shifting her until her still-unsteady body rested against his. She was _warm_. Her head lolled against him but he braced her with one hand while the other guided the cup of water to her mouth.

At first she could take no water. The liquid dribbled from her lips and splashed onto her nightgown, but Sebastian was patient. Cradling her, he waited a moment and then tried again. A little of the water stayed this time, and he was gratified— _overjoyed_ —when she swallowed. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and then she managed to drink a little more. After a few sips, a few precious sips, he took the glass away. She was able to tilt her head and meet his eyes. Hers were clearer now, more aware, and when he whispered her name, she smiled.

“Amelle?”

He frowned, concerned. “She’s not here, Hawke.”

“Ki-kiara,” she amended, with sleepy irritation.

“Kiara,” he repeated, with the reverence of a benediction. “We’re in Starkhaven. Amelle’s in Kirkwall. She’s safe in Kirkwall.”

Confusion furrowed her brow. “Oh. N-not here? Thought… oh.” Her fingers inched toward her belly, curling into a soft fist.

Tentative and terrified, he asked, “Do you—how do you feel?”

“‘M’okay.”

His breath caught at the apex, almost a sob, but he managed to hold himself together. “Okay,” he repeated. “You have to rest now. You were… you were very sick. You must rest.”

“Don’go.”

“I won’t,” he whispered. “I promise.” He tightened his arm around her shoulders and she turned her face, pressing her cheek to his chest. He felt her relax, and her breathing slowed—but naturally, this time, as one about to drift to sleep. Leaning his head backward, he rested the back of his skull against the bedframe. The pull of sleep was strong, and he recited all the most thankful, most grateful verses of the Chant to keep himself wakeful.

“S-sebastian? Your… clothes. Are so… _nice_.”

The words were slurred and somnolent, but enough to bring tears to his eyes once again, enough to make him smile. “Sleep, Kiara,” he said. “We’ll talk when you wake. Sleep now.” 

She didn’t move, but she pressed her face to him a little more firmly and sighed again. Without thinking, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep,” he whispered.

This time, he let the candles gutter. Then, and only then, with Kiara Hawke alive and safe in the circle of his arms, did he allow himself to join her in sleep.

#

Kiara woke to a woman’s scream and the sound of breaking glass. Though she wanted to jump to her feet and reach for a weapon, what she actually managed was to open her eyes. Rather slowly. The lids felt heavy as lead, and it took a great deal of effort to keep them lifted. She was sleeping half propped-up, her face pressed into a pillow of white silk.

Warm white silk. Warm white silk that appeared to be _breathing_. 

This was so startling she sat up before realizing being upright might be beyond her abilities. An arm attached to the white pillow reached out to steady her and she gasped when she recognized her pillow as _Sebastian_. Even half asleep and disconcerted, she couldn’t stop the flood of heat that rushed to her cheeks. His eyes narrowed in concern and he shifted his posture, bringing his other hand to her warm cheek to help hold her head steady. She shivered even though the heat of her blush ensured she wasn’t cold. 

“Easy,” Sebastian urged. “Easy, Kiara. You’re safe.”

A serving girl—the source of the scream, no doubt—knelt on the floor, carefully retrieving pieces of what had evidently once been a water jug. When she heard Sebastian speak, she jumped to her feet and curtsied deeply. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn’t expecting—I dropped the water. I’m so sorry.”

Sebastian smiled at the girl. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I wonder if you might be so good as to send for tea, though. And for the healer, Jessamine, if you would.”

The girl bobbed in another swift curtsy, her skirt tinkling with the broken pottery she’d collected.

Kiara wasn’t sure which part of her current situation rated as oddest. For a minute, she believed she was still dreaming. The room was richly furnished, but a little chilly—the fire had died, and she was no longer pressed up against her warm human pillow. Sebastian eased himself from the bed even as he helped her lean against the headboard. He was wearing clothes finer than anything she’d seen him wear before. Her breath caught. He was Sebastian and not-Sebastian—his clothes and his manner and the subtle expectation in his voice that his requests would be attended to instantly—and she’d almost have thought him a stranger if not for the familiar concern in his familiar eyes.

She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. She thought she remembered an arrow, but it hadn’t really _hit_ her, had it? Everything had gone blue. She’d heard of things going red or black, but blue seemed atypical. Her arm moved slowly, stiffly, but it did as she asked. Bringing her hand to her cheek, she felt the faint, raised mark the arrow had left in its wake.

“It was poisoned,” Sebastian offered. She blinked at him, hearing the words and still not quite comprehending their meaning. “Have you heard of Maker’s Light?”

Kiara’s eyes widened. “It’s a myth.”

He shook his head. “I assure you it isn’t. Not in Starkhaven. Not amongst the Royal Archers.”

Her throat was dry and no amount of swallowing seemed adequate to the task of moistening it. “So I…?”

Sebastian pushed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I knew we gave you the antidote too late. It’s not a forgiving poison. I thought you… yesterday…”

Kiara stared into the palms of her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers just because she could. The longer she was awake, the more she felt her sluggish blood quickening. “And we’re… in Starkhaven?”

“Aye.”

“This… isn’t an inn.”

“…No.”

“Sebastian?” She pondered something a moment, something about the serving girl and the curtsies and the words she’d spoken. “She called you _Your Highness_. And she _meant_ it.”

“Aye.”

For some reason his troubled expression only amused her. “You’ve been busy while I was sleeping, Your Highness.” 

Sebastian was _not_ amused. “Not you. Not that. Please.”

Her mirth was impossible to maintain in the face of his wretchedness. “Are Varric and Isabela here?”

Sebastian shook his head again, hands clasped behind his back as he paced to the table that ought to have held an ewer of water and didn’t. He then turned to the fireplace and began building a new blaze, stacking kindling and logs with the precision of a carpenter building the frame of a house. “No,” he replied. “I—they saw you go down. I tried to tell them to escape. I hope they did. I had only the one hope of getting you an antidote in time, and… and to be honest, I rather thought we were doomed.”

“Oh,” she gasped. “But—Amelle was _here_ , wasn’t she? She had a cat. She looked so tired.”

He regarded her steadily for a few moments before shaking his head. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Of course.” Fragments of images—a pond, a cave, a clinic—chased each other through her mind. “She… wasn’t here?”

“She’s in Kirkwall, Kiara. Even if I’d sent for her right away—which I did not, with the state of the city, and knowing it would be both futile and dangerous—she’d still be en route.”

And even though she was still confused—she _remembered_ talking to Amelle, didn’t she? She would have sworn she’d talked to her sister—she couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t reverted to the more remote _Hawke_ since she’d woken. And she… liked the sound of her name on his lips. His accent did beautiful things to the last syllable. 

The tea arrived then, brought in by a different serving girl. Her eyes widened when Sebastian moved to take the tray from her, and she appeared caught between protesting and being afraid protesting might get her in trouble. Sebastian gave her a gentle smile and lifted the tray from her hands. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe I can handle it from here.”

“Y-your Highness?”

“I do have a task for you, though. Would you find the Steward for me? Ask him to attend when he’s able, and inform him the Champion of Kirkwall has woken.”

The girl left, and Sebastian poured the tea. She found herself surprised when he added just the amount of milk and sugar she preferred without having to ask. Then again, given their experience in Hercinia, she could hardly be surprised at _anything_ Sebastian knew about her. He’d known about her love for her mother’s tea-set, after all. It was only a very short step from tea-set to how-one-takes-that-tea.

“You’re… who _are_ you?” she asked wonderingly.

The cup rattled in the saucer, but he caught himself before the tea spilled. Perching beside her, he offered the cup. She thought she felt his fingers tremble as she took the tea from him, but mostly she was only overwhelmingly pleased she could hold the saucer on her own. The first sip tasted of perfection and she closed her eyes, sighing happily as it soothed her throat and warmed her belly.

When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her intently, his expression caught between unhappiness and distress and resignation. “I am just the same as I ever was,” he insisted. “I comprehend the responsibility I’ve accepted, but in some ways it is no different than—” he searched for a proper example and then waved, taking in his fine garments, “—than these garments I wear. Trappings. The things I value—the beliefs I hold—a crown doesn’t change them. It _will not_.”

Her lips parted and she cast about for the right words. “I never thought it would,” she finally said. “For some it might, certainly. Not for you. I… I always believed that. Even when… even when this wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Want,” he observed sadly, “has very little to do with any of this.”

“You’re… unhappy? I know you… wanted to stay with the Chantry.”

“I cannot be unhappy, not after you…” Sebastian faltered, and his cheeks colored faintly. “I asked the Maker for a sign. He sent one. It does no one any good to defy Him. Perhaps I have been stubborn, but I have learned my lesson.”

This time it was her trembling that set the teacup rattling in its saucer. “The last time you spoke of a sign from the Maker you were vowing to bring the might of Starkhaven down on Kirkwall.”

Even as she spoke, she wished she could take the words back. She bit the end of her tongue and pretended the slight pain she caused herself was the source of the sudden prickle of tears in her eyes. 

Sebastian stared at his folded hands so long she began to believe he would not answer at all. When he did speak, it was in a low, urgent voice. “I was wrong then, Kiara. I spoke in the heat of anger and despair. I knew I was wrong half an hour after I walked away from you.” He rubbed absently at the spot of the wound Amelle had struggled so much to heal. “The Maker saw fit to punish me for my transgression, for my presumption. He was wiser than I, but kind enough to let me live to put right my mistakes. I am… trying.” He closed his eyes, pained. “I will do all I can to prove myself once again worthy of your good opinion, even if it is impossible for you to grant it.”

Kiara sipped the dregs of her tea to buy herself a moment. Then she replied, “I will not lie to you: what you said then hurt me. Walking away without giving me a moment to explain myself hurt more. But I… forgave you a long time ago, Sebastian.” Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “Surely you don’t think I would travel from one end of the Free Marches to the other for someone who didn’t already _have_ my… good opinion.”

“I wondered if you weren’t keeping an eye on me.”

She snorted lightly. “If I’d thought I was going to require an executioner, I’d’ve brought Fenris. We both know you’re a better shot than I am, after all.”

“This is hardly a joking matter—”

Reaching out, she grasped his hand in hers. “Of course it’s a joking matter, Sebastian. We’ve been making ourselves miserable on account of misunderstandings for _weeks_ , and now we don’t have to do it anymore. It’s worth laughing about.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the lovely tea’s work or having had her worst fears assuaged at last, but she felt a great deal better. She rolled her shoulders and twisted her neck and dared to dream about actually rising from her bed without believing it an utter impossibility. 

Sebastian silently refilled her cup and then joined her with one of his own. 

Some of the anxiety had faded from his brow and he looked about to speak again when a soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of a woman Kiara didn’t know. She wore a soft blue robe with some kind of official-looking insignia on the breast. Even from her posture, Kiara knew this was no meek servant—the woman carried herself proudly, shoulders back and chin lifted. Still, she curtsied when she saw Sebastian. Kiara put the pieces together and realized this was likely the healer he’d sent for—it made sense. For all her bearing, she had a kind face and it was already wearing an expression of concern.

The healer didn’t seem familiar in any way until she spoke. Then Kiara had the oddest sense of having already _met_ her, somehow. She supposed—Amelle always insisted on speaking to her patients. Perhaps this Jessamine, too, had spoken to her often whilst she slept.

“A miracle after all, Your Highness.” The healer then bowed her head to Kiara. “Champion, it warms my heart to see you so recovered.”

“I—you watched over me? Your voice seems… I know it sounds strange, but it seems so familiar.”

The woman smiled and laughed a gentle, warm laugh. “I do tend toward the talkative while I work. At one point I believe I related the last hundred years of Starkhaven’s history. It’s possible you had very boring dreams. Now, how do you feel? Your color is good, and I’m pleased to see you sitting, but may I offer you a potion? A reviving draught, perhaps?”

Kiara waved this away. “Oh, no. Thank you. I hate the way those things taste, and they always leave me feeling a bit muddled afterward. I feel quite well actually. Tea has worked wonders, as it does. Give me another hour or so and I imagine I’ll be up for a turn on patrol or a jog about the royal gardens.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Sebastian retorted.

Kiara sent him a wry smile. “Joking. Again. But good to know you’re so concerned.”

The healer looked back and forth between them before saying, “It has been rather a stressful interlude for both of you.”

Sebastian stood, allowing Jessamine to step close. Kiara submitted to the woman’s poking and prodding and questions. When Jessamine was satisfied, she added, “I hope you’ll allow me to check up on you, Champion. I have… never seen a recovery quite like yours.”

Kiara shrugged one shoulder.

“Thank you,” said Sebastian. “And perhaps… perhaps it would be good for you to have someone with ties to Kirkwall to speak with. At least until Starkhaven comes to better understand you.”

A slight clearing of the throat came from the doorway, where a elderly man in perfectly pressed tunic of Starkhaven white and gold waited. “I may have an idea on that score,” he said. Then he bowed deeply to Sebastian, followed by a second, slightly shallower bow to Kiara, and introduced himself. “Steward Corwin, my lady. Welcome back.”

“An idea?” Sebastian asked.

Corwin’s wispy white hair danced as he bobbed his head. “Indeed. I believe you should present her to the court. Formally. And be certain to indicate the full extent that she is under the protection of Starkhaven and its Prince.”

Sebastian looked thoughtful, then nodded, and Kiara felt a strange nervous thrill run the length of her spine.

“Tomorrow,” she said firmly, as if decisiveness alone could make it happen. The healer clucked disapprovingly, but Kiara ignored her. “The sooner the better. I’ll be ready tomorrow. First, though, let me write to my sister. If… if she hears news of my illness from any hand but my own, there’s no saying what she’ll do.”

Jessamine crossed the room and found pen and ink and paper within the desk. “If you’ll permit me the impertinence, my lady, would you allow me to send the letter on your behalf? The couriers are used to me sending letters to Kirkwall, but… they do not know you. Many would think they have cause to fear you.”

Corwin frowned. “You believe a letter sent from the Champion might… go astray.”

Jessamine winced. “I fear a courier might not… hurry to do the Champion’s bidding.” She inclined her head apologetically, “Or even yours, Your Highness. But I have never given them cause to doubt me, and asking them to send a letter posthaste would not be strange. I still have family in Kirkwall, after all, and… recent events have made it more important for communication to be swift and secure.”

Sebastian’s expression was dark, but Jessamine reached out and laid gentle fingertips on his forearm. “It’s only that you’re… still finding your place, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Jessamine,” Kiara said. “It’s a kind offer, and I do need this letter to reach my sister as soon as possible. I would rather not take risks with the couriers, and if you think they’ll fly for you…”

“It is no trouble, my lady.”

Corwin and Sebastian spoke in low voices about the court presentation while Kiara wrote her letter, attempting to find the words her healer sister might find most soothing. She opted for honesty, but also pleaded with Amelle _not to come to Starkhaven._ She pushed away the wretched memories of their last fight. A letter delivered by an anonymous hand was no place for apologies, no matter how much she felt the need. When she was finished, she folded it and sealed it, pressing her ring—Hawke crest, as her Amell seal was in her desk in Kirkwall—into the warm wax. Jessamine left to see it sent off at once. Corwin followed, and when Kiara and Sebastian were once again alone, he sat near her, perched on the edge of the bed.

“Things are more dangerous here than you feared,” she stated.

“Aren’t they always?”

She waited for him to speak further, and when he didn’t, she asked lightly, “So, do I get to hear the story?”

“The story?”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Please. You always insisted it would take an army to regain your throne, but here you sit. You must have done something right. Or spectacular. I’m rather hoping for the latter, to own the truth.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It was a page torn from your book. I wouldn’t have—if things had been any different—but it worked.”

Kiara grinned. “I’ve been a terrible influence.”

Sebastian met her eyes, but instead of the return smile she expected, his expression was serious. “No,” he said. “Not terrible.” Then, finally, a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. “You’re going to like the part when I shot him through the hand, though. It was _exactly_ what you would have done.”

“Maker’s breath, Sebastian!” Kiara gasped, with faux astonishment. “Varric won’t even have to _embellish_.”

This bought another brief laugh, and even with the grand room and Sebastian’s finery, even with the unsettled city and missing friends, for what felt like the first time in an age she almost, _almost_ felt happy.


	52. Chapter 52

Kirkwall’s water was once again clean.  

Cullen repeated it again and again as he trudged through Hightown, his booted feet taking him to the Hawke Estate.  The water was once again safe. He could not quite rid his mind of the horrible image it seemed determined to cling to — Fenris and Amelle, both radiating so much light _,_ the elf’s hand inside the mage’s chest.

And then, nothing.  No noise, no light, no magic. Nothing.

In the oppressive silence that followed, Cullen’s training alone got him to his feet and made him rummage through Amelle’s pack until he found a stamina draught tucked safely away with the more mundane healing supplies.  He’d gulped it down, grimacing at the taste even as his mind cleared and as energy slowly seeped back into his limbs.  Enough to stand.  Enough to walk.  

“Take her home. Use that first escape route we passed.”  Fenris had given him a curt nod before hefting a far too limp and far too pale Amelle carefully — _gingerly_ — into his arms and, with brisk, determined strides, disappearing up the narrow passageway, leaving Cullen behind with her staff and her pack, and a spring that had likely never been so clear, so free from disease as it was now.  But at what price?

_What have we done?_

Gathering up the staff and Amelle’s belongings, he then made his way up the stairway, back up to the Gallows, to Kirkwall, to the Order, to any number of things he wasn’t completely certain he was prepared to face.

But Kirkwall’s water was clean. 

On his way out, Cullen spoke with Ser Hugh briefly, instructing him to put the newly-clean water into circulation.  Eyeing the staff, the knight gave him a curious look, reminding Cullen he’d told no one else about the threat — there’d been no time to tell anyone, no time for talk _._   There’d been time only for action and, _oh_ , there had been consequences.  There would be consequences still.

Perhaps it had been Cullen’s own disheveled appearance, perhaps the look in his eye, but Ser Hugh did not argue, did not press.  He simply saluted and hurried off to gather more men to collect water from the wells to be brought into the city proper.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but even the _air_ felt clearer; the sun shone a little brighter around pale, wispy clouds.  He could not remember such a beautiful day.  But as he knocked on the door to the Hawke Estate, Cullen wished for a leaden sky and cold, steadily falling rain — Fereldan weather. It would have suited his mood better. The sunshine only felt cruel.

Orana opened the door, and Cullen knew Fenris could not have got here very long before he did, for she looked pale and panicked, her eyes wide with fear.

“M-messere?” 

It did not seem possible so _many_ questions could be loaded into a single word.  Cullen swallowed hard, only to find his throat impossibly dry.  “Where is she?” he asked, stepping inside and cursing silently when his voice broke.

Orana closed the door behind him with a shaking hand.  “Upstairs,” she whispered.  There were tears in her eyes.  “Messere, please — p-please tell me what—”

_What have we done?_

“I… do not know,” was all Cullen said, was all he _could_ say, walking past the girl and up the stairs, his boots so heavy, so loud on the steps.  He had no idea where Amelle’s room was, but as he reached the second landing he heard the soft, plaintive tones of a dog’s whining.  He followed the sound down one hall with several doors — one of them slightly ajar.  Light came from within.  Cullen had very nearly had his fill of light, but this was the dancing amber glow of a fire in a hearth, not the otherworldly, blinding light that felt as if it had seared him throughout.

The door swung open silently, revealing Fenris in a chair pulled hastily to the bedside. One of the chair legs had caught the corner of the rug and was now rucked up messily underneath him.  The elf paid it no mind.  He sat, slumped forward, elbows upon his knees and hands clasped as if in prayer. His head was bowed, white hair hiding his features.  Amelle had already been divested of the filthy, sweaty robes, changed into a nightgown, and tucked into bed. Her hair was still damp against her brow, silent testament to her ordeal.  At the foot of the bed, the mabari hound was curled into an impossibly tight ball — far smaller than any beast that size ought to have managed.  But there he lay, curled against her leg, his head resting on his paws as he watched her with mournful, dark eyes.

She was still.  _Too_ still.  And Cullen still couldn’t sense her, couldn’t sense even the faintest twinge of magic around her.  His stomach sank.

_What have we done?_

“What in all the Void happened down there, Fenris?  What _was_ that?”

Fenris did not raise his head. He did not move at all. If he heard Cullen speak, he gave no indication of it.

Closing his eyes, Cullen offered up a brief prayer for strength. Clearly whatever had happened had gone… somewhat counter to Fenris’ intentions; the elf would not be so despondent, otherwise. But regret was not _answers_ , and Cullen wanted the latter.

“ _Fenris_ ,” he barked in the tone usually reserved for disobedient recruits. The elf jerked, his head snapping up and his eyes blinking. “Report!”

A series of emotions flitted across Fenris’ usually inscrutable face. Cullen wasn’t certain if it was only that Fenris was feeling things more strongly, or that he was somehow less in control of himself, but either way, this was the most unreserved he’d ever seen him. After passing through indignation and distress and irritation, Fenris’ expression settled on regret. And sorrow. The elf’s grief was palpable. Cullen understood it too well.

“She required… more lyrium,” Fenris said slowly, carefully, as though feeling out the syllables before he spoke them. Cullen didn’t dare look too closely at the shadows in Fenris’ gaze. The elf glanced down, flipping his hands over. The twining lines of lyrium were dark now, just markings without light or power. After a moment, Fenris closed his hands once again into fists and hunched over, shaking his head. “These markings… sometimes Danarius used them the way—the way you witnessed. But when I—Amelle _took_ —I didn’t anticipate it being so _much_ —and she—she required more lyrium.”

“No,” Cullen said, the word hard and cold and not at all tempered with the grief he felt. “She needed to stop.  _We_ needed to _stop._ ” Pacing to the window, he clenched one hand in the fabric of the curtain, uncertain if he wanted to let the sunlight in or remain in the dark. Finally he decided on light, and opened the curtain half-way. “Maker’s bloody breath, I should have been able to _stop her_. But I… I let myself get caught up in her hope. I let myself give everything to that sodding spring and it was too late. By the time I should have—could have—stopped her, I didn’t have anything _left._ ”

“Was it for naught?” Fenris asked quietly. “Is the water yet tainted?”

Cullen shook his head slowly, wearily. “Nothing of the corruption remains. The spring is clear. The wells are clear. Whatever it has done to her, that last…”

“It worked, then.”

Brow furrowing, Cullen moved away from the window and stood on the opposite side of the bed, staring down at Amelle’s still form. “But at what cost?”

“She lives,” Fenris said, his voice breaking on the final syllable. “She is a spirit healer. Surely she will—”

“At what cost?” Cullen repeated. “Fenris. She breathes. But her magic—her power—her _life_ —I… she _breathes_. That is all.”

Cullen didn’t think the elf even realized he was trembling, his head shaking in disbelief. “She will wake. She lives.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Cullen said, more gently, “She may wake.”

“She _will_ wake,” Fenris said firmly, with a hint of his usual intensity. “She is strong.”

“She may wake,” Cullen repeated. “And she may be… she may not be herself when she does. You—we—must be prepared.”

 _You broke her_ , whispered the voice in his head. _You failed her._

“You speak in riddles, templar.”

Cullen closed one hand into a fist. “You wish me to be frank? I cannot feel her magic. I cannot feel the unique… connection that was Amelle. Yes, the spring is healed. Yes, the corruption is gone. Yes, we were successful. Hopefully the poison will pass from the people it tainted, and hopefully no others will die. But Amelle is _broken_. I fear this… I fear the power so overloaded her, so abused her connection to the Fade, that when she released that last rush of magic, the recoil made her Tranquil. _That_ is what I fear, Fenris. There is no riddle to it.”

Fenris went still.  He appeared even to stop breathing, and Cullen saw too many of Fenris’ thoughts as he heard his words, as he grasped what they meant.  A muscle moved in his throat as he swallowed.  Several more seconds passed and soon Fenris breathed again, but it was shallow and labored.

He echoed the word in little more than a ragged whisper.  “Tranquil.”  He shook his head slowly, hands curling to fists.  “That cannot be.”

“The Rite of Tranquility utilizes both a templar’s skills and an intense burst of lyrium to sever a mage’s connection to the Fade,” he explained.  Fenris went pale — ashen — as he slowly shook his head.  “That… burst typically takes the form of the… the brand the Tranquil wear.  But—”

“No.”  Fenris’ voice shook slightly.  He clenched his jaw.  “It cannot be.”

Grimacing, Cullen looked away, but when his gaze fell on Amelle instead, he winced.  It hurt to look at her.  He’d failed her — she’d counted on him, she’d depended on him, she’d _trusted_ him, and he’d failed her.  He’d prided himself on knowing her power, on recognizing the feel of it well enough to know when she was pushing too far, too hard.  He had not felt that peculiar note in Amelle’s magic, the one that bespoke strain, the one that presaged nosebleeds and fainting.  And yet.  _And yet._   “We have no way of knowing until she wakes.”  The words were pulled from him one by one.  Slowly.  Painfully.  Swallowing hard, he forced himself to say the words.  “ _If_ she wakes.  But we may well have — however inadvertently — recreated the very circumstances the Order uses to render mages Tranquil.  You _must_ be prepared for that.”

It was not only Fenris who had to be prepared for such an outcome — the words Cullen spoke were also for himself _._

 _“C-couldn’t you consider her the… acting First Enchanter? You know, without the Circle or Harrowings or mages being made Tranquil?”_  

Kiara Hawke would never forgive him this.  He doubted she would forgive either of them, but Cullen knew how utterly he’d failed the Champion of Kirkwall.

 _“Perhaps it’s foolishness, but I… I trust you. I just… I just want her to be_ safe _. For once.”_

But he hadn’t kept Amelle safe — on the contrary, Cullen had done precisely the opposite of what Hawke had asked.  Cullen turned back to the window and the perfect, clear day on the other side of the glass.

“You are not certain this outcome is inevitable,” said Fenris quietly, and Cullen could feel the elf’s eyes boring into the back of his head.  A second or two passed before Cullen lifted a shoulder in a shrug.  

“I think it is… uncomfortably likely.  Enough so that I think we had better prepare ourselves.  I would say we ought to draft a letter to Hawke, but we neither of us know where she is right now.”  He let out a deep sigh.  “Fenris, you must understand—”

And in a flash, the elf was standing in front of him, and though his markings were still dark, something flared in his eyes, and Cullen saw the raw ache there, the shadows.  “What you do not understand, templar, is the depth of Amelle Hawke’s _strength._   We do not know what the future holds — _that_ is for the Maker Himself to know.  You of anyone I would expect to understand that.  What I know is that Amelle Hawke has all the strength and determination of her sister.  I will not believe such a thing until I have seen the outcome myself.”  He gritted his teeth and glared up at Cullen — and for a moment it felt as if there was no difference in height between the two of them — growling, “I will _not_ give up on her.”

And then Cullen understood _._  

“I see,” he said quietly.  He did not wish to cause Fenris more pain than he was already experiencing, but neither did he wish to encourage false hope.  After a long beat of silence, Cullen exhaled on a sigh.  “Then what do you expect to do for her?”

“As you have made clear there is little I can do but wait for her to wake.”  He sent a brief sidelong look toward the still figure in the bed.  “And then I will decide what must be done.  Even if it is to travel to Starkhaven myself and deliver such news to Hawke in person.”

Cullen thought for a moment how Hawke might react to that brand of information.  He swallowed hard, but said nothing.

“What I will _not_ do is anticipate the worst.  Not when I have seen the things she can do — they both come from… extraordinary stock, these Hawkes.  You would do well not to underestimate them, templar.”

Cullen wanted to believe Fenris, he wanted nothing more than to believe Amelle would yet be all right.  And perhaps that was his own failing — such a lack of faith.  But he had seen far too much in his years — and far too much in Kirkwall in particular — to feel any measure of comfort in _faith_ at the moment.

In a gentler tone, Fenris added, “I will remain here. I will… send for you, should things change. But you are weary.”

He wanted to protest, but the truth of Fenris’ words rang too clear. He _was_ weary. And he had a hundred responsibilities that would not wait. He could not sit in vigil, no matter how he might wish to.

“I will return when I’m able,” Cullen said.

Fenris fixed him with a shrewd look. “Return once you are _rested_ , Knight-Commander.” The elf cast a swift glance at Amelle, his expression somehow fond and despairing all at once. “It is what she would caution you to do.”

Cullen huffed a mirthless laugh. “You are right about that.”

“Then heed her.”

“She would tell you the same thing.”

The elf’s shoulders slumped minutely. “Yes.”

“Fenris…”

“You have said enough, templar.”

Cullen frowned. “I… I’m sorry. That’s all I was going to say. I’m so sorry.”

Once again, Fenris went unnaturally still. “We all made mistakes. But the water is once again safe. Amelle would—will—be pleased her risk was not in vain. As to the rest, time will tell.”

Cullen said nothing to this. He only went to Amelle’s side, and touched his fingertips briefly to her brow. Her skin felt unnaturally cool, almost clammy, but her breathing was deep and even. “Sleep well,” he whispered. “Wake whole.”

Nothing so overt as a flash of light or ripple of magic responded, but he almost thought he saw Amelle’s eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and for a moment—just a moment—it was enough to give him hope.

#

Fenris did not immediately return to Amelle’s bedside after the Knight-Commander left. Instead, he moved restlessly about the chamber, fixing the hang of the curtains, adding a log to the already-adequate fire, and rearranging the plates of untouched food Orana had left on the sideboard. He could scarce bring himself to look at the woman lying too still and silent behind him; every time he caught a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision he thought the word _Tranquil_ and everything went cold.

The templar had to be wrong. Amelle was merely sleeping, resting after an impressive expenditure of power, _that was all_. There would be an explanation for what Cullen believed was a disconnect from her gift.

There _had_ to be an explanation. Because if there was no explanation, and she was left one of those talking automatons Fenris had always found so eerie, he did not know what he would do. He did not know what _Hawke_ would do. As though somehow aware of his thoughts, the mabari whined and barked softly. Fenris was reminded—unpleasantly, uncomfortably—of Amelle’s capture at the hands of Grace and Thrask, of the way Hawke fell to pieces when she thought her sister dead. Would a Tranquil sister be better or worse? Would any part of the vibrant, laughing Amelle remain? Fenris clenched his hands into fists, but resisted the urge to put them through something—the wardrobe, a wall. It would not be. Amelle would recover.

She _had_ to recover. It was as he’d told the templar—she was stronger than this. She had to be stronger than this.

He wasn’t certain he could bear it, if she wasn’t.

Sinking into the chair he’d pulled up to her bedside, Fenris stared at her, forcing himself to _see_ her. She looked… she looked tired and wan and too pale, but otherwise unharmed. He’d seen her look so much worse. Truly, if she would only toss and turn, he would feel less concerned. The stillness frightened him. The stillness was all that rendered the sleep unnatural.

The stillness made him doubt. He was glad, at least, the Knight-Commander had gone, taking his doubts and fears with him. The room was only so big, and Fenris only so strong.

Slowly, almost tentatively, he reached out, wrapping his fingers around Amelle’s. She did not move.

“I am here,” he murmured. The mabari glanced at him with mournful eyes. “I will not leave you. Come back to me.”  But there came, as he’d expected, no answer at all.  Amelle simply lay there, pale and still, the only movement coming from her chest as she breathed slowly, evenly.  

Unfortunately, in the silence of the room, very little distracted Fenris from his thoughts.  In the past he’d had scarce reason or inclination to give much thought to mages or their fates.  It had all been… quite simple, really — mages were dangerous, their powers were dangerous, and if there was any measure that might make them _less_ dangerous, Fenris saw little that was negative about that.  If a mage had been rendered Tranquil, then there must have been a reason for it.  He’d given scant thought to the lives of those individuals selling their wares in the Gallows courtyard, their speech mild and monotone, their eyes blank, their thoughts perfectly ordered and utterly logical.  It was easy not to see a Tranquil, to look _past_ them, to not hear the deadened tone as they spoke.

It never mattered who or what they’d been before, because clearly they had been mages made Tranquil for a reason, and Fenris hadn’t much cause to care what that reason was.

And, of course, any conversation with Anders had done nothing to change Fenris’ mind on the matter.  The more the mage ranted and raved about the injustices of rendering mages Tranquil, the more Fenris dug in his heels, the more he’d believed it was a punishment worth meting out.

It hadn’t been until the day Hawke had been summoned to speak with Knight-Commander Meredith that Fenris had found himself even beginning to think about the Rite of Tranquility as anything other than a necessary measure.

As they’d spoken with the Knight-Commander’s assistant, a Tranquil mage named Elsa, Fenris could not help but wonder why a templar had not been enlisted for such a position.  It was true the young woman had seemed… inordinately organized, and Meredith also likely valued Elsa’s quietude, but Fenris also realized that day in the sunny courtyard at Templar Hall, there was something else the Tranquil possessed that Meredith valued:  she would follow every one of Meredith’s orders, without question.  Not even a templar could make that boast — a templar, still hindered by emotion, by the ability and autonomy to question, to challengethe Knight-Commander, would be no use to her at all.

He tried to picture Amelle without her compassion, without her stubbornness, without the fierce determination to _be_ that she and her sister shared.  It was a picture that would not form.  

And if _he_ had been the one to do this to her — _he_ , with these thrice-blighted markings, had been the one to add a single volatile element to Amelle’s _experiment…_

Nothing Hawke could do to him would compare to that he’d have done willingly to himself.

Amelle had said it before, and more than once — being made Tranquil was a fate worse than death.  She’d feared it, and he — not knowing better, not knowing _her_ — had dismissed those fears.

How quickly her fears had become his own.

His fingers twitched, tightening around hers. He longed for something to fight, for something to face and kill. He understood such things. Being forced to wait and see, to hope against hope… Fenris didn’t know what to do with helplessness.

And yet the thought of leaving her side was unbearable. So he wrestled down his anxiety and his desire to move and do and fight and instead held tight to that slim, cold hand and silently pleaded as he’d never done for anything before for her to return to him healthy and whole.

#

The first thing Amelle realized was that her head was resting on a pillow, but she wasn’t sleeping on her side. Strange, that. It was also strange that she couldn’t quite force her body to move or her eyes to open. Strangest of all were the flickering images caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. Amelle often remembered her dreams—it was, she thought, part of having such a strong connection to the Fade. But now, flat on her back with her head on a pillow, she remembered the clinic and a blue dress and her sister. And a cat, curled on her paralyzed sister’s stomach, blinking at her with jewel-green eyes and a somehow sheepish expression.

Amelle felt as though she’d been asleep for a hundred years.

Perhaps that was why she couldn’t so much as twitch her fingers. Or frown. She most certainly wanted to frown. But all the effort she could manage didn’t even change the steady, slow tenor of her breath.

Temporarily giving up on moving, Amelle listened. Even if the warmth of him curled at her side hadn’t been a giveaway, Cupcake snuffled in his sleep. By the low whine she suspected he was dreaming of chasing cats. Though she couldn’t move her hand, she could feel his breath on her fingers. Fire crackled in the hearth. Rain pattered against the window, oddly soothing.

Her chest hurt. Not intensely, but the ache was deep and persistent, and every breath made certain she did not forget the pain. And such a peculiar pain it was. Almost as though—

If she’d been able to move, she would have jerked upright. If she’d been able to speak, she would have cried out. The faint memories of Kiara and the clinic were abruptly banished by brighter recollections: the spring, the _healing_ , the blue-silver-white light.

Fenris. 

_Do you trust me?_

And, Maker help her, she’d said _yes._

Try as she might, she had trouble remembering what happened next. Pain and… and not-pain. Somehow mixed together in equal measure. White light. _Life_. And so much power. She’d never felt power like that before, never even imagined it. Even as she’d been reveling—what illness could stand before such power?—she’d felt her connection to Compassion fraying, going strange and thin and ragged. Going somehow wrong _._ The Fade spirit had been screaming.

And then darkness. And the clinic. And Kiara. Who had, in spite of clearly being not quite well, seemed more like her old self. It had almost been reassuring.

When Amelle tried to grasp those memories, they faded at once. She felt as though she had, perhaps, dreamed herself in the clinic for a very long time even before her sister appeared, but trying to follow time in a dream was beyond futile.

She rather wished her current paralytic predicament didn’t echo her dream-sister’s quite so closely.  She’d been standing in her dream, though — she remembered that clearly, looking down at Kiara.  Indeed, she clearly remembered releasing a flash of healing magic into her sister.  On one of those deep, even breaths, Amelle felt for her magic, felt that quiet place where her mana pulsed, alive and waiting for her.  That gentle psychic touch — tentative, for she remembered the last time she’d woken up from such a sleep — found her mana intact and full, but something about that brief, questing touch hurt too, as if she’d been bruised throughout.

With another breath, Amelle focused on opening her eyes, but they felt as if they’d been sealed shut.  If she’d been able to reach up and wipe the sleep and grit from her eyes it might’ve helped, but _that_ was a goal entirely out of reach.

If nothing else, she knew without looking she was home.  Whatever else had happened, she was home and in her own bed.  Amelle was also satisfied this wasn’t a dream — she had always had far more control over her dreams than that.  If she couldn’t move, it was, sadly, a circumstance rooted in reality.

She swallowed, gratified to learn she could, parting her lips and breathing in deeply and out again.  Better.  After what felt like hours of effort, Amelle opened her eyes enough to see a blurry sliver of greys and blues and browns.  She tried to blink away the gumminess clinging to her lids and her fingers twitched with the renewed urge to rub at her eyes.

Another blink brought things slowly into focus — Cupcake’s rounded form was pressed against her leg much as she’d thought; the window was a dim square of grey all streaked with rain; the fire was blazing brightly, cheerfully in the hearth, at odds with the rain tapping against the window; the chair by the fire was… no longer by the fire.  It had been dragged close to the bedside, and held Fenris, utterly asleep. His head had lolled to the side, white hair falling messily across his forehead and into his eyes.  A small cushion had been propped against his shoulder and a quilt had been thrown over him — Orana’s touch.  

Amelle’s eyes closed again, heavily, and she tried to shift her body onto her side.  Her body was stiff and sore and she felt almost certain that if she could just get onto her side, everything would slowly start making its way to better.  She took another breath and tried to move, fingers twitching as she tried to grip the coverlet and pull herself onto her side.  

It was an ambitious plan for someone who’d just managed to open her eyes after three attempts.  Amelle looked down at her hand — and realized she was frowning at her hand, which was also an improvement — and tried to grasp the blanket.  Cupcake, sensing the movement, jerked awake immediately and let out a soft whine.

There was a soft thud and the soft whisper of fabric falling.  “Amelle?”

Amelle blinked again and slowly shifted her gaze to find Fenris, the pillow on the floor and the blanket forgotten.  He looked for all the world like he’d been in the middle of levering himself forward and then stopped _— froze,_ really — both hands braced on either side of the chair as he stared at her.  

Fenris looked far too tense, far too concerned.  Cupcake, on the other hand, was the manifestation of relief, snuffling her hand and licking it, then shoving his massive head under her palm as if to encourage her to pet him.  Her thumb twitched gently across his forehead.

“Amelle?” Fenris said again, more slowly this time, never shifting his gaze from her.  

 _What happened, Fenris?  What did you do?  What did_ I _do?  Is the water clear?  Did it work?  Is everyone all right?_

But she could give voice to none of it; she’d expended most of her energy on things like opening her eyes and moving her fingers.  So she swallowed hard — her mouth was so dry — before licking her lips and trying a word.  “Fen…”  She frowned and was about to try again when a warm hand slipped under her head, gently supporting it as a cup of fresh, clear water hovered before her lips.

“It is clean,” he murmured, and Amelle heard a strange, thick quality to his voice she couldn’t quite identify.  “The corruption is gone.  We were victorious.  Now, drink.”

She drank. And if she’d ever tasted water so pure, she couldn’t remember it. The faintest echo of magic still lingered about the liquid. More than simple water, it tasted of _healing_. She managed to push her head back against Fenris’ hand when she’d had enough, and he set the glass on the bedside table, all without releasing her. When he turned back, his eyes were still troubled—wounded—as he peered at her closely.

She wondered what it was he was looking for.

Moistening her lips, she met his eyes and said, “Fenris.”

Because one hand was still cradling the back of her head, she felt the jolt go through him. It was as though every muscle in his body tensed for a breath, a heartbeat, and then he bowed his head, his face crumpling. And _Maker’s breath_ , _this_ was relief. It was relief so violent and palpable it made her pulse race. She couldn’t begin to wonder why he’d been so worried. Unless—unless she’d been asleep a _very_ long time. Or unless something had gone terribly wrong. She swallowed hard, wondering where Cullen was—whether he’d—

“F-fen-ris?”

Gently, so gently, he gathered her into his arms. He wasn’t wearing his armor, and the cloth beneath her cheek was thin enough she could feel the heat of him and hear the thudding of his heart. “I knew you were strong enough,” he whispered into her hair, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.

Long sentences were beyond her, no matter how much she wished to speak them. Instead, she concentrated very hard—not so easy when pressed up against a very warm, very grateful elf—and managed, “T-tell. Me.”

She felt him nod against the top of her head. The words came slowly at first, almost as though he, too, was having trouble making them form. As he described the burst of magic and Cullen’s fears afterward, she began to understand why. _Tranquil_. Perhaps it had been negligent of her, but such a possibility had never occurred to her. Not once. Even now the danger was past, she was not able to contain her shudder of horror. Fenris’ arms tightened briefly, comfortingly around her. _Tranquil. Maker._

“How l-long?”

“It is near dawn. You slept two nights, and the day in between. It was… I have never quite seen a sleep like it.” Again his arms tightened, almost, it seemed, involuntarily. “Amelle, you… the Knight-Commander felt no connection to the Fade in you. And the blood ma—Merrill. Merrill was here yesterday. She said you felt… distant. I—I must be certain—”

She huffed a breath meant to be laughter, but it emerged far too anemic. “No M-march. C-cullen.”

Again she felt him nod, but none of the tension left his limbs. “He will be sent for.”

Pressing her cheek against him with as much force as she could muster, she hummed an approving sound deep in her throat.  Fenris, she realized, was sitting on the edge of her bed as he held her, with no indication he planned on moving anytime soon.  He simply held her, and soon his warmth had soaked through her, to the point that the stiff soreness in her body slowly started to recede.  There was the temptation to reach for a rejuvenation spell, but after such a vast amount of magic exertion, it seemed wiser to refrain. 

“He will be sent for _eventually,_ ” he amended.  “But do not ask me to leave you now.”

“Won’t.”  Amelle closed her eyes and focused on the sound of Fenris’ heartbeat.  What she wanted to do was to wrap her arms around him as tightly as she could, until the word _Tranquil Tranquil Tranquil_ stopped circling like buzzards around her mind.  She breathed in a slow breath and let it out again.  Her chest still twinged with that strange ache.  “Y-you… stayed?”

That made Fenris pull back a fraction and look down at her.  “I was not going to leave you,” he chided gently.  “I fear my decision drove your maid to distraction.”

Though Amelle didn’t comment, she thought this unlikely — if Orana had something or someone to take care of, she probably focused on that over anything else.  Amelle let out a huff of breath that still wasn’t quite laughter and attempted a smile.  Evidently her attempt was less successful than she’d thought, for Fenris brushed her hair away from her forehead and began lowering her back against the pillows.  As she was about to protest, he very carefully situated her on her side and Amelle let out a contented sigh as he body settled into that more familiar, more comfortable position.  Cupcake pressed against the back of her legs, his body fitting snugly into the bend of her knees and let out a content canine groan as he settled in again.

“You are still exhausted.”  He brushed a kiss against her temple.  “Rest.”

Mustering a weak scowl, Amelle muttered, “No. Too much.”

“Too much rest?” Fenris asked, leveling a skeptical look at her.  “I doubt that.”

How could she tell him she felt like she’d been sleeping for an age, at least?  “Not… tired.”

She wouldn’t have thought Fenris’ skeptical look could get _more_ skeptical.  “Amelle.  You must rest.”  When her weak scowl graduated into something less weak, Fenris did the unthinkable: he let out a soft huff of laughter as he shook his head.  

“Funny?”

He ran one hand over her hair and replied, “Had you ever told me I would relish the day when you treated me to a dose of your stubbornness, I would never have believed it.”  He took her hand and squeezed as he stood.  “Very well.  If you are still awake after I have sent Orana for the Knight-Commander, we will play cards until he arrives.”

Amelle’s smile was answer enough and she saw more of the worry and fear melt out of Fenris’ gaze.  Bending forward, he kissed her forehead again, then stepped away.  “I will return shortly.”  His eyes slid over to Cupcake and Fenris raised his eyebrows at the dog.  “Watch over her.”

Cupcake lifted his head and uttered a short bark as his tail wagged agreeably.


	53. Chapter 53

For Kiara, tomorrow came all too soon, and with _tomorrow_ came a bevy of maidservants carrying an alarming amount of clothing and cosmetics and hair accessories, flitting about like a charm of slightly-mad hummingbirds. One separated herself from the swarm and introduced herself as Tasia, her new lady’s maid.

Kiara laughed. Tasia did not.

“I’m sorry. What in the Maker’s name do _I_ need a lady’s maid for? I can dress myself, you know. I’ve managed for years, believe it or not.”

Tasia arched an eyebrow and gave her a impudent little smile, flashing a deep dimple in her left cheek. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but… I believe you may be unfamiliar with Starkhaven court fashion. _Nobody_ can dress herself for a formal function. Not appropriately, in any case.”

Kiara blanched, wondering if this, then, would be the battle that defeated her. Not an ogre or bandit or blood mage—but a tiny blonde armed with silk and satin and _terrifying determination_.

“Very good,” Tasia said, as though by her silence Kiara had indicated her assent to the approaching makeover. “Tea first, and breakfast, and then a bath. That ought to leave us a few hours.”

“A few… hours?”

Tasia laughed then, and never had Kiara heard a more frightening sound. It chilled her to her very bones. It was so… delighted. And sweet. And absolutely in no way going to accept _no_ for an answer. “Don’t worry, my lady. I know my work. We’ll be rushed a little, but we’ll persevere.”

“…Rushed.” Kiara’s voice emerged hardly louder than a whisper. Tasia very pointedly pretended not to hear it. Kiara had a fleeting desire to fling herself back into bed and pretend to be poisoned again—though, in truth, she felt remarkably well-recovered—but before she could act on it Tasia had put a steaming cup of tea in her hands—also perfectly prepared with milk and sugar—and guided her to a table set with breakfast. Three of the effervescent maids were already _making_ the damned bed. She told herself she didn’t want to ruin their hard work and tucked in to her bread and fruit and still-steaming oatmeal.

After she’d been fed and watered and expertly bathed—with no shortage of blushes on her part—Kiara perched on the end of her flawlessly-made bed and watched in a numb daze as maids held up dress after dress for her inspection. She, of course, said nothing. Tasia pondered and chastised and yea’d and nay’d until a pile of dresses hung in colorful lines, filling two wardrobes. At one point Tasia looked utterly scandalized and snapped, “Maribel, _what is that_?”

“A… dress, Tassie?”

“A dress? _A dress_? Pray tell, what is the trimming on that dress?”

The girl looked confounded. “R-rabbit fur, Tasia. It’s very soft.”

Tasia sighed, a sound of complete and utter disappointment. “The prince specifically _told us_ , no _rabbit!_ Her Ladyship is _allergic_ to _rabbit_. Would you like to be responsible for Her Ladyship breaking into hives? Sneezing all through Court? Having to go to bed early with no dancing?”

“Dancing!” Kiara cried, aghast. “No one said _anything_ about _dancing_.”

Unsurprisingly, she was ignored.

Maribel had tears in her eyes. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Tasia.”

“Take it away. Ugh, I don’t even want to _look_ at you right now. Go! Go, go, go!”

Maribel scurried from the room, toting her rejected confection.

“Sebastian told you I was allergic to rabbit fur?”

“Are you not?” Tasia asked. “Because that really was a beautiful gown.”

“No, no I _am_ allergic,” she said quickly. “It’s just… I had no idea he knew about it.”

“Well. He _is_ the prince,” Tasia said, as if this explained everything. Perhaps in her mind it did.

Soon afterward, Tasia finished her deliberations. With a single clap of her hands, the pile of rejected gowns was carried away by several of the servants. She looked frightfully pleased with herself. “That will do until you have dresses of your own made, my lady.”

“Of my own?” Kiara echoed.

“Other ladies of the court supplied these. They’re… on loan, you might say. Even the most determined seamstresses couldn’t create a wardrobe like _this_ overnight.”

“No. I… suppose they couldn’t.”

Tasia ignored this, striding back and forth before the open wardrobes in an effortless swish of skirts. Kiara supposed this would be the … completely wrong time to admit she was unaccustomed to wearing the very long gowns evidently in fashion in Starkhaven and held her tongue, silently imagining the inevitable moment she tripped over a hem and landed flat on her face. Light-footed rogue or not. She hoped it wasn’t at a pivotal moment during today’s presentation, but she… doubted it.

Tasia plucked at one gown and shook her head. “No, too presumptuous to put you in white and gold today, I think,” she murmured to herself. “Soon enough, soon enough. The grey would look lovely with your coloring, but… no, we need something more formal. Hmm.” All of a sudden the woman stopped, clasped her hands, brought them to her mouth and _squealed_. Kiara supposed it was meant to be a delighted noise, but it made her want to dart to the window and fling herself out of it, height be damned. “Perfect,” the maid whispered. “Oh, perfect, perfect, perfect.”

Then the torture began. After only a few minutes, Kiara was utterly broken. She moved when Tasia told her to move, stepped when Tasia told her to step, held her breath when Tasia told her to hold her breath. She bent, twisted, reached, stood with her arms outstretched and in the end found herself with a waist several inches smaller, a bust to rival Isabela’s, wearing eight thousand layers of petticoats under a silk gown the precise hue of Sebastian’s eyes. She blushed at this, but didn’t waste her breath protesting—she knew Tasia wouldn’t listen, and her undergarments meant breath was in rather short supply.

The maid led her across the room—and oh _Maker_ was she going to make an ass of herself when she fell over in this _cake_ of a gown to say nothing of the _horror of dancing_ —and propped her in front of the vanity.

“You have lovely hair, my lady,” Tasia said. Kiara stared into the mirror, somewhat baffled and entirely out of her element as the girl expertly pinned sections into an elaborate style she could never have duplicated on her own. Between the dress—with its expanse of exposed bosom—and the hair—with its expanse of exposed neck—Kiara felt alarmingly vulnerable.

“T-thank you,” she stammered. “I’m… sorry. I’m not used to having such a fuss made of me.”

Tasia laughed, as if Kiara had been jesting. “I daresay you’ll get used to it, my lady.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Besides this is… somewhat beyond the pale. Most days I think it’s an accomplishment if I get a brush through my hair.”

“Well,” Tasia declared, “when you’re… well. Like I said, best not presume. But I doubt you’ll have to make due without me for some time, my lady.”

“My name is Kiara.”

Tasia laughed again. “Oh dear, no, my lady. Distinction of rank ought to be preserved or you’ll find your servants stealing from you and your peers disrespecting you. I daresay you’ll find yourself used to all this soon enough.”

Kiara said nothing more, allowing the woman to do as she wished. By the time she was finished—hours indeed!—Kiara stood, stepped close to the floor-length mirror and… stared. She looked like herself, which she hadn’t exactly expected, but it was a different version of herself, certainly. A sparkling clean version, with manicured hands and perfectly coiffed hair and the kind of expertly applied cosmetics that looked like no cosmetics at all. And she was embarrassed to admit she was even coming to love the vastly impractical, undeniably gorgeous froth of a gown. Even if it _did_ leave too little of her bosom to the imagination. She was only grateful Tasia had relented and allowed her to wear flat slippers in place of the certain-death heels she’d first set her sights on.

“I look…”

“The word is _beautiful_ , my lady,” Tasia supplied helpfully. “Though we would also accept elegant, charming, lovely or even ravishing, if they were on offer.”

A knock sounded at the door, but Kiara hardly noticed. One of the other maids darted to answer it. Kiara swished her wide skirts a little and even managed a little spin. “I look like a _princess_ ,” she told her reflection.

“Of course you do!” Tasia cried, sounding almost affronted. “I told you, I know my work!”

Kiara turned toward the maid to thank her, and found herself instead facing Sebastian. He was wearing white and gold again, but the cut of these garments was more elaborate. A sword with a jeweled hilt was belted around his waist. A thin circlet of gold encircled his brow, and she found herself staring at it intently as color slowly inched its way from her bosom to her hairline. It was not the _first_ time she cursed the fair skin of a redhead, but it was, possibly, the most vociferous.

“You, uh, look very… princely,” she offered lamely.

Beside him, Tasia rolled her eyes. “Did you receive my request, Your Highness?”

Sebastian jerked his head away and stared at the maid as though she was an abomination who’d suddenly sprung fully-formed from thin air. In fact, Kiara was certain she’d seen him look _less_ alarmed about suddenly-appearing abominations, over the years. He held his closed fist out to the maid, opened it, and dropped a handful of something into her waiting palms. “It’s… what they could find,” he said, sounding slightly strangled.

Mostly Kiara was just happy she wasn’t the _only_ one Tasia had that effect on.

Tasia curtsied gracefully and approached Kiara with the forthright determination of a groom about to tackle a skittish horse. “My lady, if you would bend down just a little?”

Kiara obeyed and then started when the thing Sebastian had dropped into Tasia’s hands turned out to be a waterfall of a necklace made up of hundreds of tiny diamonds and sapphires.

“Now, now,” Tasia soothed. “It will be over soon.”

And it was. The necklace was _heavy_ , cascading over her collarbones and glittering on her décolleté. She was afraid it brought more attention to her cleavage than less, which did nothing to help the blush— _why, why could I not have been born a swarthy brunette?_ —but it did complete the outfit. And it was pretty. And Sebastian was _looking_ at her again.

“A girl could get used to this, you know,” she mused jestingly.

“Of _course_ ,” replied Tasia. “I _told_ you so.”

For an instant, Kiara thought the maid was going to reach up and affectionately pinch her cheek, but instead she only curtsied again and hurried all her hummingbirds from the room. They were gone as swiftly as they’d come, leaving Sebastian and Kiara silently looking at each other.

Sebastian shook his head, offered his arm, and spoke first. “You look—”

Kiara accepted the arm but interjected before he could finish his thought, “—It’s too much. It’s—I mean, _look_ at me.”

“I am,” he replied gravely. “And you have the most terrible habit of not letting me finish my sentences. I was going to say beautiful. You look _beautiful_ , Kiara Hawke.”

She almost protested, embarrassed, but she remembered her mother telling her _accept a compliment when it’s offered, darling_ time and time again and so she took as deep a breath as the boning and corsetry of her gown would allow—oh dear the things _that_ did to her breasts—and said, “Thank you. You, um, wear a crown well.”

His smile was wry. “This old thing?”

And because they both laughed then, she felt relaxed instead of terrified.

“Oh,” he said suddenly. “I nearly forgot. Here.” He produced a slim dagger on a jeweled belt, and when she looped it around her waist, it looked for all the world as if it had been an intended aspect of her costume. “The sheath’s ornamental,” he explained. “The blade is real. I pray you’ve no need to use it, but… a bow is rather an _conspicuous_ weapon to bring into a gathering meant to reassure.”

More even than the necklace, she felt her heart skip at this. “Oh, Sebastian,” she minced, to mask her genuine—and also embarrassing—delight, “you always did know the way to my heart was through weaponry.”

He huffed another slight laugh and offered his arm again, and together they walked toward the Great Hall.

#

The doors to the Great Hall were closed, bracketed by guardsmen and trumpeters. Kiara blinked. Perhaps it was only the novelty, but the palace seemed grander than the Viscount’s Keep. She tried to remember how she’d felt the first time she’d visited there, but couldn’t. It was just a place to her now—a place where Aveline could be found, where work was handed to her, where very bad things occasionally happened. She had no reference point for Starkhaven’s palace, yet, except the knowledge—the very alarming, overwhelming knowledge—that it was _Sebastian’s_.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” she replied, aiming for humor. Unfortunately her voice wavered, and instead it came out sounding all too genuine. She glanced slantwise up at him and smiled. “I’m fine. Really. Unless you want to run away right now. I hear Antiva’s lovely this time of year. Great wine.”

“Tempting,” he replied.

Pages pushed the doors open as the trumpeters pulled a melody of strident notes from their instruments. Kiara started forward, but Sebastian placed his free hand atop the one still clutching his arm and shook his head slightly. A herald then stepped forward and cried, “Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell, Champion of Kirkwall. His Grace, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven.”

Kiara’s eyes widened when they entered the Hall. It was double the size of the one in Viscount’s keep, with vast, vaulted ceilings held up by polished marble pillars. At the far end was a raised dais, upon which stood the golden throne. Behind the throne was a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting the Starkhaven coat of arms, white samite embroidered with golden threads. Stained glass windows cast pretty, colored shadows across all the white, and the sunlight made the gilding twinkle. Where Viscount’s Keep always felt militaristic, Starkhaven’s palace was elegant, refined, and—even though she was aware of the danger—the most accurately descriptive word that came to mind was peaceful.

The feeling of peace faded somewhat as Sebastian led them slowly through the crowd, his chin held high and his eyes watchful. He did not smile. All the humor of their moment in the hall was gone. Though no one was brazen enough to point and jeer, a feeling of tension thickened the air, buzzing in her ears with the persistence of an angry hornet’s nest. She swallowed, trying to emulate Sebastian’s reserve. Mostly she sent up a stream of prayers that she wouldn’t fall. The applause was deafening and she couldn’t help thinking it would be excellent cover for an assassination. No one would hear the bowstring twang. The hairs rose on her bare, exposed nape. The hornets buzzed and buzzed, and she tightened her hand on Sebastian’s arm because what she wanted most was to be clutching a bow. Or to be hiding in the shadows. But they reached the dais without shots being fired, and, more amazingly, without her stumbling. Sebastian helped her climb the steps and then he turned to face the crowd and raised his hands.

Silence fell. _Instantly_. Even the swish of skirts and shuffle of feet sounded muted. And as hundreds of eyes focused on her, Kiara thought uncomfortably she’d had dreams far more menacing than this waking experience. She wished she still had Sebastian’s arm to hold on to, but instead she clasped her hands loosely before her and waited, glad at least her vast skirts hid her knocking knees.

After a moment, Sebastian began to speak. He didn’t shout. He didn’t have to. The acoustics of the room carried his voice effortlessly. “Lords and Ladies of the Court,” he began, “well met. I stand before you now, knowing the past days, past weeks, past years have been tumultuous ones. I know I have been at the root of some of this confusion, and I ask your forgiveness for it. I cannot undo the decisions I made then, but I can seek to make amends now. It is what my father would have wished, and my grandfather before him.”

Kiara didn’t turn to stare at him, though she wanted to. She listened. And as she listened, she realized—perhaps even for the first time—that Sebastian _knew_ this world. He belonged in it. He did not tremble as he looked out over the sea of faces and coiffures and finery; he’d seen it all his life. Perhaps he’d found sanctuary and even _home_ in the Chantry, but this was as much a part of him as that.

He spoke clearly, evenly, _truthfully_ about the events he’d witnessed in Kirkwall, and about the role he’d played in them. He explained that the Chantry’s destruction had not been the work of _all_ mages, but of a group of a few rebels, led by a man who’d allowed vengeance to color his decisions. “I wish you to understand the import of this,” he said, “because it concerns the woman standing before you now. Not a week ago, she was nearly assassinated, nearly held to account for crimes she _did not commit_. If there must be blame, lay it where it belongs, at the feet of the mage Anders. _He_ is not welcome in Starkhaven. Not now. Not ever. But no one, _no one_ else is to be punished for his crimes. Not all mages. Not Kiara Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall has fought tirelessly, at great peril to herself and sometimes at great personal cost, to right the wrongs she sees in the world. You will accord her with every respect you would give me. She is under my protection. To insult her is to insult me. To wound her is to wound me. And to wound me is to wound Starkhaven. It will not be borne.”

A ripple of activity and sound swept through the crowd at this, but still no one rushed the dais with a blade and no arrow sang as it arced toward them. Kiara noticed shocked expressions on some faces, and horrified ones on others, but still more seemed… reassured. Pleased, even. Satisfied. Hopeful.

 _He is their prince_ , she thought. _They’ve been wanting him to speak to them like this for years._

“And so I present Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell, Champion of Kirkwall to you. I present her to you, and with this presentation I offer a warning: today, and only today, will I allow you to speak against her. Voice your concerns. Ask your questions. But after today, I will have none of it. If I hear whispers or rumors I believe have come from you, I will act upon them as I would act upon all traitorous deeds. She is no prisoner here; she is not a criminal. She will not be treated as one, or hidden away, or scorned, or accused of crimes she had no part in committing. She is an honored guest in our Court, and you will all treat her thus. Do I make myself understood?”

Kiara understood. No one spoke.

Then, and only then, did Sebastian offer a smile. It was warm and inclusive and genuine and she found herself _believing_ in him. It was the oddest sensation. She _wanted_ to follow him, wanted him to protect her the way he sought to protect his people, his principality. And, apart from anything else, was was glad—in that moment she was unabashedly _glad_ —he’d taken up his birthright after all. No matter what else it meant, she was glad.

“I’ve put you on the spot, I know,” he added gently. “Speak to me this evening, if you would speak at all. Tonight is a night for free discourse, without fear of repercussion.” Some of the tension dispersed at this, as though the entire room heaved a silent sigh of relief. “Mark me, however: there shall be no violence. I will have no more bloodshed in these halls. And now you shall meet her, and dine with her, and speak with her. I trust you will learn, as I have done, that she is a woman to be respected, to be admired.”

They did not have to walk through the crowd again; a convenient passage behind the throne allowed them to escape to a pleasant, quiet antechamber. Thoughtful servants had set out a plate of food and a carafe of wine. Kiara’s stomach growled, reminding her she’d eaten nothing since the breakfast Tasia had forced upon her hours earlier.

“I suppose we’ll know more after dinner, and after the Steward briefs me about the things said behind my back,” Sebastian said, offering her a glass of wine. “But I think it went remarkably well, all things considered.” 

“Because no one tried to kill us?” She ate three perfect strawberries in rapid succession, followed them with a sliver of exquisite cheese, and decided she was going to be quite put out if her constrictive undergarments kept her from devouring a single morsel of such delightful food.

“That is setting the bar rather low, but aye. And now we eat, and speak, and mingle, but mostly we _listen_. People give more away during a dance than at any other time.”

“No one said anything about dancing,” Kiara groused. “I was recently poisoned. I think that should excuse me.”

Sebastian smiled. “Oh, something you’ll learn about Court functions: there’s always dancing. No one wants to do it, and everyone must.”

“That’s… stupid.”

The smile widened into a grin. “No one said it wasn’t.”

She paused, another strawberry halfway to her lips. “Thank you for your words in there. I… it meant a great deal to me.”

“I spoke the truth.”

She lowered her eyes. “Still. After what Anders did, I forgot about the other things. The good things. And I thank you for reminding me. And for… vouching for me.”

He was silent a while before saying, “Power can be a weapon in the wrong hands. It can be used to cause great harm; we have both seen it done, time and time again. But it can also be a gift. We will use it for good, Kiara. We will set things right.”

“The curious thing is that I believe you.”

“You should,” he replied, swallowing a strawberry of his own. “I am entirely in earnest.”

“Do we… have to go in now?”

Sebastian’s laugh was low and pleasant as he sat in one of the chairs and leaned back. “Maker, no. The single most valuable advantage of being Prince is possessing the right to a fashionably late entrance. Eat your strawberries.”

#

Kiara ate and mingled and nursed a single glass of wine, and all the while she listened. Kirkwall was mentioned often enough, and not just by people awkwardly asking her questions about it—though there were plenty of those, too. She had known—of course she had known—the cataclysmic destruction of the chantry would have far-reaching implications. To hear it spoken of in Starkhaven, the foolish games of Exalted March she’d played with Carver and Amelle as children were soon to become reality.

“Is it true,” asked one woman, whose hair towered above her, shaped into the improbable likeness of a birdcage complete with tiny silk birds, “you stand against the Chantry, my dear?”

Kiara _didn’t_ say ‘I’m not your dear’ nor did she punch the woman in her upturned nose. Instead she smiled as gracefully as she could manage and replied, “On the contrary. Unfortunately the former Knight-Commander had become… compromised. She would not be reasoned with. And as too often happens with unreasonable people, the altercation ended in violence.”

The woman turned pale under her cosmetics. “ _Well_ , I would _hardly_ know about _that._ ”

Kiara blinked innocently. “Isn’t that why you asked me? I would rather have ended things peaceably—as the Chant says, ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers.’”

The woman fluttered her fan so violently that all the little birds danced in her hair. “You know pieces of the Chant, do you?”

“A great deal of it, yes. I am devout, but not a zealot.”

“Well. _Well_.”

Kiara was rescued—though _rescue_ was a debatable word—by a gentleman asking her to dance. Sebastian was right about that much—men did love to chat while they swirled her about the floor. Listening to them was made difficult by the concentration required to follow steps she did not know, but she managed.

“You have… heard about our mage trouble, then?” asked one young courtier, whose voice trembled and whose palms were sweaty.

“As far as I can tell your mage trouble doesn’t involve mages,” she replied succinctly. “It involves people mistakenly believed to be mages, and it involves troubling overreaction from a populace submitting to fear.”

The young man blinked his dozy, dark eyes and replied, “You do speak your mind, my lady.”

Her feet were hurting and her back was hurting and she was growing very tired, so she did not bother with nicety. “And I always shall. I’m also a killer shot, have been known to punch annoying individuals in the nose, and don’t think every mage should be locked up because they have a drop of power in their blood. Maker, look at your own people. It’s not _magic_ making them act like monsters.” A blotchy blush spread over the courtier’s cheeks. With a sweet smile, she added, “And I dueled the Arishok. _With a bow_. That’s a true tale. Feel free to spread it about.” She gave a light shrug—more to ease herself away from his moist hands than anything else—and simpered, “I hope I don’t offend, my lord.”

On the contrary, his eyes woke up a little, and he gazed at her with an oddly disturbing mixture of terror and lust. He licked his lips and seemed about to speak again when she was once again rescued, this time by Sebastian.

“If I may, Lord Tyrin?”

The young man dropped his hands, bowed, and hastily backed away, never quite taking his eyes from her.

“Are you making friends, my lady?”

“Sweaty ones,” she replied gloomily. “And ones with birds in their hair.”

Before she could protest, Sebastian swept her into the dance. His hands were firm against her, but supportive, and blessedly _dry_. Her breath caught a little. He smelled of soap and sandalwood with the faintest undertone of bow resin. She couldn’t help being surprised at how… well he moved, given his years away from all this. She doubted many Court dances where held in the chantry dormitories of an evening. He smiled reassuringly and she glanced away, embarrassed by the pang of _impossibility_ abruptly twisting her stomach and making her regret her earlier appetite. 

Bending his head close, he said, “I am concerned I hear nothing of those who must have helped the pretender find his place.”

“The one who says he is your brother?”

Sebastian nodded, maintaining the mask of a somewhat indifferent expression as he followed the music and changed their direction across the floor. “He refuses to talk. And no one whispers about him. That in itself is strange. Even Corwin hears nothing. It is… it is as though he appeared from nowhere, wearing his dead man’s face. But I know he must have had aid. He must have.”

“Do you suspect… magic?”

“It… hadn’t occurred to me to do so. Starkhaven’s Circle has been gone for years.”

She gave him a sad smile. “What _I’ve_ learned is that you may be the only person in Starkhaven who _isn’t_ blaming everything from crop prices to illness to rainy days on mages.”

“That does concern me as well. You know it does. I-I would not have thought Starkhaven so like to fall to prejudice.”

She nodded, but still felt ill at ease. It seemed wrong to have eaten a fine dinner and be dancing in a golden hall whilst people outside feared for their lives, feared being named mage, feared being hauled before a mad tribunal of their peers and burned for fictitious crimes. She nearly stumbled, but Sebastian caught her. “There is another benefit to wearing this crown,” he said mildly.

“Oh?” she asked, unable to keep the distraction from her tone.

“Now I’ve put in my appearance and done my duty, I can leave. And you may leave with me.”

“Thank the _Maker_ ,” she whispered fervently, and he chuckled.


	54. Chapter 54

Truthfully, Cullen had meant to sleep. He’d certainly _wanted_ to. There had been stolen moments and too-short naps, but for all that it was nearly two days since the healing at the spring, he had yet to actually _see_ the inside of his bedchamber. With Kirkwall leaderless, too much responsibility fell on his shoulders, and from the moment he returned from the Hawke estate, he found himself bombarded with requests and petitions and demands for explanations.

And questions. Mostly from his own templars. Magic like Amelle had wielded was hardly _subtle_ , and she had loosed the power _directly_ beneath the templar stronghold. Only the newest of the new recruits had been oblivious to it.

Evidently the pillars of white light that had come streaming from the wells had been rather a giveaway, even for those who’d not actually felt the power at work.

So Cullen answered questions. Yes, magic had been used. Yes, he’d been aware of it. Yes, he had, in fact, been _involved_. Yes, he was forced to reply, the mage in question was an apostate.

It was Ser Hugh asking this last question, standing opposite Cullen’s desk, eyes firmly fixed on the ground. “Knight-Commander, I beg your pardon for the… impertinence, but… this mage. She is the same one you neglected to apprehend some time ago? On the Wounded Coast. When Ser Thrask… and then again, in the Blooming Rose?”

Leaning heavily on one elbow, Cullen nodded. Though of course the Wounded Coast had not been the first time he’d failed to neglected to apprehend Amelle Hawke. Hugh did not know of that, though. He’d been hardly more than a recruit at the time. “The Champion’s sister, yes.”

Cullen had the feeling that if training and discipline had permitted it, Hugh would have scuffed his toes against the carpet in pained chagrin. “Ser—Knight-Commaner, ser, it’s… it’s only…”

“Speak your mind, Hugh.”

The young templar’s blue gaze flashed up, clearly startled. “She’s a mage. An apostate mage. No matter who her sister is. Our duty—the duty of the Templar Order—is clear, ser.”

“And what would you have us do with her, Ser Hugh? There is no Circle in Kirkwall. Not any more.”

“There are other Circles.”

Cullen sighed, weary to his bones. He glanced slantwise at a pile of particularly troubling correspondence. Unfortunately this also reminded him just how much paperwork was yet to be completed. “For now.”

“Ser?”

With a wave, Cullen shook his head and said, “Nothing. Would you have us go to war with the Champion, then? Over this? After everything Kirkwall’s been through already? Did you not learn from Thrask’s mistake?”

“The Champion is _one woman_ , Knight-Commander.”

An involuntary, wry chuckle was pulled from him. Hugh scowled, thinking it mockery. “Tell that to Knight-Commander Meredith. I believe she was the last to underestimate Kiara Hawke. The result was, as you may recall, something of a disaster. And common belief is that it was not the Champion at fault.”

“The Knight-Commander was… compromised, Ser Cullen. We all saw it. But the matter at hand is a roaming apostate, not the flaws of our former leader.”

“Somehow I don’t think Hawke will see it that way.”

Hugh paled, but looked thoughtful. “It has been said the Champion is no longer even _in_ Kirkwall, Knight-Commander.”

“Is that said?” he asked wryly. “And you’re willing to risk her wrath, hoping she’s not home to mete it out?”

Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “We have a _duty_.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Cullen nodded and said, “I understand, Ser Hugh. Your… concern has been noted. For now, Amelle Hawke remains where she is. Kirkwall owes her a great debt of gratitude, and she has paid a steep price for it.” Hugh’s lips tightened, a thin, irritated line. “Believe me when I say I have considered this very quandary at length. I will understand if you feel the need to go above my head. Write to the Knight-Vigilant, if you must. Even to the Divine, if you wish it. I wish you wouldn’t, but I will understand if your conscience dictates.”

A startled flush brought color to Hugh’s cheeks, and the young templar swallowed so hard Cullen heard it. “It’s only…”

“Duty,” Cullen supplied. “I know. But duty… duty is more complicated than you know, Hugh. Maker’s breath, _life_ is more complicated than you know.”

“K-knight-Commander?”

Cullen waved dismissively again. “If that’s all, Ser Hugh?”

Before Hugh could reply—and he was going to reply; Cullen could see it writ plain upon his features—a knock interrupted them. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a very confused looking Ser Morton—who had, Cullen noted, kept quite a wide berth since the evening in the library—and Merrill. The elf was smiling. And at least she wasn’t carrying a staff.

Only sheer force of will kept Cullen from burying his face in his hands.

“Knight-Commander?” Ser Morton asked. “Uh, you… have a… visitor, ser?”

Merrill reached out and patted the templar’s armored forearm gently. Cullen noticed she was carrying a bouquet of freshly—and likely illegally—picked flowers in her other hand. “Thank you very much for your help. I would have wandered around for _ages_ if you hadn’t come along.” Then she turned her smile on Cullen. “Oh, hello. Fenris sent me. Or, rather, he sent Orana, but she was terribly frightened of coming so she came to me. Honestly, I was rather afraid myself, but Fenris did say it was important. Orana should probably have gone to Aveline. Nothing scares Aveline. But perhaps she’s not yet fully recovered. Poor Orana. And poor Aveline.” She lifted the bouquet of flowers. “I’ve picked these for Amelle. Nothing so dreary as being in bed for days; I thought she might appreciate the color.”

Cullen would have given virtually anything to _not_ be having this particular conversation _with a blood mage_ in front of his men, but there was little to be done now. “Has she woken?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? Yes, Orana said so. Or Fenris said so to Orana, and Orana—”

“I understand,” Cullen interrupted.

“Knight- _Commander_ ,” Ser Hugh sputtered. “You _cannot_ be serious. This elf is _clearly_ —”

Cullen grimaced. “That’s all, Hugh. I… imagine you have letters to write. And thank you, Ser Morton, for seeing Merrill brought safely to me.”

The templar blinked. “Uh. Certainly, Knight-Commander.”

“Morton!” Merrill cried. “Oh, I do like that name; I should have asked you sooner. I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?  Thank you, Ser Morton.”

Morton only stared at her, as though he couldn’t understand the sounds she was making, until Cullen cleared his throat. Then the templar offered a salute and departed. Hugh’s salute was even briefer, and Cullen did not miss the way the young templar’s gaze lingered on Merrill in tacit disapproval.

“Not very talkative, are they?” Merrill asked brightly.  “Then again, that seems to be true of quite a lot of templars.  But what they lack for in conversation they make up for in glaring, I’ve found.  And you can say _quite_ a lot with a good glare.  But then, you’ve met Fenris, so you probably already know that.”

Cullen heaved himself to his feet, putting his hands against the edge of the desk to keep himself from swaying in exhaustion.  Merrill made a little distressed noise.

“Andraste’s kneecaps, you don’t look well at _all,_ do you?” she asked, peering up at him.

Cullen wasn’t entirely sure how to reply, so he simply shook his head.  “It’s been mad these few days, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.  We saw the lights all the way in the alienage.  I’d… well.  I’d _hoped_ it worked.  And it’s good it did; I suppose things would have been madder if it _hadn’t_.”

For the span of only a few seconds — but, Maker, they were a _long_ few seconds — Cullen considered the mess if their gamble _hadn’t_ worked, if the water remained tainted after _such_ a display of magic.  It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Elgar’nan,” Merrill breathed.  “I’ve never seen anyone turn _that_ grey right before my eyes!”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.  

“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand _why_ you’re looking so,” the elf frowned up at him, “not-fine.”

With a wave at the pile of correspondence, Cullen said, “Things to do, questions to answer, and no good deed gone unpunished, I’m afraid.”  With a deep, fortifying breath, he gave himself a shake, trying to forcibly rid himself of the last stubborn vestiges of exhaustion.  “Yes. Well. To the Hawke estate?”

Merrill hesitated, and for an instant the look she gave him seemed strangely… shrewd.  But then the look was gone, replaced by the elf’s customary open and earnest gaze, tinged now with relief.  “Oh, by the Creators — I was afraid I was going to have to find my way out on my own.”

#

If there was any sight Cullen was _less_ prepared for, he didn’t know what it could have been.  But Amelle Hawke, propped up on any number of pillows, _playing cards_ certainly ranked high on the list _._   The enormous mabari — and Cullen still wasn’t certain whether the dog’s name was Killer or Cupcake or both — was snuggled against her, looking for all the world like he was scrutinizing the hand she held.  Fenris still sat in the chair he’d dragged over when Cullen had left him two days prior, now frowning at his own cards.  A small pile of copper glinted upon the blanket.  Cullen leaned hard against the doorframe.

The words escaped him in a croak.  “You’re _gambling_?”

Dropping a copper onto the pile, Amelle saw him first.  She looked up from the coins and, upon spying him, gave a smile so radiantly happyand relieved _,_ Cullen knew in an instant his deepest fears had been only fears.  Amelle Hawke was no Tranquil, and the relief that knowledge brought was so sudden and so overwhelming that suddenly the piles and piles of various correspondence waiting for him seemed far away and, for the moment at least, insignificant.

Still, they were playing _cards?_   He looked at Fenris with a glare he knew was positively accusatory; the elf met his glower placidly and shrugged.  “It is what she wished to do.”

“And you don’t think you might be taking advantage—”

Fenris arched an eyebrow.  “Amelle is winning.”  And something in the elf’s tone told Cullen Fenris was throwing every hand — and neither of them cared a whit.

“I’m _winning_!” Amelle repeated brightly. Then she folded her cards in one hand and raised her eyebrows. “Did you bring me _flowers_?”

Blushing, Cullen glanced down at the bouquet he carried. He didn’t miss Fenris’ glower. “They’re… from Merrill, actually. She thought you might… appreciate some color. And some reminder of the world outside. I believe she’s downstairs wheedling baked goods out of Orana. She, uh, didn’t want to…”

Amelle looked at Fenris. Then sighed. “She could have brought them herself.”

Fenris’ glower disappeared, replaced by something else entirely. It wasn’t… _like_ or approval or anything even _close_ , but it _was_ tinged with a fine sheen of contrition. To give them their moment, Cullen turned to the sideboard and filled a cup with water from the waiting pitcher, placing Merrill’s flowers within it.

On another sigh—enough of a sigh to make him leave the flowers and turn to face her again—Amelle added, “And I suppose you want to make sure everything’s… fine?”

“I am glad to see you awake.” A little reluctantly, he added, “And yourself. But yes, I do have to… make sure. I have to _ask_. What you did… what we witnessed—it was unlike anything I’ve seen before.” Choosing his words carefully, Cullen asked, “You—do you feel your connection to the Fade, Amelle? Is it the same as it was?”

She looked thoughtful, raising her eyes to the canopy of her bed and pressing herself even more snugly into her fortress of pillows. The hand not holding the cards reached out to scratch behind the mabari’s ears. “I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I… in a way I _do_ feel different. Not bad different. Just… different. Oh, don’t give me that look, Cullen.” She sent him a mock scowl and patted the bed. “Pull up a seat.”

He did as she wished, perching on the far side of the mattress.

As soon as he sat, he realized he shouldn’t have gone anywhere _near_ a bed. Having expected to spend the day behind his desk, he was unarmored, and the mattress sank invitingly beneath him as he sat. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, and Amelle’s expression turned concerned. Which was ridiculous, all things considered. If anyone was going to be concerned—

“Cullen?” Amelle asked gently. He blinked, realizing by her insistent tone she must have spoken his name more than once.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Can you—would it be too much trouble for you to explain just how you feel different?”

Amelle looked as though she disapproved of the way he’d ignored her, but answered, “It’s a bit like when you… when you practice something a lot. Over and over. Like… I imagine it’s how you felt back when you were first learning swordplay. You learn the basics, and you drill them, and then, one day they’re just… part of you. You don’t think about them anymore. It’s… it’s like that with magic, sometimes.” Turning her hand over, a tiny flame flickered to life in her empty palm. She made it disappear almost as quickly. “The first time my power manifested I burned all the pea plants in Papa’s garden. Now it’s… it’s as simple as breathing.” She frowned down at her hand for a moment, and shook her head. “But the thing is, with magic? At least with _my_ magic? Sometimes it’s not only repetition that makes things happen. Sometimes… things just start to _make sense_ all of a sudden. I suppose this feeling of difference is a bit like picking up a lute and realizing you instinctively know how to play it, though you haven’t had lessons.”

He grimaced. “But this newfound… lute-playing ability? It’s not…”

“Demonic in origin?” Amelle finished. “I don’t think so. It’s just clarity. Knowledge. _New_. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

The mabari raised his massive head and cocked it meaningfully at Cullen. For a moment he was taken aback by the intelligence in those dark eyes. Then the hound turned, and licked Amelle’s hand, nuzzling up even closer than he’d been before. Amelle chuckled down at her dog. “Yes, you’ve made your point, thank you. I’m still _me_ , at least by mabari standards.”

Cullen wondered if the hound would have been able to sense something wrong in Amelle.  The tales of mabari intelligence were well-known, but if the dog was truly able to sense a demonic presence in a person… well, it made Cullen wonder why the Order didn’t make wider use of them.

“And how are you… feeling?  Beyond that, I mean.”

She grimaced and Cullen saw Fenris scowl down at his cards, but he knew better than to think the elf’s expression was for him.  “Sore,” she answered.  “Stiff.”  And then, reading his expression with an ease that surprised him, Amelle then sent Cullen a crooked smile.  “And, yes, I probably could make myself feel better with a bit of magic, but…”  She pressed her lips together and frowned thoughtfully down at her hands.  “I can’t explain it.  I just know I need to let that part of me… rest, still.”

The fact that she needed to rest surprised Cullen not at all — the fact that she seemed _aware_ of it did _._ “It was an… extreme outpouring of magic,” he said.  “It is probably wise to give yourself more time to recover.”

The look she gave him was all too knowing.  “Tell me about it.  But it worked.  I have no idea how it worked, but it did.”

Cullen, as it happened, had been wondering the same thing for the past two days.  There was no reason their powers — abilities always at odds and never meant to work in harmony — could produce such a miraculous effect.  “I’ve only come up with vague ideas and flimsy notions, I’m afraid.  Nothing solid.”

“Same here,” Amelle said.

“We know little enough of the idol that was used to craft Meredith’s sword,” Fenris pointed out, “other than it was very old, and an intensely powerful variety of lyrium.”

“Corrupted lyrium,” added Amelle.  Fenris nodded.  “If it was like salt dissolved in water, then we weren’t dealing with _pieces_ of lyrium anymore.  It was infused in the water.”

“But you were able to heal those infected on your own,” Cullen countered.  “I can understand why you required Fenris’… assistance, but not mine.”

“Actually,” Amelle said, shaking her head, “I _did_ need your help.  I was only able to heal the children on my own.  The adults, however—”

“I was there when you treated Cassia, Amelle.  I saw—”

“You saw me pushing my magic too far and doused it _with a cleanse_.”  Cullen stared at the mage, whomperjawed, but Amelle only let out a low, rueful laugh.  “I know, right?  But in the instances of Cassia and Aveline both, they were exposed to my healing magic _and_ your abilities.”

“It is likely Amelle’s magic counteracted the corruption, but a templar’s holy powers are meant to nullify magic,” Fenris said.  He looked briefly at the markings twining down his arm and flexed his fingers into a fist before releasing it.  “And what is lyrium but magic in solid form?”

“Though I’ve never understood why templars need to _take_ lyrium,” mused Amelle, tapping her fingers against her lips.  “I mean, it worked out well enough for you — you were immune to the levels in the water.  I suspect if Meredith hadn’t been a templar, the sword would have corrupted her even more quickly than it did.”  

Once again, Cullen felt a strange rush of gratitude to Meredith for all of those Wounded Coast patrols.  After turning this over in his head a moment, he nodded.  “I suppose that makes some measure of sense, though I doubt anyone in the Order will be pleased to learn a mage _can_ maintain any spell _through_ the application of a holy cleanse.”

“You said yourself it was a very low-level cleanse,” Amelle said, sending a smile Fenris’ way.  “And you must admit I had a very… _unique_ brand of help.”

“Rest assured I have no intention of providing the same manner of assistance to any other mage,” the elf said darkly.  “Or to Amelle, for that matter, ever again.”

With a grimace, Amelle rubbed the spot on her chest where Fenris’ hand had gone in.  “Maker, I’m not going to pretend to be disappointed about _that._ ”

The look Cullen sent her, he knew, was shrewd, and more than a little skeptical.  “You’re quite sure?  It was a great deal of power you wielded, you know.”

Amelle’s gaze seemed to turn inward, and she was silent for several seconds before answering.  “I’m sure.  It helped — and we _needed_ the help, but…” she bit her lip and stopped rubbing the spot on her chest, instead pressing her palm against it.  “No one person is meant to possess _that_ kind of power.  It’s too… _much._ ”

The mabari whined, and Amelle looked down so she missed the strange expression that passed over Fenris’ face. Cullen did not. He wasn’t entirely certain what it meant, but the elf—just for a moment—looked as though someone had given him an incomparably precious gift. Then he blinked and glanced down at his cards, and by the time Amelle looked up again, smiling, Fenris’ countenance was once again inscrutable.

“So, do I pass the test, Knight-Commander?”

“Acting,” he replied at once, and she responded by broadening her smile into a full grin. “And yes, I believe you are as well as could possibly be expected. Hoped for, even, considering.”

“But?” Amelle asked, and Cullen wished she was a little less perceptive. The bloody Hawkes were going to be his undoing.

“Apparently our combined powers set off quite the chain of events, culminating in great bursts of light and power and, well… the kind of thing that could be felt by every templar in the city limits. Perhaps beyond.”

Amelle sighed, and he regretted the loss of her smile. “Not unlike… well, the Chantry, I suppose.”

Cullen nodded. “For all that it was _good_ we did, it was still _vast_. And templars… don’t like _vast_ magic of _any_ kind. Generally speaking.”

“You speak as though you are not one of them,” Fenris remarked.

The thought had, uncomfortably, occurred to him.

“There are some who might say I act as though I am not one of them,” Cullen admitted. “They wouldn’t entirely be wrong. I… have acted as my conscience dictated, but not precisely how the laws of the Order would have seen me act.”

Amelle reached out and gripped his hand, squeezing it briefly. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”

He gave her a brief, uncomfortable smile. “I made my choices, Amelle.”

She looked like she was going to protest further, but then she just dipped her head and gave a breathy little laugh. “Then I suppose I should say I’m glad you made the ones you did.” Then her eyes narrowed, her expression turning shrewd. “Except that one where apparently you decided that you are above the human necessity of _sleep_.”

“There will be time enough—”

“Right now? Yes, I think there will be,” Amelle remarked, deceptively mild.

“I did warn you, templar,” Fenris added.

“I cannot spare the—”

Amelle’s smile was devilish. Terrifying. “You’ll have to get through Fenris. And he _has_ slept. At least a little. I’m betting on him.” Then she squeezed his hand again. “We’ll wake you. But you’re of little use to anyone like this, Cullen. You’ve been yawning every two minutes.”

“I have _not_ ,” he protested, yawning.

“Everything that needs you will still be there waiting in a couple of hours. Don’t make me get Merrill up here to magic you to sleep.”

The bed was truly _very_ soft. And inviting. “Perhaps I will close my eyes for a few moments,” he admitted, reclining against the pillows at the far side of the bed. 

Leaning over, Amelle patted him on the shoulder. “You do that.”

Cullen fell asleep to the sound of soft voices goading each other playfully over cards.


	55. Chapter 55

Sebastian had three stacks of paper on his desk: to do now, to do _yesterday_ , and _should have been done last week_. In the war between him and the paperwork, it was clear paper was dominating the field. Putting his head in his hands, he dug his fingers into his scalp and groaned.

“Now, Highness,” murmured Corwin from the doorway, “one thing at a time. Let me see.”

The Steward took the _should have been done last week_ pile in hand and flipped through the stack. “Aye, no, no, aye, sign this, this, this, and this one here,” he said at last.

“How do you _know_?” Sebastian asked, baffled. “It seems impossible to say no to anything. They all sound so sincere.”

“They _are_ all sincere, Highness. But your resources are finite. You haven’t learned the boundaries yet; do not fret, it will come.”

“I’m… not cut out for this, I’m afraid.”

Corwin smiled, picked up the second pile of papers, and gave them the same brusque treatment. “Ahh, for a sovereign every time I’ve heard those words. I’d be a wealthy man indeed.”

“My grandfather… my father. Surely they never—”

“They were men, Your Highness, as you are a man. With limitations and fallibility and doubts. You are doing a fine job. Better to care too much than too little, as with the princes since your father. Caring will always serve you well, but you mustn’t let yourself be taken advantage of. People will always try.” He waved a piece of parchment. “As this fellow is attempting to do.”

Pulling his hands from his hair, heedless of the disarray left in their wake, Sebastian lifted his quill and began signing his name to the pages Corwin placed before him. What had seemed a daunting, impossible task became—if not pleasurable, at least bearable.

After three hours shut up in his office with his Steward and countless pots of strong tea, Corwin began shuffling the papers into new piles and said, “Enough for now, Highness. Even princes must rest. We’ve accomplished enough for today.”

Sebastian protested, but weakly.

“Come now, my lord, your people must see you out and about, or they will wonder and they will question and they will worry and they will _talk_. Your father hunted, trained, played with his sons, took walks with his wife. Your grandfather spent at least as much time with his fiddle as he did with his paperwork. It is never all petitions and paperwork, no matter how these last days have been spent. The pretender prince appears to have spent all his time drinking and dancing and spending money that wasn’t his to spend. We are behind. Once things are caught up, this will all become far more manageable. I promise you.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Your assurances give me hope.”

“The Vaels have managed for six generations, Highness. I daresay you’re equal to the task. Now. Might I suggest fresh air? Best to keep to the palace until the city’s calmer, but perhaps you might show the Lady Hawke about the grounds. She is a stranger here, after all.”

Sebastian gave the man a wry smile. “Ahh, proof you don’t know her, Steward. She’s probably already been over the palace from dungeon to turrets to gardens, turning over every book and looking into every cabinet as she went, and Andraste be with anyone who dared attempt to stop her.”

Years of holding a position where discretion was paramount kept Corwin’s surprise limited to the startled twitch of one spindly, white eyebrow. On another man the expression would have been equivalent to widened eyes and a dropped jaw. 

Sebastian’s smile widened into a grin as he rose and stretched the kinks from his back. Too much sitting. “It’s not an honorary title, Champion of Kirkwall,” Sebastian added. “She didn’t earn it for her talent at embroidery.”

Corwin smiled fondly at this. “I would not have thought so, Highness. She’s an archer?”

“How did you—?”

The Steward chuckled as he stoppered the ink and gathered abandoned quills. “Your family has long employed me as a watcher and a listener, young Vael, and not merely as an organizer and a paper shuffler. I observed the callouses on her hands, the muscles of her arms—especially her forearms, and the way she carries herself. She is too… _present_ to be an apostate mage; too lithe and light-footed for a swordswoman. At the presentation, she seemed uneasy with the knife you’d given her. She is an archer.”

Sebastian was certain his face manifested surprise far more obviously than the Steward’s did, but he didn’t attempt to mask it. “I am not certain we pay you enough, Corwin.”

“I am always willing to accept an increase in wages, my lord.” Though he spoke the words lightly enough, the Steward’s expression shifted slightly toward concern and he added, “Before you depart, I… wonder if I might speak to you.”

Sebastian leaned against the desk, tilting his head in silent query. “Have I made an unforgivable social gaffe? Did I slight someone last night? I did try to at least _greet_ the principals.”

“No, no, neither. Nor does it concern your worries about Lady Hawke’s safety or the mage trouble in the city, no. Well, not directly.”

“What then? The pretender? These whispers of an Exalted March being called against Kirkwall—perhaps even against all the Free Marches?”

Corwin shook his head. “Not so dire. It is… you must have a coronation, Your Highness. Not secretly, silently, as Goran and the pretender did. Especially with things as they are, you must consider wooing your people a little. Make it a feast day. A great event. Something for them to plan and remember and _love_ you for.”

Sebastian waited for the man to say whatever it was that was truly troubling him, but Corwin fell silent. “I intend to,” Sebastian said, raising the end of the sentence into the hint of a question. “There’s something else.”

Corwin looked practically _discomfited_ , and Sebastian found himself nearly squirming in response. “Forgive me, Prince Sebastian, if I offend. I wonder… you see, you are…” Corwin coughed uncomfortably.

Sebastian grimaced. “Maker, man! Spit it out. Speak your mind.” 

“You have no heirs, Your Highness.”

Sebastian blinked. “I have no wife. Of course I have no heirs.”

“Aye, Your Highness. And you are, forgive me, no longer as young as you once were. Your father—”

The weight of realization twisted his gut. “Had three sons by the time he was my age.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—news of a new Blight, an Exalted March on his doorstep, flood, famine, pestilence, plague—but it certainly hadn’t been… this. Though it pained him to speak the words, he added, “And you fear the people will see me as another temporary measure, a priest prince who will allow the Vael line to sputter and die. You think it will make them restless, and will keep them from feeling secure with me on the throne.”

Corwin nodded reluctantly, and Sebastian sighed as the dull throb behind his eyes promised to become a headache of monumental proportions. Pushing his thumbs to his temples, he inadequately attempted to massage the pain away.

The Steward coughed again. “Your Highness, although I know it is a subject of the most personal nature, I wonder if you have considered—”

Sebastian interjected before the man could finish his thought, “—Maker’s blood, Corwin, I’ve done nothing but _consider_ things since my family was murdered. I—and the Maker, may He forgive me—know my responsibilities.” After an uncomfortable pause, Sebastian added, “I suppose you’re concocting some kind of… list? Of appropriate… candidates?” 

At this Corwin’s eyes _did_ widen. “I… am not sure I believed it would be necessary, Highness. She is perhaps a trifle rough around the edges, and certainly she plays none of the Court’s little games, but I think she suits you quite well. And she _is_ titled. That will make things… easier.”

A faint flush infused the Steward’s cheeks, but it was nothing to the heat in his own. “You already have someone picked out, then?”

Corwin’s mouth opened and closed twice as the Steward struggled to find words. Finally he managed, “Why, I—thought _you_ had, Highness.”

“I’ve only been back a week, and most of that time has been spent worried half to death about—oh. _Oh_. I see.”

Sebastian clutched the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened and his bones ached. Corwin had the grace to avert his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. I have overstepped.”

The Steward bowed and made his exit, leaving Sebastian to his swirl of troubled, uncomfortable, _impossible_ thoughts. He almost wished for more paperwork, just for the distraction. Instead, he chose the better option: he lifted his bow, and let his rapid, long stride eat the distance between his study and the practice yard.

#

Even before he exited into the training yard, Sebastian knew he wasn’t going to find the solitude he longed for there. A crowd cheered—he supposed the guards were staging an impromptu sparring match or mock battle of some kind. He hoped they wouldn’t ask him to participate. He hated the bloody sword. Always had. And getting stabbed through the chest with one hadn’t done much to improve his opinion, frankly.

Clearly, by the sound of things, a favorite was winning. The sunlight blinded him a moment, and he put his hand up to shield his eyes. When the brightness faded he could only stare at the source of all the commotion.

Kiara stood at the center of a growing crowd, flushed, laughing, head thrown back and bow in hand. This, however, was not even the strangest part. Instead of her customary leathers, she was wearing one of the confectionery court gowns, vastly inappropriate to the activity. The hem was inches deep in mud, and sweat had darkened the sunshine-yellow silk. Whatever style her hair had worn was lost to sweat-damp curls and fallen tendrils.

As he watched, still unnoticed by the crowd fixated on her, she paused, considered, and aimed. An arrow flew to pierce the heart of a flower held aloft by a nervous-looking soldier fifty paces away from her.

The crowd roared.

Part of him wanted to roar with them. Part of him wanted to flee. Corwin’s words and all they represented, all they’d stirred within him, everything he’d sought so hard to repress and avoid for so long, were too fresh in his mind. Those words had opened a door he’d thought safely locked. He’d turned the key himself years ago—no. No, Kiara Hawke had turned the key. He remembered the moment exactly; he was embarrassed to realize it still ached. It had been one of their discussions about his… future. The one where he’d more or less made the decision to stay in the Chantry. She’d said, “You’re wise to stay here. No one trusts a man who breaks his oath.” She hadn’t hesitated. She hadn’t required so much as a moment to… consider. Before that… it would be a lie to say he’d not had feelings for her. A part of him—the part that wore his Brotherhood like a too-tight shirt—had been instantly attracted. To her looks, certainly, but also to her intelligence, her determination, her kindness. In his arrogance, he’d even thought her a little partial to him, once upon a time.

But then she’d all but insisted he stay where he was, and he certainly hadn’t had the heart to ask her how she truly felt about the recent… shift in his priorities. He was afraid she would always see him as an oathbreaker. An oathbreaker who’d _left_ her in her hour of greatest need, no less. He was grateful she had forgiven him enough to embrace friendship, but he knew there could be no more between them, no matter what his feelings. _No one trusts a man who breaks his oath._ And without trust there could be no love. He knew that. It stung.

But of course Corwin had known none of this when he’d spoken. It… could not surprise Sebastian that the man had observed _his_ partiality. He had thought it hidden better, but nearly losing her to the Maker’s Light had unhinged him, had loosened the mask. Certainly enough for a man observant enough to note a calloused hand and muscular forearm to see the truth.

He was just turning to leave when he heard her voice call out, “Sebastian! Oh, how wonderful! Come, show them how it’s done.”

Caught, he faced her. His cheeks felt hot and his palm was abruptly sweaty against the grip of his bow. “I—hadn’t intended to—”

She laughed again, and he steeled himself because it… it hurt. Corwin wasn’t wrong, after all. He _would_ have to marry, and soon. Likely one of the sweet, perfectly acceptable, perfectly fitting young ladies who’d smiled at him so beguilingly last night. So hopelessly. A girl he’d feel nothing for, who would never hold a candle to the woman now beckoning him to cross the courtyard, with one hand on her hip and her bow in the other, hair like fire in the sun, with her pert retorts and her infectious amusement and her impish smirk.

He felt sorry for that poor girl he’d have to marry. Oh, she’d be Princess, and mother to future generations of Starkhaven rulers, but no one— _no one_ —would have his heart while his heart knew Kiara Hawke was in the world. He would strive to be kind to the girl. He would try not to make the inevitable comparisons. He would try. And try and try.

He had a feeling he would fail.

“You’re carrying your bow and you’re in the practice yard,” she retorted, grinning. “You can’t fool me. Are you afraid of a little audience? I know it’s been ages since you practiced properly. Afraid I’ll show you up?”

Her smile went even more mischievous and he felt his stomach drop. He _knew_ that look. He’d seen it before. It never went well for him.

Kiara threw her arms wide, making everyone her accomplices as she cried, “My friends, it appears we have a shy prince on our hands. Whatever can we do to entice him to join us?”

A little page standing nearby looked up at him with wide eyes. “Won’t you, Your Highness? She was saying how… she was saying how good you are, before. She said you were the _best_.”

Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck reflexively, cursing—any number of things, really. Corwin. His bow. Anders. The big-eyed page. Kiara Hawke’s smile.

“Still he hesitates,” Kiara intoned, and he had to admire her performance. Her audience was riveted, hanging on her every word. One morning in the practice yard and he knew every one of his guards would die for her. He supposed it was a good thing, considering. “What _ever_ shall we do?”

Someone near her said something but Sebastian was too far away to hear what it was. Kiara giggled, her face glowing. “Oh, yes,” she said. “A fine suggestion. Ser Kinnon here wishes to know if you’d agree to a contest, my lord.”

The dark-eyed knight grinned at her, and then gave him a mild salute. Sebastian thought he recognized him as the knight who’d helped carry Kiara to the palace when she’d been poisoned. His partner, the blonde woman, leaned up against the wall, dressed in practice leathers and watching the entire exchange impassively. 

“A wager,” Ser Kinnon said.

Sebastian was doomed. Utterly doomed.

He couldn’t say no, not if he wanted to retain even the semblance of respect from the men and women of his guard.

He couldn’t say no because this Kiara, with her bright eyes and her laugh and her charisma and her _heart_ was the Kiara he’d thought lost forever. He’d thought her murdered in Kirkwall’s Chantry, and buried with the rest of Anders’ victims. He’d seen her ghost from time to time in the weeks since, but this was her _alive_ , and he could not be the one to kill her again.

He bowed slightly and was rewarded with another laugh. The crowd parted for him then, and he moved to her side, heedless of the bows and salutes and curtsies at all sides. She laid her hand on his arm when he drew near enough, and the touch—even this slight touch—sent a brief shudder through him. If she noticed, she gave no indication. Damn Corwin. Damn him. Leaning close, she murmured, “I’m sorry. I got carried away. Are you—your wound—”

He arched an eyebrow. “Happened almost two months ago, Kiara. Whereas you were waking from a _poisoned sleep_ just days ago. I should be asking if _you’re_ feeling up to it.”

She inclined her head, accepting the point. “Oh, very well. But what shall we bet, Sebastian? What will satisfy them?”

He smiled gently. “You’re the one with the gambling habit.”

She grinned. “No. Fenris is the one with the habit. I just like to take his money.” She sighed dramatically and raised her voice, “But money is too common a wager for a man of your means. I’m not sure it would provide adequate motivation.”

The little page had followed in Sebastian’s wake, and now he took a tentative step forward, paused, and looked very studiously at the ground beneath his feet.

“Do you have an idea, young master?” Kiara asked, crouching to the child’s level. The boy looked at her, blushed bright red, and mumbled something unintelligible.

Kiara leaned closer, saying quietly, “Whisper it to me. I promise not to laugh.”

The boy put a little hand on her shoulder and leaned close to her ear. She didn’t laugh. But her cheeks followed the child’s lead and flushed a becoming shade of pink. “Oh. I—I’m not sure the prince would like that one very much.”

“All the better,” retorted Ser Kinnon, laughing. Sebastian glared at the man, envisioning rounds of dismal patrol. In the rain. Or cleaning middens. Surely middens always needing cleaning somewhere. “What was it?”

“A kiss,” the little page uttered stridently.

Ser Kinnon smirked. “Hardly seems fair. I’d throw a match if it meant kissing you, my lady.”

Sebastian went cold. Then hot. Then imagined in exquisite detail the painful death he could order for the smirking knight.

Kiara had lost a little of her enthusiasm—he could see it in her eyes. And this hurt him more.

“Very well,” Sebastian said evenly. “A wager. But we’d best make it a fair one. It wouldn’t do for Ser Kinnon to believe I’m ‘throwing the match’ as he says.”

Kiara was watching him carefully, and though she was still smiling for the benefit of her audience, her eyes were shadowed with something else. Concern. A little distress. The little page was watching him too. “A kiss from the lady is a fine prize, if I can earn it, and if she will consent. But what if she wins?”

“A kiss from me,” said Ser Kinnon.

Sebastian’s imagination took the man’s death to an entirely new level. Truly, he was a little horrified. Starvation, perhaps. There could be flogging. A great deal of flogging. Or rats. Slowly being devoured by hungry rats.

“You boys and your _kissing_ ,” Kiara said. Her tone was fond, but he could see her mind working. “Do you think of nothing else? As for _me_ , hmm… what do I think of?”

“Weaponry?” offered Sebastian. He was rewarded by another of her genuine smiles, and this was untouched by shadows.

“Precisely. Weaponry.”

Ser Kinnon, clearly desperate to meet his end, supplied, “The Starkhaven Bow, then.”

“A kiss from me is hardly worth a family heirloom,” Kiara protested.

Sebastian said, “It’s a fair wager.”

Kiara’s pale eyes were wide. “Sebastian.”

He smiled, attempting reassurance. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. “But you’ve always maintained I’m the better shot,” he said. “Are you changing your tune?”

For the first time since he’d stepped into the courtyard, she met his gaze and held it. She looked as though she was searching for something, and whatever she saw made worry shift into determination.

“Well, then,” she said at last. “May the best shot win.”

#

The initial challenges were far too easy for both of them, but the crowd soon caught on and pressed them to ever more elaborate heights. Soon it was not enough to hit a bull’s-eye; they had to take turns hitting each other’s arrows. The targets were moved farther and farther away, half hidden behind obstacles, made smaller. Sebastian found himself smiling every time someone called out a new trial. The bow felt good in his hand, and after one or two unsteady shots—not enough to give Kiara the upper hand—he loosened up and was able to ignore the distracting sound of the cheers and catcalls. His world became aim and arrow and target. Pull, release.

It was not as easy to ignore Kiara. She smirked over her shoulder at him, and hit an apple placed atop a distant wall. He raised his eyebrow, aimed, and instead of hitting the apple itself, did one better and sliced through only his fruit’s stem. Kiara laughed.

“Show-off,” she murmured as they stood waiting for the next challenge to begin.

“It’s a very serious competition,” he replied mildly. “And you started it.”

She grinned and butted her shoulder against him. “You’re being very accommodating. I promise I’ll give your bow back when no one’s looking.”

He raised both eyebrows at this. “Oh, I don’t intend to lose. That last shot _must_ count for more than yours.”

She narrowed her eyes, peering at him. She looked puzzled, but not distressed. “Some days I don’t know what to make of you, Sebastian Vael.”

He shrugged one shoulder, feigning diffidence. “Blame Kinnon and your romantic page, there. I’m afraid I’ve grown quite accustomed to my bow. The stakes are too high.”

Frowning just slightly, she asked, “And you’re not worried about… I don’t know, the Maker striking you down? For the… other?”

“I wasn’t until now.”

“Sebastian, I’m serious.”

He inclined his head to accept her point. “I know you are. You… you’ve an out if you want it; I did say you had to _consent_. You may always refuse.” Her lips parted and her eyes widened. He changed the subject swiftly, unwilling to follow the other any further for fear of saying too much. Or the wrong thing entirely. “Now answer me something, Kiara, because I admit I can’t figure it out. Why the gown? Not that you don’t look fetching, but it seems an… odd choice for archery practice.”

She snorted, composure regained. “There was no choice about it. Tasia _hid_ my armor. And anything with legs sewn into it. She’s a monster. Who thinks I’m in the library right now, reading love poetry or Starkhaven history. It was the only way I could escape without her following.”

He shook his head apologetically. “She’ll punish you later.”

“I know. I’m terrified.” She gave a leisurely stretch and smiled broadly. “But for now? It’s worth it.”

They were interrupted then by Ser Kinnon—the bastard had named himself the informal master of ceremonies, earning himself at least another month of midden duty, if Sebastian had any say. “The final challenge,” he said, full to the obnoxious brim with his self-importance, “will determine the winner. Thus far it has been too close to call.”

Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest and glared down—small-minded as it was, he felt indescribably pleased to stand several inches taller than Kinnon. “The challenge, Ser?”

Kinnon cleared his throat and took half a step backward. Sebastian permitted himself a self-satisfied little smile as Kinnon glanced away from him. “Blindfolded shooting. Regular targets. Closest to the bull’s-eye wins.”

Sebastian looked to Kiara. She was grinning. “Sounds fun,” she replied. “Sebastian?”

“As you wish.”

They were given a moment to fix the targets in mind while the area around them was cleared of stragglers. For the first time since the contest had begun, Sebastian noticed just how _many_ people were watching them. The courtyard itself was full to bursting, the walls nearly as packed, and every window that opened out into the space seemed to have one or two faces peering out of it. He was certain one of those peering faces was Tasia’s and he felt a moment of genuine pity for Kiara.

He permitted himself to be blindfolded, but not before he noticed it was the detestable Ser Kinnon providing the same service to Kiara. Clenching his jaw, he wondered how bad—or good—his aim could possibly _be_ on this shot. Surely being blinded would clear him of any accusation of deliberate wrongdoing?

“On the count of three,” Ser Kinnon declared. “One.”

Sebastian pushed thoughts of the man from his mind, and visualized the target. He’d been careful not to move his feet during the blindfolding, but he knew Kiara would have been clever enough to do the same. No advantage there.

“Two.”

He took aim, the feel of the bow strong and sturdy and precise in his hand. The breeze on his cheek was coming from the east; he adjusted his aim to compensate. The noise of the crowd became dim, distant. His own heartbeat was steady. He inhaled, then released his breath just as deliberately, his focus narrowing until it only encompassed the point of his arrow, the target, the tension of the bowstring between his fingers.

Even blind, he knew he could hit the center of the target. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“Three.”

Sebastian paused, deliberately shifted the point of his arrow an inch to the right, and released. The twang of the string echoed in his ears, followed a moment later by the thunk of the arrow’s point sinking into the target. Reaching up, he removed the blindfold.

His arrow’s white fletching quivered exactly one inch from the bull’s-eye.

Kiara had missed her shot by two inches.

She tugged at her own blindfold before Kinnon could help her. She didn’t even look at her target. She glanced at Sebastian’s and gave him a rueful smile. “Looks like I lost,” she said.

The wide-eyed little page clapped his hands, and Kiara laughed, scooping him up for an impromptu, sweaty hug. “I feel like you’re the one who really wants the kiss,” she remarked. The boy blushed and shook his head, but didn’t protest when she pressed her lips briefly to his forehead. For an instant, Sebastian found himself embarrassingly _jealous_ of a six-year-old. When she set the child down, he lingered near her skirts, gazing up at her with unabashed adoration.

Sebastian wished he didn’t understand the boy quite so well.

Stepping close to him, Kiara smiled. “Well,” she said, “I _hope_ the Maker doesn’t strike you down. At this proximity I don’t feel good about my chances.”

He lowered his voice. “You could have made that shot.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You could have made yours. You tried to throw your match. I didn’t let you.”

“I—” he got no further. Without giving him a moment to prepare—or protest—Kiara dropped her weapon, rose on her toes, and took his face between her hands. Then she pressed her lips softly, almost chastely, to his.

Afraid she would dart away just as quickly, he panicked, dropping his own bow and bringing one hand to her waist to pull her close. Without breaking contact, he slid his other hand into the damp curls at the nape of her neck and returned the kiss before she could prematurely end it. He aimed for tender, but he couldn’t help the ardency, the urgency that crept in. _This may be the only time_ , a cruel voice whispered, and he parted his lips just enough to allow the tip of his tongue to taste the curve of her full bottom lip. She gasped, uttering a tiny mewling cry against him, but she didn’t attempt to pull away. Indeed, he couldn’t help feeling just a little gratified when she slid her own hands away from his face to tangle in his hair.

The Maker struck neither of them down.

It didn’t last long enough. He didn’t want it to end. But the crowd was cheering and laughing and applauding, and their intimacy was stolen by the sheer level of soundaround them. When Kiara broke the contact of their lips a moment later, he didn’t try to recapture her. Her cheeks were pink and her lips just a little swollen; he could feel her heartbeat racing—or maybe it was his own—and the flash of her pulse at her throat was rapid. He wanted to bend his head, to taste the skin where her jaw met her neck. He did not. She lingered, eyes still closed, allowing him to hold her just a little longer. Then she shivered slightly and pressed back against his hands. He released her, and she immediately dropped into a curtsy, eyes downcast.

He wanted to know what her expression hid, but she did not look up until she’d had time to school herself. Her cheeks were still flushed and her lips still rosy, but her countenance was carefully inscrutable. “Thank you, my lord,” she said at last. “I am glad to see your shot as good as it ever was. I am certain it will serve Starkhaven well.”

Then she turned and left, her head held high, her lips smiling, her adoring crowd watching her every move.

“You’re a lucky man,” groaned Ser Kinnon when she was gone. “She’s just about the finest—”

Without thinking—surely he’d have thought better if he’d been thinking at all—Sebastian turned and landed a square punch to the unsuspecting man’s jaw. Kinnon, completely taken by surprise, went down hard. Then, shaking his fist to ease the sting, Sebastian left, using the exit opposite the one Kiara had taken.

#

Kiara couldn’t make sense of it. She turned the afternoon’s events over and over and over in her head, but it seemed a moment taken from a dream, from someone else’s life. What had been laughter and teasing and fun had turned so incomprehensibly surreal. Arrows and camaraderie and joking and _Sebastian Vael had kissed her_. Or she’d kissed him. Perhaps the moment had _begun_ with her, but he was the one with the strong hands and the firm lips and the fingertips inappropriately—marvelously—tickling the nape of her neck. _He_ was the one who’d taken her _practically platonic_ peck and made it…

She blushed. The kiss had certainly not _ended_ as platonically as it had begun. And she had no idea what to make of any of it.

As she moved through the halls, hopefully toward her rooms, a bath, and a change of clothes, she noted that instead of the vague distrust and sideways glances she’d met with on her way _to_ the practice yard, servants and courtiers alike waved or smiled or threw gestures of polite obeisance her way. Surreptitiously, she pinched her own arm, but the pain was only pain—it did not wake her.

For all her teasing and all her harmless flirting, Kiara Hawke had kissed precisely four men in her twenty-eight years. The first was a boy called Cam when she was fifteen. He was a year or two older. She’d been curious to finally discover what all the fuss was about; he was willing, presumably able, and not terrible to look at. The girls her age seemed to talk of nothing else, but she’d found the entire venture disappointing and overly… moist. It had not been repeated.

Then, when she was eighteen, Jaran’s family moved to Lothering. He’d been just handsome enough, and she just hormonal enough, that she’d let his kisses—less damp, more _interesting,_ almost thrilling—lead to more. Four months in, just as Kiara was starting to fancy herself utterly in love, Amelle had slipped—her control was so much more tenuous then—and Jaran had seen it. Even now, Kiara wasn’t certain if she’d left the door open on purpose, if she’d been subconsciously testing her lover, to see how he’d react.

Jaran had failed. Oh, how he’d failed. He’d seen a handful of sparks and started screaming for templars. Kiara had broken his nose in her desperation, nearly breaking his head along with it, and when he’d gazed up at her with terror in his blackened eyes as she threatened him, she’d known no lover could be worth Amelle’s life, Amelle’s freedom. So she’d… stopped looking. Stopped thinking about even the possibility. Then the Blight had come, the army, the fleeing, the death, the endless _struggle._

Even years later, memory of the third kiss made her stomach lurch painfully. She’d been tired and lonely. Kirkwall wasn’t home even though she’d been living there more than two years, and she’d been feeling… _old_. Old and a bit sad. 

She still wasn’t sure why she’d let Anders kiss her. She admired the work he did in the clinic, certainly, and he was charming when he wanted to be, but she’d never felt any particular attraction. There was a slightly harrowed, desperate look about him she could not find appealing.

And he was blond. She’d never cared for blonds.

Still. It had happened one night when he was walking her home from a card game at The Hanged Man. He was teasing her without his prevailing vitriol; she’d laughed. She’d known he was flirting, and she let herself be admired. It was… nice. She’d hardly known him then, certainly hadn’t dreamed what he’d become, but she knew the last thing he’d ever do was run to the templars to out her sister. He’d seemed… safe. How ridiculous.

So when they’d reached the corner near Gamlen’s house, and he’d smiled and said something about losing himself in her eyes, she hadn’t stopped him. Nor had she protested when he brought his fingers to her chin and tilted her head up. It hadn’t been until his lips were on hers, until his tongue was seeking to deepen the kiss, until his body was pressing hers to the alley wall, until he moaned softly against her that she remembered. It wasn’t his _magic_ that distressed her, or his blondness, or his mild air of desperation; it was the spirit living within him. _Abomination_ , said her father’s voice _._

She’d pushed Anders away gently but firmly, and his eyes had flashed, suddenly angry. They hadn’t glowed blue, but she’d been painfully aware they _could_ have. “What?”

“It’s not—I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—”

“What kind of wrong impression could _kissing me_ possibly give?”

“I… don’t… I’m sorry.”

“You’re a bloody tease, Hawke, you know that?” he’d snapped, before stalking off and leaving her to walk the rest of the short distance home by herself.

They’d never spoken of it again, though she’d caught him gazing at her with varying degrees of speculation and jealousy and thinly-veiled lust. She’d… learned to be more careful with her flirting, and she swore off _kissing_ altogether. It was a bloody bother, and never worth the trouble.

And the fourth had been Sebastian Vael. She’d meant the gesture as a token—a nod to the crowd, and, yes, perhaps as a moment selfishly stolen for herself. She hadn’t expected him to reciprocate. She certainly hadn’t expected the sudden thrill of passion that had made her knees wobble and her heart race, that had tried—and failed, thank the Maker—to convince her hands to roam over the plane of his broad back.

She’d have given anything to have kept that fourth first kiss going, even as she knew she _could not_. It was _Sebastian._ Who’d sworn to love none but Andraste.

Hadn’t he?

It was all so… confused.

Her reverie was shattered by Tasia’s shrill cry of dismay. “My _lady_!”

Kiara blinked. She’d pushed the door to her own room open without having any sense of how she’d arrived. She was glad she hadn’t walked herself directly into a wall or out a window or off a balcony.

Oblivious to Kiara’s distraction, Tasia continued, “Why did you not _tell me_ you intended to practice archery?”

“I thought the bow I was carrying might have tipped you off,” Kiara replied dryly. Tasia did not so much as blink.

“ _If_ you had told me your _true_ intentions, I could have provided an appropriate gown.”

“A… gown. For archery.”

Tasia gave her a look that clearly indicated the maid thought Kiara the stupidest woman in the world. Her lips tingled. Perhaps she was, at that, just not for the reasons Tasia believed. “ _Obviously_ , my lady.”

Kiara sighed. “A gown. What about a bath? May I have one of those?”

“It’s already prepared.” Tasia smiled her dimpled smile and added, “You did very well, my lady. It was… _quite_ thrilling.”

“You… saw?”

Tasia giggled. “We all _saw_ , my lady. The whole _palace_ saw.”

“Oh.”

The petite maid sighed, pressing her hands to her breast. “And it was a lovely kiss. Just the kind of prize such a contest _should_ have had. _So_ romantic.”

Kiara was glad when the woman moved behind her to begin unbuttoning buttons because her cheeks were burning again and she couldn’t bear the maid’s shining eyes and odd notions. “It was… nothing.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Though I didn’t hear what Kinnon said to the prince that made him so _angry_.”

Kiara turned her head, looking over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Oh, you were gone by then, I suppose. Kinnon said _something_ —he _can_ be an utter boor—and Prince Sebastian punched him. Right in the _face_! Kinnon fell completely over. Shocking!”

And now _Sebastian_ was _punching_ people for no good reason?

Pinch or no pinch, this was the weirdest dream Kiara had _ever had._


	56. Chapter 56

Even after Amelle had awoken, Fenris continued visiting, continued indulging her requests to play cards, continued sitting by her bedside as she rested.  And as he did so, he told himself it was what Hawke would have wanted, what she would have expected him to do.  Every time he ascended the staircase at the Hawke estate, he assured himself he was doing precisely what Hawke had intended when she first asked him to watch over her sister.  He did not listen to the soft, whispering voice suggesting it was not _Hawke’s_ desires, but his own that sent him to Amelle Hawke’s bedside so frequently.  That he sat with her, not because her sister had requested it of him, but because _he_ wanted to be there.  But that was still an uncomfortable, to say nothing of inconvenient, train of thought—they still hadn’t spoken about any of what had transpired between them.  And so once again, as Fenris raised his hand to knock against the front door of the Hawke mansion, he assured himself he was simply following through on his friend’s request.

Orana appeared as the door opened and Fenris was gratified to discover the young woman did not seem quite so ill at ease when she spied him on the stoop.  She smiled a little and bowed her head as she opened the door fully, which was a welcome change from the uncertain, wary looks she’d always given him before.  He nodded in turn before coming in and turning his steps toward the stairs.

Fenris had barely laid one foot upon the bottommost step when Orana called out behind him, “Oh, I nearly forgot, messere — Mistress Amelle is in the garden this morning.”

He turned, brows lifting in surprise.  “She was strong enough to make such a trip?”

The maid smiled somewhat ruefully.  “She was… very insistent, messere.”  But in her words, Fenris heard a different meaning — though he would not call Amelle _stubborn_ to Orana’s face; it was far preferable to deliver such a message in person.  “I… I helped her outside,” added Orana.  “She’s just on the bench underneath the yew tree.”

Nodding, Fenris turned his steps toward the back garden door as Orana hurried back to her kitchen domain.  When he stepped out into the garden, he saw Amelle curled up on the bench in question, her legs tucked up underneath her skirt.  She held a piece of parchment in her hands; her head was bowed, and she was studying it intently — she hadn’t even heard the door open.  A small table at her elbow held a pot of tea, steam issuing from the spout.  Two teacups and several buns took up the rest of the table’s limited space, all untouched.  The morning sun filtered through the tree’s limbs, casting the garden — and Amelle — in a pattern of shadow and light.  

It felt… wrong, somehow, to watch her unnoticed, though, and he let the door close heavily behind him.  Amelle looked up with a start and she twisted around on the bench, but when she saw him, no hint of surprise registered on her face.  Only a smile.

“Right on time.”

“I had not realized I’d become so predictable,” he replied, taking a seat on the other side of the bench and nodding at the tea set.  Amelle didn’t reply; she took a moment to pour two cups of tea and handed one to Fenris.  The porcelain was warm against his palms and the scent of the brew reminded him instantly as one of the spiced blends favored in Seheron.  “You’ve received something,” he said, nodding at the letter and taking a drink from his cup.

“It arrived just now,” she explained, folding the parchment and tapping it against her palm.  “It’s from Kiara,” she said, but without any of the relief or happiness such news ought to have brought.  Amelle went on, adding, “They arrived in Starkhaven.  It… a storm delayed them.  But that’s where they are now.  She says they’re safe — which, as we both know, given Kiara’s lexicon, ‘safe’ is a relative term when she’s talking about _herself_.  But… well, she doesn’t know when they’ll be returning.”  As Amelle continued tapping the letter, her expression grew pensive; though not quite a frown, the furrow between her brows came close to one.

“What else does she say?” Fenris asked, knowing there was more.

Amelle pursed her lips.  “Well, on the whole the letter is… somewhat lacking in detail.  But she absolutely does not want me coming to Starkhaven, that mages aren’t welcome there.  She told me to stay here.”  At this Amelle shook her head and exhaled hard through her nose.  “As if mages are _welcome_ anywhere.  Honestly, Kiara.”

“She said nothing else?”

Her answer came on a long, troubled sigh.  “No, she did not.”  Fenris nodded, unsurprised, but Amelle only grew more pensive.  “So,” she began.  She tapped the letter against her palm more rapidly.  “I was thinking—”

“Amelle, no.”

This time she _did_ look up, eyes wide.  “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You think we ought to ignore Hawke’s missive and make our way to Starkhaven despite her clearly-stated wishes.”

A faint scowl played about the corners of her mouth. Not a full-fledged one, and not one meant for him, he thought, but a scowl nonetheless. He’d grown accustomed, these past days, to seeing smiles in place of strain, in place of scowls, and he found the recurrence of the grim expression troubled him. “Hear me out, Fenris,” she began, running an anxious fingertip around the rim of her teacup, forward and back, forward and back.

He took a sip of his own tea and settled back, regarding her steadily. She wrinkled her nose and was the first to glance away. “I will hear you out,” he said. “But only if you will grant me the same courtesy, once you are finished.”

She smoothed the already-smooth fabric of her dress down the contour of her thigh. He watched the progress of her hand with some interest, before raising his eyes back to hers. This brought a very faint smile to her lips, chasing away most of the glower. “She sent this after they reached Starkhaven — by the date of the letter, they’d been gone from Kirkwall about two weeks. Chances are they were drinking tainted water the entire voyage. Perhaps she only wished for me to remain in Kirkwall because… because she was still feeling the ill-effects of the lyrium in the water.”

“Plausible,” he replied. “But not reason enough to undertake a difficult voyage.”

“She could be—”

“Amelle.  If your theory about the water holds, it stands to reason she has been drinking clean water for some time.  We are seeing recovery amongst the people of Kirkwall within _days_. There is every likelihood the lyrium has worked its way from your sister’s system by now.”

Amelle drank down too large a gulp of tea and set herself to coughing. Before he could think better of it, he’d set his own cup down, and snatched hers from her hands, turning her to face him. He rubbed soothing circles into her back with one palm, holding her other hand in his. “I’m fine,” she gasped around her coughing fit. “Too hot.” Then she flushed slightly, and shivered under his touch. He didn’t pull away at once, but the circles slowed. Even when he stopped, he kept hold of her other hand. She glanced down at their joined palms and sighed. “She wasn’t _healed_ though. We put _healing_ into the water here. Perhaps _that’s_ why people are returning to themselves so quickly.”

Fenris nodded, giving her hand a brief squeeze, gratified when she did the same. “And if we leave, only to pass them? Only to arrive in Starkhaven to find them gone? It makes more sense to do as Hawke asked and wait for word.”

Amelle shook her head. “One letter? In all this time? I feel like she should have sent something else. Something _more._ If only to keep me from haring off after her.”

“I have traveled the overland route, Amelle. Things change rapidly this time of year, especially in the high passes. It is entirely possible another letter will arrive soon. I believe our best course of action is to wait.”

“What if they’re in _danger_? Fenris, what if they _need_ us?”

“Then we are, at present, ill-equipped to offer them the aid they require.”

“ _I’m_ ill-equipped, you mean. Because of… everything.”

Fenris grimaced, remembering—and just as swiftly banishing the memory—Amelle deathly still upon the cavern floor. “You were unconscious less than a week ago, Amelle, near unto death. You must rest. You must give yourself more time to recuperate. I would rather not have to request the templar’s assistance, but I will do so if I think you about to do yourself harm.”

This time the scowl was a genuine one. She glared at him through narrowed eyes and shook her head. “Threatening to smite me—or to fetch Cullen to do so—is awfully low.”

“And yet I am all but certain he would agree the last thing you ought to consider at the moment is a journey to Starkhaven. By land or by sea, it is arduous.”

The scowl abated not at all as Amelle exhaled hard.  “How can you say we should just _wait_?  I’d rather get to Starkhaven and find out Kiara’s already left than sit and wait for a letter that won’t come because Isabela cheated at cards in the wrong bloody tavern and they found themselves arrested.”

Such a thing, Fenris knew, was only likely if they ventured to Hercinia, but he was sure Isabela was a seasoned enough raider to avoid such a problematic port.  

“ _And,_ ” she added, “you’re forgetting that I’m healing _._   Every day I feel better and better, Fenris.  Stronger.”

He shot her a disapproving look. “Navigating a flight of stairs is hardly the same thing as traversing a mountain pass, Amelle.  Remain in Kirkwall — _as Hawke asked_.”

Without replying, Amelle unfolded Hawke’s letter with her free hand and frowned at it, as if trying to discern some hidden meaning in her sister’s words.  Her eyes passed over the page several times in silence before she let out a breath and shook her head.

“What are you trying to find?” he asked, nodding at the sheet.

“She didn’t exactly _ask._   Which only means it _sounds_ like Kiara.  Typical Kiara, in fact.  Brusque and to the point.  A little bossy.”  Amelle ran her thumb over a splotch of ink, and for an instant she looked unaccountably sad.  “A little messy.”

“You were expecting something else?”

“Some sort of indication she’s still crazy… or not.  I’d feel better if I knew she was getting that foul… _stuff_ out of her system.  But brevity doesn’t really allow room for paranoia and accusations.  I just wish I knew _._ ”  Fidgeting a moment, Amelle gave up and folded the parchment before bowing her head.  “I hate not knowing, Fenris.  I _hate_ it.”

He resisted the urge to brush an errant lock of hair away from her forehead, clearing his throat instead.  “As do I.  However, I still think the wisest course is to wait.”

“But what if something’s wrong _?_ ” 

Fenris sighed, hard.  “You have no proof something is amiss.  And if Hawke were still impaired, would she not have been more autocratic in her note to you?”

Her brows lowered and her scowl turned into something more puzzling.  “You’d think so.  _Stay there or I’ll put an arrow through your eye,_ or something along those lines.”  Though she was striving for humor, Amelle’s smile did not meet her eyes and he wished there was something he could say or do to alleviate that sadness.  

Something _other_ than indulging her desire to travel to Starkhaven.

“Hawke will write.  You must give her more time.”

“How much more?”

“If we revisit this discussion in a week, will that satisfy you?  As I said, the mountain pass is difficult to navigate this time of year.  Even for couriers trained to do so. Allow another message opportunity to reach you.”

“I don’t like it.”

He refrained from smiling, because he could tell by the tone of her voice she was about to accede. She didn’t like acquiescing any more than she liked waiting, but she would do both. He only hoped she would be well—or that a letter _would_ arrive—before the topic was broached once again. “There is little enough to like, I grant you. Still, it need not all be dreariness and waiting with bated breath. The Knight-Commander—”

“Cullen.”

Fenris ignored her interjection. “The templar insinuated he might allow the clinic to open again, once you are feeling well. I believe he—”

“Is pretty sure I’m done giving myself nosebleeds?”

Fenris sighed. “Amelle. Worry is not the same as restraining. I believe he would like to see you with some occupation.”

She made a displeased noise under her breath and tilted her head back, gazing up at the sunlight falling though the leaves of the tree. It bared her throat most enticingly, and Fenris bent to retrieve his teacup, though the tea had gone tepid, simply to prevent himself from gazing too long and too hard at the column of her throat. Or from thinking too long and too hard about just what he’d like to _do_ to that expanse of inviting pale skin.

“Fine,” she said, still directing her words toward the leaves and branches above her. “Starkhaven’s off the table for… for a few days. I will give you that much. But there’s… something else that’s… been on my mind.”

Fenris stared into the depths of his tea, and waited for her to say what he knew she would. Truthfully, he’d been both dreading and longing for this conversation, but no time had seemed precisely right. Nor had he entirely decided what he would say. The memory of Amelle in his arms warred with a different one, that of Kiara Hawke unwittingly revealing the extent of her sister’s innocence. _She deserves to be happy.  She deserves someone_ good _.  Someone who can make her happy._  

Fenris wanted to be that person, but he wasn’t entirely convinced he _could be_. He carried so many shadows with him, and he did not want to pass any of them to Amelle. He had so little to _offer_ her. _She deserves someone good._

And yet. And _yet_. There had been no shadows _that_ night. There had only been _her_ , the smell of her, the taste of her, given freely and without any hint of reluctance. Her lips had been pliant, and her hair so soft beneath his fingers, her arm so tight about his neck. For all that his emotions had been running high, it had not felt wrong to have her in his arms, it had not felt _wrong_ to hear her moaning beneath his caresses, and it had not felt anything close to wrong when she had returned those caresses in kind.

But he could not quite shake the image of Hawke staring into the depths of her wineglass, troubled, so very troubled.

He inclined his head, saying nothing, and Amelle took a deep breath before speaking.

“As I recall, we are… overdue for a chat. Quite a few _tomorrows_ have passed since the one in which we were supposed to… talk.”

“A great deal happened,” Fenris said softly. “It was not avoidance.”

He wasn’t entirely certain this was true—it was not _precisely_ avoidance, as he’d had little time to collect his thoughts on the inevitable subject—but Amelle seemed to believe him. She finally bent her neck again, turning her head to face him. Her eyes searched his, but he could not have said if she found whatever it was she was looking for. “A great deal happened,” she echoed. “Sometimes it seems like so much happened I’m… I’m not sure what to think. But I’m pretty sure we need to talk about it.”

“Yes.”

“You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“I… don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help but ask… why?”

He blinked, not quite expecting _that_ question, of all the ones Amelle could have asked.  Something about it made his face grow warm, but the honesty of her question sat plainly on her face — there was no superciliousness, no veiled insinuation, nothing but the question.  

He cleared his throat.  “Because I… wanted to.”

Now it was Amelle’s turn to blush and she looked down at her lap, a tiny, secretive, _relieved_ smile ghosting about her lips.  “Oh.  Well.  That’s a good reason.”  She looked up again, peering at him through her hair.  “Albeit a… surprising one.”

He shrugged and glanced away, not certain what to say next, not certain even if he was _meant_ to say something.  He had no memory of any women… _before_ , and — as Hawke had so plainly put it — while on the run from Danarius, he hadn’t the time for such pursuits, and trust in others had been a luxury he hadn’t been inclined to indulge in.  He had no idea what to _do_.  

“Did it… displease you?” he finally asked, cringing internally at such an inquiry.

Her head came up almost instantly and she shook it.  “No.  No, I…  _No_.  It didn’t.”

Fenris nodded, the simple gesture masking his own rush of relief — one for which he felt faintly foolish.  When he did speak, it was quietly.  “I am glad.”

“I was just wondering if… if you wanted to just then, or if you had wanted to… for a while?”  She coughed lightly and directed her question to their joined hands.  “How long, Fenris?”

He followed her gaze down and tightened his fingers around hers.  “My… feelings did not develop… recently, if that is what you are asking.”

Amelle looked up, frowning at him as she tilted her head.  Her short hair fell on an angle as she did, and the dappled sunlight streaming through the branches above caught the strands.  He remembered for a brief moment the feel of her hair parting beneath his fingers and he was overcome with another urge to reach out and brush the strands away from her forehead.  Instead, he jerked his gaze back to her face, only to discover Amelle was still watching him thoughtfully.

“Not… recently,” she echoed softly.

“If you are asking me to assign a moment when the course of my thoughts toward you changed, I… cannot.”  He frowned at her.  “And I might ask you the same.”

The thoughtful frown disappeared in a flash of teeth as she smiled and let out a breath of laughter.  “Oh, no you don’t.  We aren’t talking about _me_ just yet.  You were angry with me, before.  Weren’t you?  I mean—you… you _seemed_ angry.  I thought you _were_ angry.”  Amelle’s throat worked as she swallowed and her tongue darted out to lick her lips briefly — and yet, distractingly — before she continued.  “And you were, weren’t you?  A little bit?”

“You were pushing yourself too hard.  You could hardly have expected me to rejoice over it.”  But that wasn’t what she was asking him, and he knew it.  Oh, how he knew it.

“So you’re saying you… _weren’t_ angry because I was spending so much time with Cullen?”  She bit her bottom lip and Fenris found himself distracted once again by her mouth.  The question was voiced quietly, uncertainly, “You weren’t… jealous?”

Fenris pondered this a moment. It would be a lie to say he’d been… unaffected by the relationship he’d seen growing between Amelle and the Knight-Commander, and though at times seeing them interacting had made him frustrated and uncomfortable and, indeed, jealous, that jealousy had played no part in his actions. In those _specific_ actions, at any rate. Any number of other emotions had been in play, certainly, but he did not think he was deceiving himself—or her—to say jealousy had not been one of them. 

He realized he’d taken too long to answer when Amelle actually began to worry the lip she’d pulled between her teeth, and the furrow in her brow deepened. Shaking his head, he explained, “I believe my behavior made my jealousy… evident, but only until you assured me there was only friendship between you and the Knight-Commander. Kissing you as I did… it had nothing whatsoever to do with the templar, and it was not my intention for you to believe I was… marking my territory.”

Amelle blinked at him. “Well. Good. Because I’m _not_ … territory.”

Fenris cleared his throat and blamed the slight heat at his cheeks on the sunlight, even though he mostly sat in shade. “I did not mean to imply you were. I _was_ angry. I was… alarmed. I was _frustrated._ And then I was relieved, and at times relief can be as potent as fury. I realize now I ought to have had better control. Forgi—”

Amelle reached over, pressing a finger to his lips, startling him into silence. “Please don’t apologize,” she said softly. “Unless… unless you wish it hadn’t happened at all. Because I’m… I’m not sorry.” Her movement had brought her closer to him, close enough he could smell the sweet lavender scent of the soap she favored, and that, too, reminded him of the other night. _Forcefully._ He fought the urge to inhale deeply, to pull her close; he did not want to muddy the waters of their conversation with… complications.

Resolve was not easy to hold on to, not with her so near, not with her green gaze searching his so pleadingly. “I cannot be sorry for what happened, Amelle,” he admitted. “Many things about the moment—about the timing—were not ideal—”

“Do you—are you—” She ducked her head, and he thought she might move to pull her hand away from his grip at last, but after a moment of indecision, it stayed. “Was it just a… moment of relief, then?” she whispered, her voice gone nearly as soft as the breeze rustling in the branches above them. “Was it _just_ … emotions running high and choosing a… an unexpected outlet?”

He took a moment to consider his answer and looked down at their joined hands, her skin so much paler than his, her smooth palm against his roughened one.  His thumb twitched, almost of its own accord, and ran along one of her knuckles.  “I have no simple answer to that,” he said, watching their hands.  “Did… emotion play a part?  Yes.  As I said, I was angry and frustrated and then… relieved.  But to imply the outcome was _nothing more_ than high-running emotions in search of an outlet…”  It was so much easier to look at their hands, but Fenris raised his eyes to meet Amelle’s searching gaze.  “I will not lie and suggest such a thing.  Admittedly I did not… _plan_ the moment, but that is not to say…”  

Amelle leaned forward a fraction.  “That is not to say…?”

The warmth at his cheeks felt as if it hadn’t abated the least little bit.  “That the notion had never occurred to me before.”

Amelle’s eyes widened and her lips parted on a breath.  “Oh,” she whispered.  “I… had no idea.”

He made a wry face.  “I am aware I have done little enough to… ingratiate myself to you over the years.”

Now it appeared to be Amelle’s turn to look at their hands.  Her other hand slid across her skirts to join the first, and the light touch of her fingertips tracing the white markings along his skin made him shiver.  “It’s all right, you know.”  Her brows twitched together once.  “Well.  Maybe not the viper-in-the-nest remark, but…”  She trailed off and cleared her throat.  “You never had to… _ingratiate_ yourself to me, Fenris.”

The look he sent her was one of marked skepticism, he knew.  “I gave you very little reason to tolerate me, much less… enjoy my company.”

“That’s the funny part,” she said, her lips once again curving into a small smile, this one of secret amusement.  “I… _do_ enjoy your company.  I thought it was you who didn’t care for mine.  I thought… well.  I imagine you could probably guess what I thought.”  She bowed her head, clasping his hand tightly in both of hers before murmuring so very softly Fenris had to tip his head closer to hear her, “I just never knew you had… changed your opinion about me.”

“If my opinion was changed, Amelle Hawke, you are the only one who may take credit for it.”

#

For the sake of her own pride, Amelle sincerely hoped Fenris could not feel how her pulse was racing. She, on the other hand, was entirely too aware of it, and the blush that would not quite abate did not help. In the slightest. But Fenris was looking at her so intently, and his expression was so sincere and so… genuine, so _unguarded_ , her heart stuttered along even faster. Inhaling deeply, she sought to regain some modicum of control before she combusted or set the tree on fire or lurched across the scant distance separating them and _threw_ herself at him.

Perhaps the latter wasn’t the _worst_ idea—

_Amelle. Pride. Control. Restraint. For the love of the Maker, rein it in._

The voice in her head sounded disturbingly like Kiara’s. It also sounded disturbingly like it was _mocking_ her. So she exhaled just as slowly, and sent Fenris a tentative smile. Of course, when his own lips twitched in reply, it sent her heart racing all over again. Fenris’ smiles were rare enough that earning one still seemed _noteworthy._ Glancing past him, over his shoulder, she looked toward the rest of the garden, willing herself to be calm again.

“So,” she said, attempting to sound conversational and fairly certain she was failing miserably—conversational people didn’t sound like their hearts were beating in their throats, did they?—”if the… if the notion had occurred to you _before_ , does that mean it’ll… occur to you _again_?”

He huffed a breath of soft laughter and, Maker’s _balls_ , the laughter was even worse than the smile. She felt her cheeks burn hotter.

And then, because the laughter was just enough to bolster her, she edged forward, closing the distance between them, and angled her face so she was able to press a brief kiss to his smiling lips. Both her hands were still clutching one of his, but he brought his free one up to cup the side of her face. His thumb rested along her jaw and now she was _certain_ he could feel her heart racing, if for some reason he’d been ignorant of it before.

“Amelle,” he said softly, his fingers almost cool compared to the heat of her flushed skin. “I am not certain this timing is any more ideal. You are concerned about Hawke. You have been unwell. Things have been unsettled—”

“Andraste’s frilly knickers, Fenris,” she retorted, “if we’re waiting for things to be _settled_ , we’ll be waiting a bloody long time. It’s… we’re not…” she shook her head, looking for the right words, hearing only the rush of blood and the pounding of her heart in her ears. “One can’t test the water without dipping one’s toes in.”

His lips lifted in a slightly broader smile. “After everything we’ve been through you choose a _water_ metaphor?”

First a smile, then laughter, and then a _joke_?  Amelle nearly leaned in and kissed him again, but the voice of her better sense — or at least she assumed it was her better sense, despite it sounding so disturbingly like Kiara — urged her again to control herself.  Her smile widened, however, and she let out a little huff of rueful laughter.  “You take my point, though.  We… Maker, Fenris, the whole world’s gone bloody backward _mad_.  Sure we flushed out— oh, sod it, _cleared up_ a bit of madness in our little corner of things, but… _everything_ is unsettled, and there’s no sign of that changing anytime soon.”

He looked at her, his brow creased in a small, pensive frown, and in that moment Amelle would have given anything to know just what was going through Fenris’ mind.  “You have… no concerns, then?”

That was enough to make Amelle laugh, a single peal of laughter perhaps louder than it ought to have been.  She put a hand over her mouth and shook her head.  “Sorry.  Sorry, I didn’t mean— I’m sorry.  I… Fenris, of _course_ I have concerns.  I’m concerned that our little stunt in the spring will, against all odds, turn out to have been nothing more than a temporary fix.  I’m concerned for my sister’s health and safety and that of her friends, who are, for better or worse, my friends too.  I’m concerned with… all the repercussions that are _bound_ to be coming our way after… after everything.”  She thought of her link to Compassion, all that it meant to be a spirit healer; she thought of the demons that still whispered in her ear, still tried to tempt her.  “Yes,” she said quietly.  “I think it’s fair to say I have concerns.”

Fenris then inclined his head and looked her in the eye, and something about the look he was giving her, about the line of his jaw looked… defiant.  Challenging.  “I am an escaped slave, still living in a borrowed mansion.  Allow me to ask you again: have you no concerns?  No reservations?”

She shot him a _look_ and shook her head.  “Correction: you are a _free man_ , living in a _dead man’s_ mansion.  Besides, if we’re going down that road, I’m an apostate mage — and still technically a refugee.  Does that bother you?  Does that concern you?”  She lifted her hand and let a flash of blue fire engulf her palm as she met his eyes steadily.  “Have _you_ no reservations?” she asked, letting the flame wink out.

His exhale held a hint of rueful laughter, but it faded into something far more sober.  “You make an interesting argument.  It is only that… Amelle, you know I have no memory of my life before these markings.  I do not know who I was.  I do, however, know the man I became while Danarius’ slave.  I have done things I am… not proud of.”

Amelle nodded, accepting this. She knew some of what he alluded to, certainly, though perhaps not quite as much as Kiara. Once or twice, after an evening spent at Fenris’ without her, Kiara had returned home with a dark, haunted look, and when Amelle had asked the matter her sister had only shaken her head and said, “As far as I’m concerned, we can’t kill that bastard Danarius dead enough.”

Amelle wasn’t certain she wanted to know all the details. But she knew she wanted Fenris to know whatever Danarius had made him do was _not his fault_.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips and she said, “And I know the man you became while working with my sister.”

Fenris looked momentarily pained. “He is no saint, either, Amelle.”

“Are any of us?” she countered. When his brow only furrowed deeper, she pressed, “I mean it, Fenris. Look, every single one of us has made bad decisions. Even Sebastian, and he was a sodding priest. All of us have blood on our hands. All of us… all of us were blind, maybe even willfully. I’m not… I’m not saying we need to decide about every day for the rest of our lives right this minute. I’m saying I’d… I’d like the _option_. To… dip my toes in the water.”

The expression he shot her way was fondness mixed with equal parts exasperation and uncertainty, but it wasn’t a look that said _no_. And that was enough. For now. That was something to hold on to.

“And if this spring, too, is poisoned?” The words almost, _almost_ rang of jest, but something in the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders alerted her to the importance of the question. His gaze never left hers, and _Maker_ , but she could see the hesitation there. The… fear. In that instant, he reminded her of nothing so much as one of the wounded animals she’d tended as a girl. Something in Fenris was injured—she knew that much, she’d _guessed_ that much—and though he seemed almost willing to allow her to help him, he was still afraid it wouldn’t be enough. That she’d hurt him more.

She swallowed past the sudden knot of tears in her throat and blinked rapidly to keep her eyes from betraying her. “I don’t think it is,” she replied. “But… I do have experience now with poisoned springs, don’t I?”

“Amelle…”  But he let her name trail off into silence as he shook his head.

“We have nothing to gain by standing back.”

“And what have we to lose if we venture too close?”

The hesitation still haunted his eyes, still made the line of his shoulders just a little too tense.  He still didn’t look as if he were on the verge of saying _no,_ but still he looked wary and hesitant and deep down in the pit of her gut, a new font of hatred sprang for Danarius and all he’d done.  The magister’s ghost loomed over them; though the man was dead, his shadow lingered, casting everything into cold dimness and uncertainty.

“We’ll never know if we don’t try,” she whispered, reaching up to brush hair away from Fenris’ forehead, stopping herself, fingertips mere inches from the pale strands.  After a moment’s hesitation, Fenris tipped his head a fraction, acquiescing, and Amelle reached the rest of the way, brushing the hair away from his forehead, startled at how very _soft_ it was.  Her thumb lingered a second or two against his temple before she let her hand fall silently to her lap.  “I’m willing to take a chance.”

“You are reckless,” he countered, but without any real heat.

Amelle only shrugged one shoulder.  “It’s a risk I think is worth taking.”

“You… truly believe that?”

“I do,” she said simply, her gaze never wavering from his.  There, in the green depths, she saw another flash of hesitation.  Yes, Fenris was injured; he had scars well beyond his markings.  She remembered, briefly, the moment when she’d tried finding proof of the corruption within him — she remembered that strange sensation of _something_.  Something like a scar, something that didn’t quite _belong_.  To her psychic fingers, it had felt like a wound left untended too long, but in all Amelle’s years of healing, she’d never encountered such a thing on the inside of a person.  She wondered if he’d been injured in battle — battle against a mage, even, or against the hunters sent so frequently after him.

She then wondered if such an injury could yet be mended, and if she could — _or ought to_ — make the attempt. Turning the thought over, she found herself remembering the moment in the spring—the moment when the whole universe had tasted of lyrium and magic and _power_. She didn’t think it would take a fraction of that kind of force to heal the scars she’d felt deep in Fenris, and did he not deserve the same healing, the same peace as the people of Kirkwall? Perhaps it wasn’t the same corruption, but it was something _wrong_ , something not meant to be there, and she thought she had the ability to fix it.

She was momentarily distracted by the sound of his voice once again softly speaking her name. His hand squeezed hers almost reflexively, and she couldn’t help the smile pulling at her lips. Maker’s _breath_ , a month ago she could hardly imagine Fenris permitting the most casual of touches, and here he was with his hand entwined with hers. If anything, this gave her hope. Taking a deep breath, she said, “We don’t have to look all the way down the road, you know. We’re just… setting foot on it.”

This time the expression on Fenris’ face was most definitely a smirk. “You are all metaphors this morning.”

She laughed ruefully, shaking her head. “I… you’re not wrong. I just… how does anyone _decide_ these things? All I know is… Fenris, I don’t want to… not try, and regret it. Maker, you’re observant. Do you want to end up like my sister and Sebastian?”

Fenris’ eyebrow twitched, and the smirk faded. “You… observed that as well?”

“You’d have to be blind not to, wouldn’t you? I… don’t want to do that. It makes them _miserable_. Sweet Andraste, I think the misery between them is the only reason Varric and Isabela don’t make more of the potential _story_. It’s like some things are too sad to poke fun at. And… whatever is or… _isn’t_ between Kiara and Sebastian is sad like that.”

Fenris inclined his head, his fingers once again tightening around hers. “You’ll not catch me arguing with you on that score.” He sighed, deeply, and she felt herself tense, because this sigh seemed to carry something in it she was afraid to hear. When he spoke, however, it was to say, “I do not know how… people decide these things any better than you, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe they don’t _talk_ so much,” Amelle replied, with a hint of impertinence. Then, because this reminded her of her back to a wall and his hands on her and his mouth slanting over hers and, oh, Maker, the _heat_ , she ducked her head to mitigate the blush she was beginning to fear permanent.

Fenris only breathed a rueful chuckle. “Perhaps not. But I… such things do not come naturally to me.”

Her gaze caught the twining lyrium-white lines and she followed the curves and spirals with her eyes, from fingertip to shoulder. She wanted to run her fingers along them, but instead she swallowed hard and asked, “Is it… I thought I understood… do they hurt? Is that… why?”

He frowned, but it was not angry or frustrated—it seemed thoughtful, and he still did not pull his hand away from hers. “At times the memory of pain returns. I… expect pain, and sometimes that is enough to cause it.”

Swallowing hard, Amelle twisted Fenris’ hand over in hers; lyrium streaked down his palms as well.  “I don’t ever want to cause you pain,” she said, lifting his hand as she pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of his wrist.  She heard his sharp intake of breath and looked up suddenly, but what Amelle saw playing across Fenris’ face bore no resemblance whatsoever to pain or discomfort.  

“I know you do not,” was his quiet reply, but his voice had grown rougher, huskier.  Emboldened, Amelle kissed his palm, lips brushing one slender line of white, watching him the whole while.  Again, the gesture seemed not to pain him and she allowed herself a small, relieved smile.  Fenris, however, did not smile in return.  A faint spark of alarm rose in her breast, but instantly guttered out when Fenris’ other hand came up to the back of her neck, pulling her in close as he slid his mouth over hers, reenacting in living color the kiss she’d blushed to remember only seconds before.

Her heart, though it had never slowed during their conversation, seemed only to beat harder and faster as the heat of Fenris’ mouth moved against hers.  She gasped and mewled at the suddenness of it, but then his hand was cradling her head and this time _she_ was parting her lips, and she was squeezing Fenris’ hand even more tightly as her other slid up his arm — and had she truly felt him _shiver_ at that? — and clutched at his shoulder.  And then Fenris groaned, and the sound was so deep and ragged that Amelle felt it reverberate through her as the kiss turned even more heated, and she couldn’t help but wonder, _Maker, did I do that?_ She ran fingers up along the nape of his neck, into that soft pale hair, and Fenris shuddered against her, his teeth catching her lower lip for one brief, dizzying moment.  There were worse things than wolf bites after all, she decided.

She was closer now, much closer than when they’d started this talk, situated so awkwardly at opposite ends of the bench.  And now Amelle was sliding closer still — so close she felt the warmth of his leg against hers.  Indeed, she felt heat _everywhere_ , and she couldn’t be sure for a moment if it was all coming from Fenris, or if she was generating some of her own.  The tip of his tongue touched briefly at her lower lip before brushing against hers, and the contact was enough to make her press harder into the kiss, a plaintive cry forming deep in her throat.

This, _this_ was somehow even _more_ than what she’d felt before.  When they’d been in her chamber, she’d been too surprised to do very much more than react, but as Amelle returned the kiss, she became dimly more aware of Fenris’ reactions — his own breathing was faster and more labored; his hand, which had first cradled her head, was now fisting in her hair; and she was nearly certain she could feelhis heartbeat thundering against her breast.

When the kiss broke — and Amelle could not be sure which of them pulled back first — she drew in an unsteady breath and licked her lips; Fenris’ eyes dipped to her mouth and she felt her stomach flip pleasantly.  Neither spoke for what had to be a full minute as they recovered their breath and looked at each other.

“See?” Amelle ventured with a poor attempt at lightness that was belied by her flush.  “Just putting a toe in.”

“Amelle,” Fenris began, and she was relieved to hear how unsteady he sounded, “I suspect that was more like an entire foot being submerged.”

“It didn’t… hurt, though?” she asked, running a thumb down one of the lines at his chin.  

“No.  No, it did not.”

Still, she felt the subtle flinch when her fingertips grazed the lyrium-white flesh. It was deep, almost instinctual, certainly not _conscious_ and… and she wondered. The trauma she’d sensed in him had been an old wound, too, old and deep and never tended. She nearly gasped as realization struck—it was a theory, but she wondered if the two might be somehow _connected_.

Whatever expression altered her face, it made Fenris frown down at her. “Amelle?”

She swallowed her excitement—her fear—even her desire to _help_ —and asked, “Fenris? Is it… is it true you have… no memories at all of the time… before?”

The frown deepened, as though he could not fathom how she’d come to such a topic and rather wished she hadn’t, but he answered nonetheless, “It is.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “And… I believe you’ve said your first memories are of—”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “The agony of the lyrium being branded into my skin. Is there a purpose to this line of questioning?”

The hardness in his voice was so painfully different from kisses and desire, and she very nearly backed away from her hypothesis. _He deserves the same healing Kirkwall has been given_ , she reminded herself. _And sometimes healing hurts, but the hurt is only in the short-term._ “I have a theory,” she explained, disliking the tentative quality of her tone. She spoke more quickly, as if to cover up this weakness, half expecting him to rise and stalk away from her at any moment. “Do you remember, before we went to Sundermount, I thought I sensed some old wound in you? Some old, untended trauma?”

He nodded once, brusquely, but his gaze turned curious and he did not pull away. She took that as encouragement enough and continued, “I’m wondering if… I’m _wondering_ if that old injury and what happened—what Danarius did—might not be connected.”

Curiosity turned incredulous. “You think to _cure_ me of these markings?”

She blinked. “Oh. No. I—I’m not sure that’s possible. They’re… they’re very much a part of you, now. But the trauma of that… that _event,_ Fenris — if I can still _feel_ the damage within you, it could mean the wounds can be… well, I might be able to heal them. The more I think about it, the more I think I could do it, actually.”

His eyes were guarded as he watched her, taking in her words, turning them over in his mind.  “These… old wounds you felt.  Are you certain they have to do with my markings?”

“I… don’t want to make promises I might not be able to keep.  Healing whatever was left to fester might do nothing.  Or you might suddenly realize you know how to speak Antivan or sing opera or even dance the Remigold — I don’t _know._   All I do know is… there’s something in you — some trauma or some injury or some sort of wound — that never healed.  It _could_ — it _might_ — be related to your markings.  Or it might not.  It might make no difference to you whatsoever if I were to leave it alone.  But I’m pretty sure I can heal whatever it is.”

“But you have no idea what ramifications healing such a… a thing might be.”

“This… is true,” Amelle admitted.  “But healing something doesn’t generally make that something worse.”

Fenris looked down then, and this time it was he who took her hand into both of his, and Amelle found herself wondering what Fenris saw when he looked at _her_ hands.  Something that felt very near to an eternity passed before he spoke, still looking at his hands as he said, “And you are… sure you are recovered enough to even _consider_ attempting such a thing?”

This was the harder question to answer.  The first moments after waking, she felt sore and wrung out, her connection to Compassion intact, but damaged.  But every day that passed, she felt stronger and better and… as she’d told Cullen, _different._   She felt different.  When she thought about whether she could heal the injury she’d sensed in Fenris, she felt the answer — _yes_ — rise from deep within her, filling her like music, like wind, like water, like fire.  _Yes._   She absolutely could heal him.

“Amelle?”

“Yes, Fenris.  I can heal it.”

His frown deepened for a moment as he watched Amelle — and oh, how _closely_ he watched her, as if he could see into her spirit.  He hadn’t released her hand, wasn’t moving away from her, but Fenris was very, very still.  He drew breath to speak, and Amelle stopped breathing entirely.

“I will… consider it.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either, and Amelle held on to that.


	57. Chapter 57

The gossiping of her maids reminded her, and as soon as she was reminded, Kiara felt the sick weight of having allowed herself—even momentarily—to forget. She was, after all, more attuned than most to even a whisper of the word _mage_ spoken. One of the girls had definitely said _mage_. Kiara was all too certain it had been followed with the word _burning_.

“Has something happened?” she asked. Tasia pinned up another curl. The chattering maids glanced up from their work, eyes wide. Kiara supposed she’d made another faux pas—nobility was supposed to be above the talk of servants. She didn’t think she was ever going to get used to the pervasive idea of willful blindness. And deafness. Or needing four women to help her get ready to do nothing more strenuous than _eat dinner._

“Nothing to worry yourself about,” Tasia said serenely, shooting a murderous look at the girls who’d been caught out. “Hearsay and rumors.”

“I _like_ hearsay and rumors,” Kiara said. “Has—have there been more deaths in the city?”

The maids looked at each other, and then at Tasia, who somehow managed to glare without ever once losing her cheerful smile. The redhead frowned while the brunette wrung her hands and said, “Tasia’s right, my lady. It’s just gossip.”

“Funny how often there’s truth in gossip,” Kiara pressed. “Tell me, please.”

It was Tasia who replied. “My lady, _please,_ you—”

“Tasia. I swear on all that’s holy if you say some variation of _needn’t concern yourself_ I will hit you. Hard. I _do_ concern myself. I _will_ _continue_ to concern myself. I’ve been concerning myself with matters not unlike this since I was old enough to punch bullies in the nose. Do I make myself understood?”

Her maid nodded, lowering her hands and twisting her fingers together. It was the closest Kiara had ever seen Tasia come to discomposed. To soothe some of the sting, Kiara added, “Come on, Tasia. Don’t tell me you don’t know _everything_ going on around here. There _must_ be things you can tell me.”

Tasia bit her lip before shooing the other servants from the room. Then she turned to Kiara and said, “The rumor is there’s been another death. This was no mage, though—it was a templar who dared speak against the crowd. They burned him in the… mage’s place. He bought the mage time to escape, but at the cost of his own life. I… I met the man once, my lady. He was kind. No one deserves a death like that, but he deserved it even less.”

Kiara frowned. She lifted her hand to run it through her hair, and stopped halfway, staring at her palm, unwilling to undo all Tasia’s work. “And what’s been done?”

Tasia lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “I know the prince has increased patrols to the very limit of what he has available; they have successfully stopped three other attempts to raise pyres. The guards aren’t _complaining_ , but neither are they happy. They’re doing double duty, my lady. They can only manage so long.”

Shaking her head, Kiara folded her hands in her lap. They ached to do something, anything, but… “And what about—?”

Before she could finish, Tasia interjected, “Lady Kiara, please. Perhaps it’s better you speak to the prince himself? I do not wish to repeat rumor as truth. And I do not know his mind. Surely… surely he will tell _you_ , if you ask.”

Kiara closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed Tasia to continue with her hair. It seemed silly that anyone should care about curls and jewels with death threatening innocents outside the palace doors, but… she knew tradition well enough to know screaming about it would change nothing. She’d be thought mad, perhaps, and not taken seriously. Which was precisely what she did _not_ want. So she would dress for dinner and dance if she was asked and she would plan and plan and not _forget._

After a moment or two she asked, “Has Starkhaven always been… hostile to mages?”

Tasia’s hand jerked, nearly driving a pin into Kiara’s scalp. “No, my lady. Not hostile. I had… I had a cousin at the Circle here before it burned. I saw him sometimes on feastdays. I always thought… our Circle and our Chantry worked well enough together, until the burning. Or at least they gave every indication of doing so.”

“It was burned by renegade mages? At least, that’s the rumor _I_ know.”

Tasia nodded. “Perhaps renegade mages who did not approve of how well our Chantry and our Circle worked together?”

“If it was the same… brand of renegades, it seems likely. Such cooperation wouldn’t have helped their cause. They want the world to believe such cooperation is impossible. As far as I understand.” 

Tasia lowered her eyes, but not before Kiara spotted the telltale shine of tears. “My cousin died. He didn’t… I know he didn’t _want_ to escape. He told me once the Circle was family to him because no one judged him for what he was. It was home.” The maid fell silent and slipped a few more jeweled pins into Kiara’s coiffure. “I have heard other rumors, my lady. I heard you… I heard _you_ are sympathetic to mages. That you fight for them. That you believe in their cause. In their rebellion.”

Kiara grimaced. “Sometimes rumors are only that, Tasia. I prefer to say I attempt to judge each person as I meet them, and not by what I’m told they are. I’ve known… a number of mages, yes. Some were good. Others were not. But the same can be said for anyone. I’ve met merciful warriors and bloodthirsty nobles and I firmly believe burning buildings down and killing innocents is never an effective way of spreading any kind of hopeful message. I don’t like knowing some mages feel held against their will—the Circle in Kirkwall was a dark place, I fear—but nor do I support the actions of this latest rebellion.”

“That is… something of a relief, my lady.”

“Fear is a most potent weapon, Tasia, and I believe someone wants to wield that weapon against Starkhaven. I need to figure out who. And why.”

Tasia cocked her head, her brow furrowed. “But… _why_ , my lady? Begging your pardon, but you’re not of Starkhaven.”

Kiara snorted. “I wasn’t really from Kirkwall, either, and it didn’t stop me getting pulled into _that_ mess.”

Somehow a silent Tasia was even more frightening than a talkative one. The girl put finishing touches on Kiara’s hairstyle and applied light cosmetics without speaking another word, and Kiara found herself anxious. “We… heard… you were involved in the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry, my lady,” Tasia said at last, her voice muted and completely bereft of her usual cheer.

“I wasn’t!” Kiara retorted at once. Then she remembered hunting through muck and sewers and fighting poisonous spiders by the dozens all to help Anders find ingredients for the mysterious potion she’d been naive enough to think might _actually_ help him. Heart heavy, she added, “Not intentionally. I… would _never_ have done such a thing. _Never_. You have to believe that.”

Tasia patted her shoulder. “I believe you, my lady. Now… your dress. Silver or gold?”

Kiara knew a change of topic when she heard it. “Can’t I wear red?”

Tasia covered her open mouth with both hands and stared, aghast. “With _your_ hair? _Maker’s breath_ , my lady, _no!_ Never! Oh. _Andraste!_ _Red!_ ”

“Better go silver then,” Kiara replied levelly, even as she turned her troubled thoughts over and over and over. Mages were a convenient target—mages were _always_ a convenient target—but this… this had the ring of falsehood all over it. She had yet to see—or hear—anything to indicate even a single mage might be _in_ the city. It was all pointed fingers and hearsay and frightened people turning against their innocent neighbors. _Someone_ was using mages as their scapegoat, but to what purpose?

“Red,” Tasia tutted. “Just imagine! _Red!_ ”

#

Some mysterious law of placement meant Kiara spent the entirety of dinner listening to a bland young courtier praising her archery skills—and her beauty, her wit, and her charm, though he couldn’t possibly have any experience with the latter—while she covertly gazed down the table at Sebastian. He seemed no more pleased with the seating arrangement than she was, if the strained look on his face and the troubled expression of the young woman trying to converse with him were any indication.

She wasn’t sure if it was the conversation with Tasia, the courtier’s inanity, or the leftover strangeness of having kissed Sebastian, but Kiara found herself ill-adapted to the task of making herself amiable. She cut her food into tiny pieces and ate hardly any of them. The courtier asked her four times how old she’d been when she’d shot her first bow before she answered him with a curt, “Three. It was a small bow.”

No matter how she tried, she could not completely block out the dim buzz of conversation all around her. People were speaking of fashion and dances and gossiping about their friends. She didn’t hear the word _mage_ whispered _once_ , and it disgusted her. Lady Violet’s new hairstyle was evidently more important a topic than how many people were fearing for their lives in the dirty streets beyond the palace walls.

Part of her wanted to rise to her feet and shout, “A week ago you had a different prince and two months ago you had a different prince _still_ and people are dying—innocent people are _dying_ —and all you can find to discuss is the weather and what color Lady So-and-so says ought to be the next triumphant new fashion?” Instead she pushed her tiny pieces of food around her plate and thought of running.

As soon as she was able—certainly before it was polite—she excused herself. Sebastian half-rose to follow her, but she shook her head and darted away, pleading a headache. He frowned, but did not press her. As she strode away, feet tangling in her froth of skirts, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

She supposed it was thanks to this fabricated illness that the healer was waiting for her, sitting by the fire with her hands folded in her lap. Kiara sighed. “Did someone send for you?”

“Prince Sebastian indicated you were unwell. I thought it best to check. No one has survived Maker’s Light as you did, my lady. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’m fine. Can you keep a secret? The headache was a lie. I just can’t… abide their talk tonight.”

“It has a tendency to drift toward the shallow, doesn’t it? And now I imagine they are all talking about _you_. You _have_ had quite a day.”

“I suppose.”

“Strength in a woman is… rarer here, I think. Considered less a charm and more a defect.”

Kiara sighed again, throwing herself into the chair opposite Jessamine, squirming when her stiff undergarments poked her uncomfortably. “Yes, well. Plenty of folk in Kirkwall would happily dwell on my strength as a defect, too. They can start a club.”

“Perhaps you will be the exception to the rule. The… contest went over well. People speak of you with greater respect now.”

“Oh, the bloody _contest_. I wish I’d stayed in bed.”

Jessamine laughed gently. “I did _ask_ you to stay in bed, if you’ll recall.”

“You did at that.” Kiara chuckled mirthlessly. After a brief silence, she asked, “Why did you leave Kirkwall, Jessamine? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Jessamine shrugged one delicate shoulder. “Marriage. Many years ago, now. He died young, but I didn’t want to go back to my mother’s house, so I stayed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was… he was a weak man. His death forced me to become strong. I… wanted something honorable, and it turned out I had some talent for the trade of healing. I was able to… make something of myself. My work is important.”

“Especially given your shortage of mages.”

Jessamine raised her eyebrows, startled, and when she spoke it was in a lowered tone though they were the only ones in the room. “No one speaks of the mages here, my lady. You’ll find yourself the focus of uncomfortable scrutiny. We have no mages in Starkhaven. Not anymore.”

“Except the ones being killed by their countrymen.”

Jessamine turned her palms over and stared at her hands as though seeking answers she might find written there. Slowly, she shook her head. “You and I both know those innocents are no mages, my lady. Mages do not go easily into the fire, not when they can control it themselves.”

When Kiara spoke her voice was low and dangerous and brooked no argument; she startled even herself with her vehemence. “I will get to the bottom of this.”

The healer inclined her head slightly and did not argue. When the moment passed, she turned her hands over again and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her robes. “And you are certain I can do nothing for you right now, my lady? A sleeping draught?”

Kiara shook her head. “They make me too groggy the next day. Even Amelle’s—” she bit her sister’s name off sharply, but Jessamine only raised an eyebrow.

“Your sister knows a little of healing too, then?” Jessamine asked, smiling.

“A little.”

“A good talent to have, especially when one’s sister is Champion of Kirkwall. Perhaps I shall meet her one day.”

Without thinking, Kiara replied, “I hope not.” At Jessamine’s wounded expression, she amended, “Oh, it’s not _you_. It’s _here._ Everything’s so unsettled. She… it’s better if she stays in Kirkwall. She’s earned a vacation from this kind of city-wide madness.”

“Some might say the same of you, I imagine.” Jessamine rose and curtsied; Kiara tried to parse the gesture for lingering hurt feelings, but saw nothing to indicate them. “If that’s all, my lady, I’ll leave you to your rest.”

For five perfectly silent minutes Kiara was left alone after the healer quietly closed the door behind herself. She attempted to squirm her way out of the binding gown, but to no avail; all the buttons ran down her spine, and all the bending and twisting in the world couldn’t make her arms reach them. Tasia found her this way—twisted into an inhuman knot of arms seeking buttons—when she entered. The maid said nothing, guiding Kiara to her feet and beginning the work of undoing the dozens of tiny fasteners.

When she was safely out of her dress and clad in the blessedly loose silk of her nightgown, Kiara sat on the edge of her bed and looked at Tasia with pleading eyes. “What are the chances I could just be… left alone tonight? No servants. No questions.”

Tasia frowned. “It could be arranged, my lady, but—”

“Please. Arrange it.”

“Very well. Are you certain you wouldn’t like—”

“Please, Tasia. Please. I need… I’m not used to this. Any of it.”

“But you’re a lady. I heard the way you were introduced. Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell.”

Tasia’s mortified expression startled a laugh from Kiara. “Oh, Tasia. Forget the horror of red dresses. What will your reaction be when I tell you Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell keeps precisely _one_ servant… and that one only because she stumbled into my service. Trust me, this is… all far more grand and terrifying and overwhelming than anything I’m used to.”

Tasia straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Then she smiled—a sweet, genuine smile completely unlike the one she wore as part of her uniform. “Then if you’ll permit me a moment of impertinence, I think you’re doing remarkably well, my lady. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And I’ll… make sure you’re left alone. At least for tonight.”

Kiara was so grateful to her maid she felt a momentary pang of regret that she planned to abuse the girl’s trust, just a little. As soon as Tasia was gone, Kiara rummaged through her wardrobes—and honestly, who needed wardrobes in the _plural?_ —until she found dark, plain clothing. She thought longingly of her still-missing armor as she dressed. Then, flipping her bow over her back, she went to the window. She’d examined it already, of course, and found the sill sturdy and the wall positively pockmarked with excellent holds. It took very little effort at all to lower herself out the window and into the darkness.

Freedom. She only wished it didn’t taste just a little of dishonesty.

And besides, she knew Varric would say unfiltered information was worth it.

She only hoped when she asked his forgiveness later, Sebastian would agree.

#

Really, it was only the last couple of feet she struggled with. The handholds were suddenly and irritatingly few and far between. Kiara was glad of her height when she reached for the windowsill and was able to haul herself the rest of the way into her room.

A swift glance revealed the chamber was in the same state she’d left it, not that she’d doubted Tasia’s ability to ensure she was left alone. She sincerely doubted _anyone_ crossed Tasia more than once. 

The fire had died down and needed to be stoked, but otherwise the room was as warm and inviting as the city had been cold. She shook her head. Even the taverns were quiet, and she’d never known anything as insignificant as mere _murder and mayhem_ to keep people from drinking. Still, it hadn’t been a completely worthless adventure—she’d stopped a mugging on the way back, and she’d heard rumors she could pass on to Sebastian. Somehow without him knowing how she’d heard them, preferably.

Closing the draperies at the window, she flipped her bow from her back and stood it beside the bed. Her nightgown lay on the pillow where she’d abandoned it; she hated thinking of sullying the silk. Skulking through the city and scaling walls was sweaty, filthy work, but a bath was out of the question.

Not until she was halfway to the pitcher and basin across the room did she realize she wasn’t alone. Without hesitation, she dropped into a crouch and pulled the knife from its jeweled sheath at her waist—probably it was too fine to have taken out with her, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and it was the only knife she had.

Sebastian sat in one of the chairs at the fireplace, elbows on his knees and head bowed. He glanced at her before looking down at the floor again. “You’re slipping, Hawke,” he said. “You should have noticed my shadow right away. I wasn’t even trying to hide.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“Clearly.”

She slid the knife back into its sheath, and the hiss of metal against metal was jarringly loud in the otherwise silent room. Sebastian didn’t move, except to curl his dangling hands into fists. “Where were you?”

Something about his tone raised her hackles. “I’m not sure it’s any business of yours,” she retorted, though the words emerged rather more muted and less vitriolic than she’d intended. It was hard to be exasperated with someone whose posture looked so… defeated.

“You’re in Starkhaven, Hawke. Everything here’s my business. Or did you forget?”

It was the shift back to her surname that wounded her most of all. _Hawke_ was a million miles from a kiss in a courtyard. _Hawke_ and _Highness_ were all but strangers.

“Where were you?” he repeated.

“I went for a drink,” she replied. “I thought you said I wasn’t a prisoner here.”

“Guests usually opt for doors.”

“I didn’t want to be followed.”

“Because you were going for a drink? Armed, dressed in black, in a hostile city?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “What do you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know what to think, Hawke.”

She took a step forward, her own hands curling into fists. “Are you accusing me of something, _Your Highness_?”

“You lied about feeling unwell. You disappeared into the dark after begging your maid to cover for you. You… put on your performance this afternoon.”

“I put on _my_ performance?” she scoffed, gesturing broadly, taking in his palace and his clothing and the head still wearing its crown. “I don’t even _recognize_ you. You want to know where I went? I went to find out why the people of Starkhaven are killing people they accuse of being mages. And I went for a damned drink in a place where I didn’t have to wear a dress half as wide as I am tall, where no one knew me, where no one _expected_ anything of me. The truth is I couldn’t take another bloody minute of… of that _dinner_. The _prattle_. The boredom. The fact that everyone was talking about fashion and fingernails instead of matters of importance.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you… doubt me.” Putting his hands to his knees, he pushed himself back into the chair, his spine straightening.

“ _Doubt_ you?” Kiara sputtered. “What are you—?”

Sebastian turned and looked at her at last, and what she saw in his eyes forced her physically backward. She’d expected anger, or disappointment, or frustration—her disregard for personal safety had induced all those emotions in him before. She hadn’t expected him to look so bruised, so wounded, so _betrayed._ She hadn’t expected him to look afraid.

“Do you honestly believe that simply because I’m not wandering the streets knocking heads together I’m not using all the resources available to me? You haven’t the slightest _idea_ what avenues of recourse political power like mine provides.”

“If I don’t know what you’re doing it’s because you haven’t bothered _telling me_ ,” Kiara said. “People are still _dying_.”

“Do you think me ignorantof it, Hawke? Do you think I liked having to put an arrow through that innocent woman’s throat as she burned? Do you think I’m not haunted by her open mouth and silent scream—silent because the voice had already been burned out of her?” Sebastian put a hand to his breast and Kiara realized he was rubbing absently at the spot he’d been wounded. His voice was tight and pained, his accent somehow stronger filtered through his emotion. “Again and again I tried to warn you: _this is not Kirkwall_. But it is my _homeland_ , and for all its flaws I want to protect it. I want to see it whole and hale.”

“I… understand,” she whispered.

“No!” he cried. “I do not think you do! You want to fix without bothering to understand. Your dedication is admirable, but in your willful blindness you may cause more harm than good, and the risks you’re willing to take with your own person border on suicidal.”

“You think I have a death wish because I snuck out of your cozy, guarded palace? I’m hardly _helpless_ , Sebastian.”

He snapped, “Do you know the Royal Archers are under orders to shoot on suspicion? Do you know the guard is wound tight because they—and I—know they can’t be _everywhere_? How would you have looked to them, creeping through the dark with your black clothes and your bow?”

“But I… didn’t know.”

He stood, putting a hand to the back of the chair as if to bolster himself. His brow was pinched, the muscles tight in his jaw and at the corners of his eyes. “And do you know about the Prince’s Eyes? I know you do not. They are my spies, Hawke, and they have a network to rival even Varric’s.”

She shook her head.

“And because you do not know about the Eyes, you don’t know they have already stopped three attempts on your life since you woke from the first _nearly successful_ assassination attempt. Once when someone poisoned your food before it reached your chambers. Once when an assassin waited to stab you, but chose not to because you were too surrounded by guards in the practice yard. Once when they caught a false courtier at the ball last night who would have slipped a poisoned handkerchief into the bosom of your dress as you danced together.” Sebastian ticked each instance off on his fingers. She watched the movement warily, disbelief warring with horror within her.

“That’s not—”

“Behind their smiles and their inane conversations, people are trying to kill you, and you are making it easy for them. You underestimate them, just as you underestimated Anders and Knight-Commander Meredith and Gascard duPuis—”

Livid, she took a step toward him. He did not flinch. “Don’t you _dare_ —”

She saw his arms trembling as he crossed them over his chest; she couldn’t tell if he meant the gesture to rebuff her or to comfort himself. The anguish in his eyes made her think the latter. “You are not invincible. I sat by your bedside and watched you dying, knowing I could do nothing. I imagined the words I’d have to speak to your sister. I imagined her face. I imagined her tears, her broken heart, the immeasurable grief. I replayed it a hundred times in those three days. A thousand. Please don’t make me do it again.” Kiara twisted her face away sharply, as though he’d slapped her. Still he spoke. Still he pressed. “These words may sound harsh, I know, but it appears you will not listen unless I cause you pain. I am sorry for it, but not sorry enough to stop. Even if you’re angry with me—even if you hate me for them—I would rather scream the cruelest, truest words I know than stand idly by and let you be murdered out of your own obstinate unwillingness to see danger.” His cheeks were flushed, his breath uneven. The distance between them was no more than two feet, but it felt an impassable chasm, too wide to cross, too deep to navigate. 

“So, what? You want me to stay safe by never leaving my room?”

Sebastian closed his eyes, clearly steeling himself. “I want you to stay safe by returning to Kirkwall.”

Kiara barked an incredulous laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sebastian. I’m not going anywhere.”

His gaze turned icy. “You’ll go if I tell you to go. Starkhaven’s troubles are none of your con—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish the word _concern_ before she slapped him. Her palm stung, and she pulled her hand back almost as rapidly as it had darted out, pressing it tight to her breast. Sebastian blinked, his lips still parted to speak even as the red handprint blossomed on his cheek. “How _dare_ you?” she whispered. Before he could respond, she said, “How many attempts have there been on your life, if they’ve cared enough to make attempts on mine thrice? Half a dozen? More? And you… you want me to _leave_ you?” She cursed them for weakness, but she couldn’t keep the tears from welling in her eyes—the slap had burned her rage away, leaving grief in its wake. Hunching her shoulders slightly she lowered her face, unwilling to look at him. “Amelle thought you were going to die. She didn’t _want_ you to die, but she thought you were going to. She didn’t say it, and she probably told herself not to even think it, but I’ve been watching her work for most of my life. I know the look she gets in her eyes when she has a patient she thinks she’s going to fail. You’re not the only one who’s ever sat hopeless at a deathbed, Sebastian. The whole bloody world is full of danger. I—and you—at least are equipped to try and stop some of it. I’m willing to take risks, and, like you, I’m not willing to sit idly by. Don’t ask me to be something I’m not and I’ll do you the same courtesy.”

Her slap had brought them physically closer together; she could feel the heat of him. She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Still he said nothing. “But maybe you’re right. About my… stubbornness. I—if you don’t want me here, I’ll go.” Her breath caught on the edge of a sob she wouldn’t allow herself to utter. “For what it’s worth, I… I don’t _want_ to. I-I can be _useful_ , you know I can. M-make me one of your Eyes. Stick me on the ramparts with a bow. Put me to work. Give me an occupation. Let me _do_ something.”

“Kiara, stop. Please.” The gentleness in his voice now only made everything worse, because gentleness meant he was going to send her away. He was attempting to do it kindly. She almost wished for his anger back again; it would have been easier to take than tenderness. She felt her heart constrict and a traitorous tear traced the curve of her cheek. “You’re… right. I ought to have… spoken to you before now. I certainly shouldn’t have kept the potential dangers from you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Please. I—please let me speak. Let me say what I must, and then perhaps you may find you do _not_ wish to stay.”

“I can’t think of anything you would—”

“Kiara, _please_.”

Reluctantly, she snapped her jaw shut. Then, stepping around him, she took the other seat in front of the fire, and gestured for him to return to the one he’d vacated. He bent and placed a couple of new logs in the hearth first, and she found she couldn’t read the line of his back any more than she could read the set of his shoulders or the tone of his voice. She folded her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. When he was satisfied with the blaze, Sebastian sat back. “I am Prince of Starkhaven now,” he said at last.

“All the _Your Highnesses_ were a bit of a tip off.”

“Ahh, you jest.” His slantwise glance was shrewd. “Which means you are uncomfortable. What I mean, however, is that notions of one day _becoming_ Prince of Starkhaven have ceased to become vague considerations for a future that might never happen. I _am_ Prince of Starkhaven now, and will be until I die. It is done. There is no going back.”

She had known this—obviously she had _known_ this—but still, the certainty and finality of his tone startled her. “So you’re staying here forever, is what you mean.”

“That is what I mean, aye.” He sighed. “More than that, I have new responsibilities. The new responsibilities mean I must break completely with… with my old vows. There can be no return to the Chantry for me now.”

“I didn’t think you—”

“I am afraid if you do not recognize me _now_ , there will come a time soon when I am naught but a stranger to you. There are things I must—You told me once no one trusts a man who breaks his oath. To accept my new role I must become an oathbreaker. Many times over.”

“Sebastian, that’s not what I—” She began, but when he raised his eyebrows, she stopped, swallowed, and began again. “You’re right, I said that.”

“Very decisively.”

“And you’ve never said anything decisively you thought better of later? I know that’s not true, unless you _are_ still planning on taking Starkhaven’s army to Kirkwall.” He frowned at her, but she waved her hand, dismissing the words. “I know you’re not. I was… I thought it was what you needed to hear. You were so torn. I thought you—wanted me to make things clearer. Black and white.” She shook her head. “When really, it was always very grey, wasn’t it? I… never know what to say to you. Everything comes out wrong. Maker’s blood, I said those words to you _years ago_ , before I properly _knew you_. I’ve never turned my back on you; do you think I’m going to start _now_?”

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, audibly.

“Are you asking me if I trust you?” Kiara asked.

Quietly, he replied, “I—suppose I am.”

“Maker, but you’re an idiot. When have I _ever_ held back? You were there when I told Anders I didn’t trust him. You were there when I told Merrill I _couldn’t_ trust her. Why would I have kept quiet around you? _Trust_ you! Whatever vows you made are between you and the Maker. If He can forgive you, I daresay I can.”

“It’s not a joke, Kiara.”

“And I’m not joking. Look, if you want my honest opinion? You’re about the only person I’ve ever met I’d entrust a nation’s welfare to. Maybe the Maker agrees with me. It’s just taken Him forever to bully you into listening. No one could accuse you of being submissive.”

He almost smiled. “Who am I to argue with you and the Maker?”

She rolled her eyes. “No one but the bloody prince of Starkhaven.” Her moment of mirth was short-lived. “ _Do_ you want me to go? Is that it?”

He did not answer right away, and the longer he was silent, the more she feared he would simply say _yes_ and have done with her. “Maker help me,” he breathed. “No. I… do not.”

The corner of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. “That’s all settled then. No one’s going anywhere. Now, can I join your super secret spy network?”

“ _No_.”

She shot him an exaggerated pout, but his expression was still troubled and he did not smile.

“Guard duty, then?”

“Kiara,” he said warningly. After a moment a ghost of a smile broke through all the anxiety and worry and perturbation. “If you’re very good, perhaps I’ll let you help with my paperwork. Corwin keeps telling me I need a proper secretary.”

Before she could reply—in horror, obviously—a soft knock interrupted them. They both jumped, looked at each other, and then looked at the door. Kiara eased her knife free of its scabbard, holding it close to her thigh, hidden by the arm of the chair. “Come in,” she called.

Ser Kinnon entered, bowed, noticed Sebastian, and bowed again more deeply. “Ahh, my lady, Prince Sebastian,” he said, rubbing absently at the purpling bruise on his jaw. “Forgive the… interruption, and so late. Your Highness, we, uh, have been searching for you some time.”

“What is it?” Sebastian asked coolly. Kiara frowned at the tone; it was such a shift from the almost-joke of only a moment earlier. She couldn’t help noticing the way Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the man still standing awkwardly in the doorway. Kinnon shifted under the gaze, lowering his own eyes and keeping his head bowed.

“The prisoner, Highness. He has attempted to kill himself. Unsuccessfully, but his survival is by no means assured. We thought you might… want the opportunity to speak with him. Just in case.”

Sebastian rose at once. “I do. Thank you for bringing this to me, Ser Kinnon.”

Kiara rose too, the exhaustion of her night roaming the city instantly fled.

“…Kiara.”

She bit her lip. “Let me at least see the bastard who ordered my death?” When Sebastian nodded reluctantly she added, “Besides. You and I both know getting answers from recalcitrant villains is something of a forte.”

Ser Kinnon laughed until Sebastian glared him silent. Kiara found herself wondering what the guard had said to earn the bruise. 

After slipping her knife back into its sheath and crossing the room to arm herself with her bow, Kiara followed the men into the hall, and tried not to think about how many times plots on her life would be foiled before she could find her way back to her bed.

#

If Kiara was tired—and she must be—she gave no indication of it as she kept pace with him. Her brow was perhaps a little pinched, her cheeks a little pale, but nothing to cause him any great alarm—and he was constantly verging on alarm where Kiara was concerned these days, it seemed. Even now he felt a pang of panic when he looked at her. He _could_ have sent her safely home to her sister, to her friends, to her life in Kirkwall. Weakness, his own damnable weakness, had not allowed him to say _go_ when she was peering up at him with tear-filled eyes, pleading to stay.

For his own sanity, he hoped Kiara never learned how impossible it was for him to deny her when she looked at him that way.

“So tell me, my lady,” Sir Kinnon began. Sebastian cleared his throat. Conspicuously.

Kiara, oblivious, raised her eyebrows. “Tell you what?”

Kinnon glanced shiftily at Sebastian, weighed his options, and blurted, “Where did you get your bow?”

Her smile was wry. “Oh, this old thing? One corpse or another, I imagine.”

Kinnon’s eyes widened as he mouthed the word _corpse_.

“Actually, it’s the Jackal’s Longbow, is it not?” Sebastian said pointedly, as Kinnon quivered. “The one we looted from the High Dragon at the Bone Pit, I believe.”

Eyes wide, the knight echoed, “High… Dragon?”

“Indeed,” Sebastian intoned.

Kiara rolled her eyes. “The bloody thing nearly killed us all, but you’re right. This was in the dragon’s hoard.”

“Dragon’s… hoard.”

Laughing even as she shook her head, Kiara added, “I thought _nothing_ could be worse than trying to duel the Arishok armed only with a bow, but that battle just about proved me wrong. Every time we turned around another wretched batch of little dragonlings came from _nowhere_. Who knew High Dragons could _breed_ like that?”

In a tiny voice, Kinnon repeated, “Arishok. Bow. _Dragonlings_.”

“Yeeesss,” Kiara said slowly, as though attempting to explain something simple to someone of slow intellect, “you know, _baby dragons_.”

They reached the dungeon then, and as Kinnon held the door wide, Sebastian was gratified to see genuine fear in his eyes. Good. Perhaps if he thought more about infant dragons, he’d ogle less. Kiara grinned over her shoulder, “I shouldn’t tell you this, Sebastian, but Fenris admitted he still has nightmares about the things. Not even about the High Dragon—about the babies. He dreams they’re eating him from the feet up and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“I can hardly mock him for it,” Sebastian returned. “For me it’s the spiders.”

Kiara shuddered. “But that only makes _sense_. Spiders are _spiders_. And any spider five times as big as you are is just _wrong_.”

At the door, Kinnon whispered, “… _Giant spiders._ ”

The amusement ended as soon as they entered the guards’ quarters, however. The pretender was laid out on a pallet, surrounded by a wall of armored soldiers, not that he looked terribly capable of doing much damage. His skin was a terrible ashen grey that made his blue eyes all the more startling. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably. Sebastian wondered what poison the man had used, and how he’d come by it.

“Oh,” Kiara said, stopping so quickly Sebastian nearly walked into her back. “But he’s… he’s _not_ your brother?”

Sebastian shook his head. Of course. She’d been unconscious the last time she was in the same room as him. “He will not tell me who he is.”

“But his _eyes_.”

The pretender turned his head and grinned at them, his Vael eyes mocking even through their glaze of pain, his expression somehow feral. “They’re Vael eyes, bitch, no matter what the Chantry Brother tells you.”

Sebastian closed his right hand into a fist, but it was unnecessary; Kiara strode across the room and stood beside the pallet, arms crossed over her chest, glaring down. “Name calling, is it? Sebastian, you didn’t tell me we were dealing with a toddler.”

Sebastian loved watching her work.

“Sit him up,” Kiara ordered; the guards didn’t even glance at Sebastian for permission before they obeyed, pulling the groaning impostor upright. “Put him in a chair and make him stay there. He did this to himself; he can bloody sit up straight and answer some questions before his gut-rot kills him. And someone send for a healer, if you haven’t already.” She grinned down at the man. “You’d be amazed how long a good healer can keep a dying man alive.”

The blonde knight who’d helped Kinnon carry Kiara back after the poisoning snapped to attention and departed swiftly. Maisie, Sebastian thought her name was. He had to start learning. They’d respect him more if he knew them by name. His father had. And his grandfather. He’d have Corwin draw him up a list.

As soon as the pretender was sitting, held in place by a guard on either side, Kiara pulled up a chair of her own. Straddling the seat, she leaned her arms on the chair’s back and set her chin on her hands. She stared at the fraud until he was twitching with discomfort, but her expression remained bland and inscrutable.

“So,” she said conversationally, “we haven’t been properly introduced.”

“I know who you are, whore.”

With an exaggerated wince of dismay she said, “Oh dear. Clearly you’re not familiar with the details of my personal life. I think you were closer with the last insult. Your poor mother. Wherever she is, she must be appalled at your manners. Shall we try again? _I’m_ Kiara Hawke. And you are?”

“Connall Vael, _whore_.”

Kiara’s sigh was put upon. “Do we have to have a conversation about literal definitions of words? Don’t use them unless you know what they mean.”

Sebastian crossed the room to stand near—but not too near; she wouldn’t appreciate it—Kiara’s left shoulder. She didn’t glance back at him, but the pretender narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting in silent disdain.

Still wearing her careful cloak of nonchalance, Kiara tilted her head. “Something tells me the real Vael boys weren’t raised to call ladies such names. Who are you?”

The pretender let out a barking, rough laugh. It gurgled slightly near the end, and Sebastian wondered just how long the man had left. “You should ask your Chantry bitch about all the whores _he’s_ known.”

Kiara rolled her eyes dramatically. “You _are_ something else. Name calling _and_ rumormongering. It’s a wonder Starkhaven survived you. I suppose it’s fortunate we arrived when we did. Did your wagging tongue start the rumors about the mages, too?”

“Oh, the Champion of Kirkwall loves mages, doesn’t she? No matter what they do. No matter whom they kill. It’s why so many were willing to take the shot to end her life. Do you think you’ve found them all? Do you think you’ve even come close?” The pretender’s giggle was hollow and eerie and far more disconcerting than the laugh had been. Sebastian saw a couple of the guards shudder.

Kiara did turn at this, shooting Sebastian an expressionless look. “He doesn’t have very good information, does he? I do _hate_ a pointless endeavor.”

Slowly, languidly, Kiara faced the impostor once again. He looked startled at her evident lack of concern, and the giggle died in his throat.

“I won’t ask again,” she said. “Who are you?”

“ _Connall Vael_.”

“Sebastian? His fingers.”

Sebastian grabbed the hand he’d wounded with his shot in the Great Hall while the guards held him still. Kiara flipped her knife from its jeweled sheath and held it out to him, hilt first.

“ _What?_ ” the pretender cried. “You can’t cut off my fingers! You _won’t_. You’re Chantry!”

“Was,” Sebastian said mildly. “But even so, if you were at all familiar with the Chant of Light—as I most assuredly am—you would know not a single verse prohibits the removal of a liar’s fingers. Indeed, the Maker tends toward harsh punishment when it comes to that particular brand of sin. I believe I am only doing the Maker’s will.”

The impostor tried to curl his hand into a fist to protect his digits, but Sebastian’s body wasn’t wracked with poison and it was easy work to keep the hand flat. With a theatrical flourish he brought the knife close.

“ _Wait!_ ”

In her most bored voice, Kiara asked, “Did you have something to say? Your name perhaps?”

“It _is_ Vael,” the man gasped. Sebastian drew a single, gleaming drop of blood with the sharp point of the blade. “Maker, stop! It’s Morven Vael.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows in silent question.

“I know of no Vael by that name,” Sebastian said. But as soon as he spoke, some ancient ghost of knowledge whispered in the back of his head. He couldn’t chase it down. An old memory. An old story. An overheard whisper. He’d always been good at listening. He just hadn’t always been as good at making sense of what he heard.

Kiara replied, “Thumb first, maybe. A man’s all but helpless without his thumbs.”

The pretender wailed, jerking as much as the restraining guards and his own poisoned body would allow.

“Of course you don’t know my name!” he screamed. “You wouldn’t! You were a babe in arms when my family was banished.”

Kiara asked the question Sebastian was thinking. “What are you talking about? Explain yourself.”

“My thumb!”

Her smile was cold. “Talk and we’ll reopen negotiations about your thumbs.”

“You’re a demon! An abomination!You’re a foreign-born, self-important bitch! You should be crawling on your knees before me! I’m a _Vael_ and you’re a tarted up _whore_ with pretensions—”

Sebastian didn’t take the man’s thumb clean off, but the cut was deep, would be irritatingly slow to heal—if he managed to survive the poison—and bled copiously. He hadn’t thought the man’s color could get worse but he was proven wrong when ashen turned positively ghostly.

Kiara frowned at him.

“I slipped,” Sebastian said, shrugging. “I get twitchy when pompous fools fling slanderous, offensive words about.”

Some of the fight had gone from the fraud. He stared at his bleeding hand, his eyes wide and glassy. “You cut me,” he said weakly. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Sebastian snapped, “Do you have trouble with your memory? I shot you twice; you think I’d hesitate with a knife? Answer the lady’s questions.”

“She’s no lady—”

The knife moved to hover over the man’s index finger.

“I _am_ actually a lady, as it happens,” Kiara remarked. “Both physically and by peerage. Someone has evidently given you _tremendously_ flawed information about me. Now tell me, why was your family banished?”

The pretender’s adam’s apple bobbed as he watched the knife. “My father plotted against his brother. He was discovered. Their father couldn’t bring himself to kill one of his sons, so my family was banished. Entirely. Never to be heard from again. On pain of death.”

Kiara glanced at her fingernails as though utterly bored. “Who was your father, then?”

“C-Connall Vael. Wait! The Connall your brother was _named_ for. Brother to Lachlan Vael.”

Sebastian shook his head, disbelieving. “Connall Vael died.”

“No. Not then. Later. Your—our—grandfather sent us away. We were dead to him. But not dead. I-it’s true. I swear it.”

“By your thumbs?” Kiara drawled.

The pretender squealed, squeezing his eyes shut. Sebastian tightened his fingers around the hilt of the knife.

“I don’t think he’s lying,” Kiara said. “He’s pissed himself.”

“I-I’m not lying,” the man whimpered. “I’m not lying. The old prince spread the story about our death. In the histories we were killed on a trip to Antiva. In reality, we were banished. The fight went out of my father. He was weak. He didn’t resist the punishment.”

Kiara’s tone took on a harder edge, and her eyes narrowed as she peered at him. “So thirty years later you woke up and decided you’d return to the world you’d been banished from, take over a city, name yourself Prince? Impossible. You must have been a child then, too.”

“We didn’t think anyone… I didn’t think anyone was alive who would contest it, after Kirkwall,” the man mumbled. “Couldn’t do it under _my_ name; we lost succession rights. But I… knew I… _resembled_ your brother. Everyone said so, the whole time I was growing up. Thought I could pull it off, thought the city’d be happy to see a real Vael again after that oaf Goran.” He blinked up at Sebastian, and his eyes took too long to focus; the poison was progressing. “Better a false Connall than a real coward. Hiding behind the skirts of the Grand Cleric all those years. Hiding behind your foreign-born whore. See if you do better. They’ll eat you alive.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sebastian said.

Jessamine entered then, still blinking sleep from her eyes, her hair askew and the clasps of her robe done up wrong. She’d come at a run, and Ser Maisie, carrying a box of tinkling potion bottles and jars and vials, followed a moment later. The healer curtsied to Sebastian and said, “Is it the Champion—? I came as quickly—oh.”

Jessamine saw the pretender then, still being held to his chair. She frowned slightly and knelt beside him, taking his chin in hand and peering into his eyes.

“He took something laced with deathroot,” Kiara said.

“How d’you know?” The pretender slurred, as though his tongue had grown too big for his mouth.

Kiara arched an eyebrow. “I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. I know _everything_.”

Sebastian smiled slightly, because what he really wanted to do was shake the impostor until answers fell from his lips. “You’re confusing yourself with the Maker again, Hawke.”

She sighed. “It’s the power. It goes to my head.”

The pretender gazed back and forth between the two of them with horror-wide eyes. “You’re mad. The both of you. Mad.”

“Perhaps,” Kiara said. “And do you know what I hear about mad people?”

He shook his head.

“I hear they have no qualms about cutting off thumbs. Entire hands, even. You said ‘we’—who helped you? Who convinced you?”

“Didn’t need convincing. Wanted to be prince. Pretty girls. Fine wine. Right, cousin?”

Sebastian glared at him, but it was Jessamine who spoke. She was frantically mixing together herbs from her supplies. “Why was I not sent for earlier? Can’t you see he’s dying?”

Before Sebastian could answer, Kiara said, “We sent for you as soon as we learned.”

The pretender said, “Doesn’t matter. Wanna. Did it to myself.”

“Who helped you concoct your plot?” Kiara asked again. “Who? Make your life count for something and answer the damned question.”

The pretender spat at her. The thick globule of spittle landed at her feet instead of on her, but before Sebastian could do much as twitch, Kiara’s hand shot out and grabbed the wrist of the hand still holding the knife. Very calmly, she said, “Can you buy us time, Jessamine? He has answers we need.”

“I’m _trying_.” She added a pinch of something to the vial she held and swirled the contents until they changed to a uniform green. “Try this. Maker, look at his _hand_.”

The pretender turned his face away, refusing to take the vial Jessamine offered. She jerked his face forward and forced his jaw open, tilting the vial until its contents trickled into his mouth. He tried to spit it out again, but she was relentless, dropping the empty glass and using her free hand to massage his throat into swallowing. A moment later his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Is he—?” Kiara began.

“Sleeping,” Jessamine said. “The ingredients of a common sleeping draught can counteract acute deathroot poisoning, but he’ll be all but comatose for days. I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else. It may already have been too late.”

“You did well,” Sebastian said. The woman glanced up at him. Exhaustion made her look old, older than her years. “Jessamine… how long have you been in Starkhaven?”

“Thirty-five years, Your Highness. Give or take. I spent most of them away from the city, though, learning my trade with a country healer.”

“What happened to my father’s brother thirty years ago?”

The woman tilted her head and her brow furrowed. “He died. Bandits on the road to Antiva. His whole family and all their retinue. No one speaks of it, Highness. No one dared. Your grandfather—your father—they were inconsolable.”

And yet. And yet, the pretender had Vael eyes.

Corwin. Corwin would know. Even if everyone else in Starkhaven believed the lie, Corwin would know the truth. Sebastian felt certain of it.

“Thank you, Mistress. Please, tend to his hand and then you may return to your bed. I’m sorry we had to wake you.” To his guards, Sebastian said, “Keep him under watch. Constantly. Sleep or no, I don’t want him attempting something like this again. If he wakes, send for me, or send for Lady Hawke. _Immediately._ ”

Ser Kinnon saluted. Kiara, still holding tight to Sebastian’s wrist, used the stability of his arm to lever herself upright; he saw her waver and tucked her arm through his. She smiled gratefully and let herself lean just slightly against him.

Ser Maisie and Ser Kinnon followed at a respectful distance as they made their way through the silent palace halls toward her rooms, their alert eyes missing nothing. Sebastian lowered his voice as he inclined his head toward Kiara’s. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get more. Just questions with no answers. I hate that.”

“The answers will be somewhere. You… you unearthed more than I was able.”

“Knives, Sebastian. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Isabela, it’s that people always respond to knives.” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “You, uh, didn’t _actually_ have to cut him, you know. The threat was enough.”

“Oh, I had to cut him, I assure you.”

She laughed, but it was a sad sound, turned inward. “I’ve been called worse.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she murmured, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “Defending my poor honor all over the place. What would I do without you?”

When they reached her chambers, he opened the door and peered about, taking in all the dark corners and long shadows. Sitting on the end of her bed, she smiled at him. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.” Tapping her forehead with one finger, she said, “Don’t worry. High alert.”

He raised his eyebrows, finished his scouting mission, and then paused in the doorway. She looked so… troubled and small and alone. For a moment he tried to imagine himself in her place, suddenly transplanted into a foreign world she wasn’t yet equipped to understand; Maker, he hardly understood it himself, and he’d spent more than half his life living in it. As terrified as it had made him, he couldn’t help recognizing why she’d needed to escape into the anonymity of Starkhaven’s night. Something similar had kept him safe within the Chantry’s walls long after he recognized his rightful place was probably elsewhere. 

“Fine,” he relented. She glanced at him, tentatively curious. “I promise nothing, but after tonight I _may_ be able to find a place for you in the… super secret spy network. Temporarily. Now go to sleep. You look wretched.”

She beamed, and all the shadows and weariness and sadness were chased from her eyes. _Weakness_ , he thought. If he could deny her nothing when she wept, it was nothing, _nothing_ , to what he’d do for the chance to see her smile.


	58. Chapter 58

Kirkwall was healing.  It was a slow process, but a steady one.  And as Amelle stepped outside into the sunlight — the sky above was dappled with enormous, puffy clouds that sent the occasional blanket of shade over the stones — she could not help but reflect how much a city could be so like a person.  Kirkwall had a personality all its own; it had facets and layers and quirks like anyone else. It could be injured and sickened, and, like a person, a city could heal.  

Since they’d cleansed the spring and removed the corruption from the water, the number of sick and injured appearing in the reopened clinic slowly began to diminish.  Merrill had opened its doors and lit the lantern once Fenris had given her the all-clear, and found that a draught of healing potion warmed and added to medicinal tea — made with untainted water — eased the recovery of those whose symptoms lingered.  People were well again, and though the clinic still enjoyed a steady stream of patients, the injuries and complaints were once again the mundane accidents they had been.

And though she’d never have thought it possible, given how exhausted, how aching and bruised she’d felt upon waking, Amelle was feeling once again like herself.  Her energy replenished itself slowly at first, then faster and more thoroughly than ever before.  Her mana pulsed and swirled and breathed within her, and as the strange ache faded, she found herself using her magic more and more.  It was _there_ , and though, as she’d told Cullen, it felt different, resonated differently inside her, it was _right._   More to the point, her link with Compassion felt stronger than it had previously; though the spirit’s presence wasn’t the same as a physical one, there was still a strange sort of awareness that tickled at the back of Amelle’s skull.  As if all she had to do was look over her shoulder and she’d spot an orange tabby with green eyes, flicking its tail at her.

Cupcake trotted dutifully alongside her, letting out an excited bark and running ahead when the dog realized where they were headed.  He stopped and dropped his head to snuffle loudly at the door before scratching at it, then sitting back and barking once, loudly.

The door opened and Fenris looked out, and Amelle could see only too clearly that the elf was trying to appear unimpressed.  In fact, it looked a great deal like he was trying not to grin.

“You could have knocked,” he said, directing the question at Amelle as he ran one hand over the dog’s head, letting the mabari sniff at his hand and lick it happily.

“Oh, but Cupcake was so looking forward to seeing you, Fenris.  How do you think I could possibly disappoint that little face?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow and looked down into “that little face” before meeting Amelle’s eyes again.  “That is not his name.”

“What, Cupcake?”  The dog looked over his shoulder at Amelle and barked.  “I don’t know, Fenris,” she replied on a laugh, “he says it is.”

“It is a wonder you and Hawke have not confused the animal beyond all comprehension by naming it twice,” he said, coming outside and closing the door behind him.  He approached Amelle, and with a look that was awkward and apprehensive and affectionate all at once, took her hand in his and squeezed it once before lifting it and brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

Amelle smiled − it was hard _not_ to smile these days, frankly, and she ducked her head as a blush warmed her cheeks.  When she stole a glance at Fenris through her bangs, she caught the small, secretive smile at his lips as he watched her and Amelle’s pulse skittered pleasantly in her veins.  “Actually,” she began, clearing her throat, “my brother named him.”

“But he is Hawke’s dog.”

“Which was her argument at the time,” she said, twining her fingers around his as they began to walk.  It was such a simple gesture, and yet the feel of Fenris’ callused hand against hers left her feeling unusually light and… _Maker,_ almost giddy.  “And she’d _wanted_ to name him Cupcake.  But Carver’s logic was that it would be unfair if Kiara got the dog _and_ got to name it, too.  So we drew straws and Carver won.  He called the dog Killer, but Kiara and I only ever called him Cupcake.”  Amelle paused and gave a soft chuckle.  “Well,” she amended, “she calls him Cupcake unless she’s in the middle of fighting for her life, I’ve noticed.  In any event, he answers to both.”

Cupcake let out a bark that sounded as if he agreed.

“And what would you have named him, had you drawn the correct straw?” asked Fenris as their steps led them down a flight of stairs and across a wide courtyard.  

Amelle smiled.  “Kiara had already convinced me to name him Cupcake if I did.”  

Fenris let out a sudden chuckle and shook his head.  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

Their walk continued on, as did the conversation — far easier and more companionable than Amelle could have imagined, though she couldn’t help but notice _she_ did most of the talking.  Once they reached the tall, imposing doors leading into Viscount’s Keep, they released each other’s hands and allowed a few scant but significant inches of space between them both.  It was something they’d silently agreed on, and rather than feeling slighted, the gesture made Amelle savor the secret of… whatever it was between them.  Although, from the quality of looks Aveline had been sending her recently, Amelle wondered how much of a secret she and Fenris truly were.

It startled Amelle somewhat to note the subtle respect she was given. It wasn’t that she’d been _invisible_ in the keep, but… since everything had happened with Aveline, she noticed she was given just as many respectful nods and casual greetings as Kiara had ever been given. When they entered the barracks, Guardsman Brennan approached and actually went so far as to offer her arm for Amelle to clasp. Blinking, she hesitated only a moment before trading grips with the guardswoman.

“Not sure we’ve had a chance to properly thank you for all your help, Serah Hawke,” Brennan said. Amelle almost glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Kiara. “We… all of us, we… you did a great deal for us. For Kirkwall. Please don’t think we’re ignorant of it.”

“I trust Guardsman Renlan’s made a full recovery?”

“He has. And… and the Captain. It’s so good to see her… herself again.”

Amelle smiled. “And I imagine it’s nice not to have so many templars crowding your quarters.”

Brennan huffed a brief laugh, inclining her head. “They’re nice enough, most of them, but… if I’d _wanted_ to keep close quarters with them, I’d’ve joined the Order instead of the guard.” The woman glanced about, as if reassuring herself the barracks were still as she remembered. Amelle’s gaze skittered over the spot where Fenris had lain bleeding, and she checked the urge to reach for the elf’s hand, settling instead for a long look at him. He met her gaze and inclined his head, quietly reassuring.

“And your captain?” Amelle asked lightly. “Is she here?”

“She’s been cloistered in her office with the Knight-Commander for some time, but she’s here.”

Amelle knew there might be any number of entirely rational reasons for Kirkwall’s Captain of the Guard to confer with the templar Knight-Commander, especially with the city currently leaderless, but the faintest twinge of… _something_ unsettled her. A hint of something similar skittered across Fenris’ face, replaced by the cool, impassive mask Amelle was coming to know all too well meant _troubled_ rather than _indifferent._

She had to be impressed when Brennan picked up on the momentary unease. “You think there’s trouble?” she asked quietly, pitching her voice low so none of the other guards could overhear.

Amelle shook her head, more because she _wished_ there would be no trouble than because she actually believed it. “They’re probably just discussing the… the balance of power in the city just now. I doubt it’s anything to worry ourselves over.”

She could tell Brennan didn’t entirely believe her—the slight question Amelle hadn’t entirely been able to keep from her tone likely didn’t help—but to the guardswoman’s credit, she pressed no further. Brennan offered her arm once again, and after another friendly clasp, departed.

“You don’t believe that,” Fenris stated.

“Is it obvious?”

“To me.”

“Perhaps they _are_ only discussing the balance of power in Kirkwall.”

Fenris’ eyebrow twitched. “Perhaps.”

She rolled her eyes slightly. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

“I do not. Not with things as unsettled as they are. As they must be.”

Amelle’s brow furrowed. “Kirkwall’s almost back to normal—”

Fenris shook his head, and his white fringe fell to cover his eyes. “Kirkwall is but a small part.”

Her heart began to thump painfully in her breast, a strange mixture of hope and despair and fear. “They’d have told me if there was news out of Starkhaven. Surely. _Surely._ ”

Fenris didn’t say anything, but Amelle saw it in the way his eyes met hers and his lips pressed together into a thin line.  They wouldn’t have told her if the news out of Starkhaven was _bad._  

“It is possible — if there is in fact news at all — it comes from elsewhere,” Fenris said quietly.  But that didn’t bode well either.  There were few places from which they could expect _good_ news these days, Amelle knew.

She straightened her shoulders and pushed forward a bright smile.  “Well.  No one’s told us we shouldn’t bother them, and I _did_ tell Aveline we’d be by to see how things were going.  That’s… almost as good as having an appointment.  And Cullen’s always glad to see me.”  The brightness of her smile faded minutely.  “Except when it means more paperwork for him, of course.”

Fenris exhaled a soft laugh as they approached Aveline’s office.  The heavy wood door was firmly shut, but Amelle could make out two differently-pitched voices deep in conversation.  They didn’t _sound_ as if they were arguing, which eased Amelle’s mind somewhat, but she still couldn’t _hear_ them.  She tipped her head and closed her eyes, trying to listen more intently, then startling and jumping back — nearly out of her skin entirely — when Fenris raised his fist and rapped sharply against the wood.

“What are you—?” she hissed.

“Knocking,” he deadpanned.

The door swung open, revealing Aveline — Cullen was folded into a chair opposite Aveline’s own seat, but it was just as likely that the guard-captain had been pacing as she talked.  She was not the sort of woman accustomed to standing still the best of times.

“Amelle,” Aveline said, looking vaguely surprised to see her at all.  “Are you early, or just eavesdropping?”

“Until a now, I’d had no idea you were discussing anything worth eavesdropping.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Early,” replied Amelle on a sigh.  For a second Aveline appeared almost amused, then stepped back and waved them in.  

“You might as well join us.  It’s not as if this won’t affect you, too.”

“That, and you’ll doubtless weasel the details out of us anyway,” added Cullen, not unkindly.

“I do not _weasel_ ,” Amelle sniffed, looking around and perching herself on one of the remaining chairs.  Fenris claimed the other one.  “I simply _ask._ It’s my sister who’s the master cajoler in the family, not me.”

“Pull the other one, Amelle.”  The look Aveline shot her would have been entirely at home on Kiara’s face, and though Amelle smiled, she felt a sharp ache.  There had been no word from Starkhaven, no word _at all,_ and though Amelle had tried not to worry, it was getting more and more difficult by the day.  

“So what’s the news — good, bad, or otherwise?”

Cullen and Aveline exchanged a quick look.  “There’s been no word from Starkhaven yet,” the templar said.  Amelle could hear the regret in his voice, could see it in his eyes.  “No news at all, in fact.”

“Which could mean anything,” Aveline added.  “No news is not necessarily _bad_ news.”

“Then what… _is_ the news?”

Aveline went to her desk and picked up a stack of letters, the parchment rustling loudly in the quiet room.  “A Thedas-wide manhunt for Anders is at the top of the list,” she said darkly.

With a snort, Fenris muttered, “That hardly comes as a surprise.”

“The Divine hasn’t made any… proclamations yet,” Cullen said, rubbing at the spot between his brows as if it ached, “but there is no doubt she knows by now what transpired in Kirkwall.” 

“Hence the mage manhunt,” Amelle added, tapping her fingers against her thigh.  She looked down suddenly, realizing it was very much a _Kiara_ thing she was doing, and curled her hand into a fist before smoothing it out again and clasping both hands in her lap.  She looked up and caught Fenris watching her hands intently.

Aveline leaned against her desk, crossing her arms.  “I’ve got my ear to the ground, Amelle.”

She could hear the unspoken _So don’t worry_ wrapped around Aveline’s words, but it was difficult _not_ to worry.  In fact, for the moment, the triumph over the corrupted water source felt very far away and almost insignificant in the shadow of a much larger, much more dangerous threat.

Amelle swallowed hard, rolling impossible words on her tongue, trying to find the… strength to give voice to things she would rather pretend weren’t real. Her fingernails were ragged, and she stopped herself from plucking at a particularly unpleasant hangnail on her right index finger. Gathering the fabric of her skirts between them, she curled her hands into fists.

As hard as she tried, she could not will herself to speak.

Fenris said the words she could not. “And Hawke?”

Amelle’s heart stuttered. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but she did flatten her hands once again. Now. Now she’d hear what she’d dreaded—that they’d have to run again, hide again, go back to playing full-fledged apostate on the lam again. Only this time Kiara would be considered as much a criminal as Amelle had ever been. 

It was an equality Amelle would have been happy never to share.

Aveline sighed. “Is her name spoken alongside Anders’, you mean? Has she been implicated in what happened here?” On Fenris’ brusque nod, Aveline shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard. Yet. But… it’s early days. Most of what’s getting back to me is hearsay and rumor, made all the more convoluted by how… out of the loop I’ve been, of late.”

Frowning, Cullen pushed his hand wearily through his hair. “For what it’s worth—which may be very little at all, once all is said and done—I wrote a… very comprehensive report.”

“Even though you hate paperwork?” Amelle’s voice sounded strained, even to her own ears, and her attempt at a jest fell distressingly flat.

Cullen’s expression was fond, but pained. “I… attempted to mitigate as much damage as I could. Your sister may have chosen to side with the mages in the end, but I know she was not responsible for what Anders did, and I know she made her choice because Meredith invoking the Rite of Annulment backed her into a terrible corner. I tried to explain things to the best of my ability. And then I… made copies. And sent them to several others in the Order, up to and including the Knight-Vigilant and the Divine herself. There is a paper trail. And one that cannot simply be erased if the Divine wishes it. Not easily, in any case, and not without questions from more than one quarter.”

Fenris stiffened ever so slightly beside her. If she hadn’t been quite so attuned to him, she mightn’t have noticed at all. “And did you make mention of Hawke’s sister in these reports of yours?”

“No,” Cullen replied with some reluctance. “Though that is… part of the trouble. If—when, perhaps—news of the apostate sister I did not mention reaches Val Royeaux, as I think it must, it may be enough to discredit my report. I… cannot know what will happen then. But I think it would be safer if—”

“If we weren’t waiting for them at the Hawke estate when they come?” Amelle murmured.

“It may be some time. Maker only knows what kind of bureaucratic mess Anders set in motion, and—at least for the time being—he and his confederates will be the priority. Stopping similar things from happening will be a priority. I painted as innocent a picture of Hawke as I could manage, but to even _mention_ Amelle would have called everything I said into question. They would ask why I had not immediately apprehended her.”

“You might have said she was dead,” Fenris retorted. Amelle half expected to see his markings flaring to silver life, but though his hands were clenched and his jaw was tight, he still had control enough to keep from glowing.

Cullen bristled. “I did not _lie_. I omitted. And I feel guilty enough about _that_ as it is. I… did what I thought best at the time, to the extent my conscience would allow.”

“It is not—”

Amelle reached out, leaning across the distance between their chairs to press her fingers to the back of Fenris’ hand. Even though the gesture was gentle, she still felt the jerk of his muscles beneath her fingertips. “Cullen did what he could, Fenris. More than… I don’t like the idea of my name being bandied about in Val Royeaux any more than you do, but… it’s not Cullen’s fault.”

This was enough to make Fenris subside with a glower and when Amelle looked up, she caught Aveline watching them both, brows raised speculatively.  Amelle gave only a brief shake of her head, which the guard-captain acknowledged with an even briefer nod.

“The fact remains,” Aveline said on a sigh, “while you don’t have to decide anything now, it might be a good idea to start formulating… some sort of plan.  Like I said, I’ll keep my ear out and if I hear about anywhere that might be a safe place for you, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Aveline.”  She turned her gaze to the templar, who still wore an incongruous combination of guilt, worry, and and pensiveness.  Offering a small smile, she said, “And you, Cullen — thank you.”

“I hardly did anything,” he replied.

“Well, thank you for what you _didn’t_ do.  I imagine it bought us a little time.  I can start figuring out where might be the safest place for us, and when Kiara comes back from Starkhaven…“  Amelle did not think about the fact that her sister had not written again, did not listen to the whisper of doubt that hinted perhaps Kiara might not even _want_ to return from Starkhaven, if it meant seeing Amelle again. “ _When_ she comes back from Starkhaven,” she repeated forcefully, “she and I will discuss it.”

“You might consider Ferelden,” Aveline said with a shrug.  “I don’t know if anyone’s going to come out and oppose the Divine outright, but you and Hawke did meet with the king.”

Amelle wrinkled her nose.  “That might be overstating it slightly.  His meeting was with Kiara.  I was brought along as starstruck observer.  Still, he did come across as a… tolerant sort.”

“Something to keep in mind, then,” replied Aveline with a nod.

Amelle could not help but notice that at the mere mention of Ferelden, Cullen’s expression shifted slightly as he looked away, his eyes suddenly hooded.  He added nothing — indeed, it looked as if he wasn’t even listening anymore.  She didn’t think it had anything to do with talk of her leaving Kirkwall.  If anything, her absence meant less of a headache for him.  _Perhaps it’s something to do with King Alistair,_ she wondered, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.  _Maybe he’s got strong opinions on an ex-templar taking up the crown?_   It was something to ask him about, later.

“I wonder…” Aveline paused, shaking her head. “No, perhaps it’s too much a conflict of interest.”

“Going back to Ferelden?” Amelle asked, confused. “It’s… it is still where I’m _from_. It might be inconvenient, but it’s hardly a conflict of interest.”

Aveline’s clear gaze shifted to Cullen, and remained fixed on him until he shifted ever so slightly in his chair. After a long, tense moment of this, Cullen sighed and hung his head. “You want to know where _I_ think she’d be safest. Where they’d be safest.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “I have… inside knowledge because of my connection to the Chantry, you think, and you’d like me to use it? Do I have the right of it?”

Amelle frowned, already shaking her head, “No one would ask you to—”

“Yes,” Aveline interrupted, firmly cutting into Amelle’s protest. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”

At first Amelle thought Cullen would not answer. The templar’s jaw worked silently, until at last he swallowed hard and loosed another heavy sigh. “Nevarra, perhaps,” he said. “They’ve been at loggerheads with Orlais for some time. Starkhaven’s always been loyal to the Chantry, but if Vael… who knows. Starkhaven might be an option, and at least you already have ties to the rulership there. It’s… it’s a… it’s not a _pleasant_ option, perhaps, but there’s always Tevinter—”

“Absolutely not,” Fenris stated, so cool and low and dangerous, Amelle couldn’t help the shudder that ran the length of her spine. She didn’t like the idea of it any more than Fenris did, though of course her reasons where not quite as clear as his.

“I… don’t think it would be wise,” Amelle said. “Although…”

“No,” Fenris repeated, his eyes flashing. “Tevinter is… _no_ , Amelle. No.”

She held up a placating hand. “I wasn’t going to suggest it. I was going to say… well, I wonder if _Anders_ might have…”

Fenris looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. But for all his ills, he rarely showed interest in Tevinter or the powers there. No matter how many… discussions we had on the subject.”

Cullen nodded. “Still, it might be worth mentioning. In a report. Whether anyone actually _reads_ the things is another matter entirely, but…”

“But in the meantime, Kirkwall is… safe?” Fenris interrupted, directing the question to Aveline, who nodded. Amelle tried not to think of it as a deflection. _Note to self,_ she thought. _Talk to Cullen about Ferelden. Don’t talk to Fenris about Tevinter. Ever._

“As safe as it ever was.  And take _that_ how you will,” she added wryly.  “But… yes.  It’s… a little safer now.”  Then, as if correcting herself, Aveline made a face, grimacing as she rolled her eyes.  “All right, a _lot_ safer.”

“We have already discussed this, Guard-Captain,” Cullen said wearily.  But Aveline’s eyes were dark as she shook her head.

“Doesn’t change what happened.  And I’m still not proud of it.”

“You were hardly the only one affected,” argued Fenris.  “And it was beyond your control.”

Aveline shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.  “It’s still rattling to learn I could be compromised so easily.”

“Considering what it took to get rid of that mess, I’d hardly say you succumbed _easily,_ ” riposted Amelle.  “Your men are glad to have you back, Aveline.  And the one _actually_ responsible for this mess is… a bit beyond caring about things like retribution.  The water’s clear and people aren’t going mad — well, madder than they _were_ , at any rate.”

The look Aveline sent her was a shrewd one.  “So you’re telling me to stop dwelling and move on?”  She let out a little laugh and shook her head almost fondly.  “Maker, you’re starting to _sound_ like your sister now.  Don’t tell me I just traded one Hawke for another.”

It occurred to Amelle, however dimly, at one time such a comparison would have made her rankle defensively, but now it simply made her smile, perhaps a bit sadly.  Kiara could be a pain, and she was a little pushy, and always _loud,_ but Amelle _missed_ her.  

“I’m a lot less bossy than Kiara,” was all Amelle said, grinning despite the ache in her breast.

Aveline’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “You are _somewhat_ less bossy than your sister, I’ll grant you.”

Cullen huffed a brief laugh, and Amelle sent him a horrified look when he said, “Time will tell. For my part, I think the longer you’re parted from Kiara Hawke, the more your… natural tendency toward… shall we say wishing to get your own way? The more that may make itself known.”

Amelle pressed a theatrical hand to her breast and widened her eyes. “Cullen. I’m _wounded_.”

“Mmm,” he replied, arching an eyebrow. “ _That_ you do more than Hawke ever did.”

Amelle blinked at him, momentarily startled. Then she giggled. “Fine. To each according to her strengths.”

A smile spread over Cullen’s face, sweet and effortless, and Amelle noticed that although some of the exhaustion had eased from the templar’s face, he still looked tired. Truthfully, the circles under his eyes were as dark as they’d ever been, and she had to curb her instinct to cluck and fuss and ask leading medical questions. She was part way through summoning rejuvenation magic when Cullen glowered at her. “ _Warning_ , Amelle. Warning. Old habits. Die hard.”

Again she blinked. “Oh. Sorry. It’s just… second nature.”

He snorted. “Yes. Just as smiting mages is second nature to me, I imagine.”

Fenris glared. Very, very pointedly. Cullen raised his hands in mock surrender, and Amelle found herself smiling again. “Cullen,” she asked, “you look like you’ve barely slept in… well, in your whole life, actually.  Rejuvenation spells won’t carry you indefinitely, but would you like one now?”

The templar’s smile widened. “Perhaps just a little. I do _plan_ on getting sleep. Some time.”

“When the paperwork’s done?” she asked archly.

“Maker, no. Best be before that. I don’t think the paperwork will _ever_ be done.”

Aveline nodded sympathetically.  “There are mountains of it, to be sure.  Even with a vacuum of power.”  She paused and shrugged, adding, “Maybe even _because_ of the vacuum of power.”

“For the time being, Seneschal Bran is… _filling in_ is as apt a phrase as any, I suppose,” Cullen said dourly; his color was improved by the infusion of rejuvenating magic, but his expression was still unpleasant at the mention of the seneschal.  “But until the position of viscount has been filled, he wants records to be as complete and exact as possible.”

Fenris frowned, asking, “Do you suspect the seneschal will… make an overture?  He had not struck me as particularly hungry for power — or at least the power that comes with notoriety.”

Both Aveline and Cullen shook their heads.  “Truth be told, he seems as annoyed about it as anyone.  But he’s so bloody-minded when it comes to paperwork,” Aveline told them.

Amelle cast a quick glance at Aveline’s door, which was very firmly shut.  “He’s a bit bloody-minded about _everything,_ isn’t he?” she asked, remembering the number of times Kiara met with the man, and how… _distasteful_ he seemed to find the Champion of Kirkwall.  She smiled a little, recalling how cheerfully her sister seemed to bear it.  Amelle had to wonder if Kiara simply _enjoyed_ getting under the man’s skin.

“I imagine the Order would love him,” Cullen muttered darkly.  

Amelle hid her smile.  “You could make _him_ acting Knight-Commander and put him in charge of all that paperwork.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“If Bran were a templar, he’d spend all his time hunting down missing reports instead of apostates,” Aveline replied, smirking a little.

“I suspect,” Fenris said, slanting a look at Amelle and sending her a small, knowing grin, “that is precisely the point.”

“Honestly,” Amelle said, grinning unrepentantly, “you wound me.  All of you. I’m _wounded._ So very _wounded._ ”

Aveline shot a look at Cullen and shook her head.  “You know, she’s really not like Hawke at all.  I’m starting to suspect she’s _worse._ ”

#

Amelle never quite realized _how_ loud her sister was.  

That was the thing about Kiara — she filled a space with _herself_.  For all their mother complained about Kiara’s _inside voice,_ or lack thereof, there was a vitality about her sister, an energy, that Amelle admired and loved, despite the fact it sometimes chafed.  In Amelle’s moments of more brutal honesty with herself, she wished she _shared_ that quality with her sister.  But Amelle did not, was almost certain she _could not_ fill a room with her voice, and whether it was a natural facet of her personality or simply a byproduct of having been an apostate her whole life and clinging to those twin pillars of importance: discretion and secrecy, Amelle didn’t know.

She did know that if Kiara had been home right now, Amelle would not be curled up on the divan in the library, an unread book lying open on her lap.  Kiara would have burst in, letting the door rebound off the wall in her enthusiasm, laughing about some joke, or sharing an outlandish story of Varric’s or insisting she come down to the Hanged Man to lose money at cards, promising to win back whatever losses Amelle incurred.  And Amelle would shoot her sister a petulant look, insisting she was much better at Wicked Grace than _that,_ thank you, but she would close the book anyway and let her sister pull her to her feet and out the door, their arms linked as Kiara Hawke’s laughter rebounded off the stones, filling all of Kirkwall.

Now, though, no one interrupted her reading.  The house was quiet, the fire crackled behind the grate, and the ticking of the clock warred with Cupcake's snores and sleepy whines as he dreamt by the fire.  In fact, the entire house felt on the verge of _something_ disturbing its peace, as if the structure itself was holding its breath, waiting for Kiara to come home and start slamming doors and filling it to bursting as she called out to Amelle with that _voice_ of hers.

It was too quiet, and just a little lonely.  Traffic at the clinic had slowed, and while Amelle was endlessly thankful that people were healing, Merrill had made so many potions, had rolled so many bandages that Amelle felt largely useless; there wasn’t even busy work to keep her… well, _busy_.  She tipped her head back against a cushion and stared up at the hideous statue mounted on the wall above the fireplace and exhaled hard through her nose.  The flickering shadows made the thing look even more insidious.

“I really hate that bloody thing,” she breathed.  Cupcake blinked awake mid-snore and lifted his head to look at her, a puzzled sort of whine sounding deep in his throat.

“Well, look at it,” she said to the mabari as she gestured at the wall.  “It looks like a face.  Like some kind of… _war mask_ or something.  It’s creepy and don’t tell me it isn’t.”

Cupcake's agreeable bark resounded through the rafters.

“We should take it down and use it for kindling, don’t you think?” she asked the dog, stretching out and letting her slippered feet dangle over the edge of the divan, trying not to dwell on the fact that she was having a _conversation_ with a _dog._   “Perhaps we’ll tell Kiara a freak earthquake knocked it down, hmm?”

Cupcake barked again, leaping to his feet, hindquarters waggling excitedly, as if he’d been waiting his entire life for Amelle to make such a suggestion.

“Would you like a new chew toy, Cupcake?” she asked, grinning at the dog.  “A creepy, creepy chew toy?”   Another bark, and the mabari leapt around in a joyous little circle; Amelle couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.

“Had I realized you were so starved for company and occupation,” came a new voice by the library door, “I would have come sooner.”  Fenris walked in, arching an amused eyebrow at the sight of Amelle draped across the couch before looking up at the statue in question.  “I confess, I do not know why Hawke insists on displaying that piece either.”

“Kiara told me once it reminds you of Tevinter.”  Amelle looked up again and made a face.  “Not that I had any urge to go _before,_ but if that’s the decor, I’m pretty sure I’m not missing anything by keeping my distance.”

“No.  You are not.”

Amelle tapped one finger to her lip and shook her head. “The funny thing is, I don’t even think she’s particularly _fond_ of it. It’s so…”

“Looming?”

She grinned over her shoulder at him. “Yes. Looming. Precisely.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “There were several of these in my mansion.”

“And?”

“I used them for firewood. It was pleasing.”

Amelle tilted her head, regarding the strange… artwork. “Maybe it could fall. Into the fire. By accident. Because of the freak earthquake.”

“Entirely plausible.” He quirked an eyebrow. “The—Merrill’s magic is often earth-based.”

Huffing an incredulous laugh, she shook her head at him. “We can’t blame Merrill. She’s been too helpful.” Her smile faded somewhat as she slid her legs down, making space on the divan. With a moment’s reluctance, she slid the letter she was using as a bookmark between the pages of her book. She felt Fenris’ gaze on her, and knew he’d missed nothing. “It’s been a week,” she said.

“It has.”

She held the book to her breast, wrapping her arms around it. “She’s been gone for almost a month, Fenris. One little note in a _month_.”

He crossed the room and sat beside her, not quite touching, but not nearly as far away as once he would have sat. Maker, not _that_ long ago he’d have chosen one of the chairs by the fire, proximity to the creepy statuary be damned. “You are right to be concerned, Amelle.”

Bowing her head, she said, “But you still think it’s a bad idea to go to Starkhaven.”

“I think, perhaps, the time has come to consider such measures.”

Startled, she turned to face him, the book dropping to her lap with a thump. “What?”

“It is something we ought to discuss, perhaps, with Aveline. Even the Knight-Commander may have fresher news out of Starkhaven than we do. But if we go, Amelle, it cannot be _blind_. That your sister has not written is troubling. If she has not written, I fear it is because she cannot—”

“And if she _can’t_ , it means we have to be careful. Because she could—there could be danger.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, allowing his hands to dangle between his knees. “If we are to plan a journey, perhaps it is best we leave… other concerns until afterward.”

“Other concerns?” Amelle asked. Her stomach twisted painfully. They were taking things slowly enough as it was, she felt, and the thought of slowing things _further_ …

Fenris closed his hands into fists, and then released them in a strange, almost-nervous motion. “It is of no consequence. The matter can wait. It has waited this long.”

“Oh,” Amelle said, the word no louder than a soft exhale of breath. “Oh, you… you… considered it.” 

“I have.”  Fenris didn’t say anything more and Amelle’s stomach clenched again.  In the ensuing silence the clock ticked and the fire crackled and twice more Fenris’ hands clenched and released.

“That’s… it, then?  You’ve thought about it, but you… aren’t going to say anything more?”

“If we are to plan any sort of journey, it is better not to invite any… unforeseen ramifications of such an experiment.”

“Unforeseen ramifi…” Amelle trailed off as the words died in her throat.  “You… you think I’m still not ready to attempt any magic usage.”

Though he didn’t reply right away, Fenris’ scowl was enough.  “There are more reasons than simply that, but… that is true as well — I am concerned you may be attempting something that will require too vast amount of mana, considering what happened at the spring.  I am concerned you might not yet be fully recovered.”

“Don’t you think I might be a better judge of that than anyone?”  And though it was difficult, Amelle kept the edge out of her voice despite the flare of irritation that blossomed beneath her breast.  “Don’t you think I learned my lesson regarding expenditures of power?  Besides, this isn’t a lyrium-corrupted water source, Fenris — I can _do_ this.  I know my power, and I know I’ve not only recovered from what happened at the spring, I’m… I’m _stronger_ , I’m… whatever’s inside of me, Fenris, it’s _better_ than it ever was before.“

Again he sighed.  “It is… tempting, Amelle.  To know there is something left over from that time that still exists in me, to know some remnant of my years as Danarius’ slave _can_ be exorcised.  It is tempting to let you do this.”

“But…?”

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes catching and reflecting the dancing firelight.  “But I do not know what affects such an attempt will have on your own powers.  I do not know what consequences exist beyond that attempt.  If we are to consider Starkhaven, we must speak with Aveline and the Knight-Commander, possibly even Merrill, and set our focus on booking passage on a ship—”

“We’re going overland.”

Fenris just blinked at her.  “You have decided this already?”

“Going overland is quicker.  And there will be…”  She cringed.  “There’ll be less vomiting if we do it that way.”

Dark brows rose in comprehension.  “Ah.  Very well — in that case, there are supplies to pack and transportation to arrange.  If you are in earnest about traveling to Starkhaven — and I suspect you are — that is what we must concentrate on doing.”

This time it was Amelle’s turn to sigh, and she leaned back against the couch, tapping her fingers against the book’s cover.  “You aren’t… entirely wrong, Fenris.”

He canted his head at her, the corner of his mouth twitching in something like consternation.  “But I am… partially wrong?  In what regard?”

“The part where you’re worrying about my power stores.”  Tucking her legs up under her, Amelle twisted on the couch to face Fenris.  Her knee brushed his thigh and sent a frisson of _something_ rippling through her.  She coughed, hoping he didn’t notice the heat she was sure was coloring her cheeks.  “I can do this, Fenris.  I know I can.  It’s a _careful_ application of power, but it’s not power that I’m lacking.  I _have_ it.  I can _feel_ it.”

“You asked me to trust you to know your limits before, Amelle.  It did not end well.”

“And it was a lesson hard-won, but a lesson I learned nonetheless.  I’m never — _never_ going to push myself like that again.  I know now, better than I ever did before, the risks of such a thing.”  The memory of how empty she’d felt, how bare and hollow and _dry_ still lived vividly in her memory, and simply recalling how she’d felt at that time was enough to make Amelle shudder and wonder why she’d ever even indulged the most fleeting thought that perhaps she would be better off without her magic.

She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes only to find Fenris was already watching her so very closely, still uncertain.  She felt a momentary surge of defensiveness well up in her chest until Fenris said, so quietly, “I would not have you risk yourself for me, Amelle.”

“No nosebleeds, Fenris.  I promise.”

“None of which changes—”

She interrupted him, blurting, “What if… what if there’s a compromise?”

He blinked at her before leaning back, resting one arm along the back of the divan. Only the wary set of his spine kept him from looking entirely at ease, entirely comfortable. “I do not take your meaning.”

Setting the book and its troublesome letter of a bookmark aside, Amelle scooted an inch or two closer to him. “If we leave for Starkhaven in a week that will give us adequate time to prepare—to find supplies, horses, I don’t know, a _tent_ —and a week would be plenty of time for any mana I expend to be more than replenished.” Almost tentatively, she reached up and laid her hand over his, where it curled over the cushion.

After a moment he turned his hand beneath hers, the better to lace his fingers with hers. “Amelle.”

She bent her head, closing her eyes, tightening ever so slightly her hold on his hand. “ _Magic_ did this to you. Magic wielded by a monster of a man, maybe, but magic nonetheless. I can’t undo what he did. I can’t—and I _wouldn’t_ —erase those parts of you. But there might be — I _might_ be able to give you back some of what he, and his magic, stole.  And if I can…”

After a moment, she felt the fingertips of his other hand beneath her chin, and she opened her eyes as he gently tipped her head up again. His eyes were peculiarly soft, and the faintest hint of a smile—gentle, not mocking—pulled at his lips. “This is important to you.”

It was. She wished she had words to adequately explain herself to him, but everything felt too narrow, too trite, not quite _right_. Intellectually, she _knew_ he had… come to terms with her magic, and even allowed it to be useful. She could not shake, however, the terrible fear he liked her _in spite of_ her magic. Even as recently as the battle with Meredith, he’d questioned Kiara’s decision to stand with the mages. If she could only _prove_ to him, if she could only give him back a fraction of what magic had taken… perhaps some of the hatred would ebb. Perhaps he might begin—just _begin_ —to see the beauty possible with magic.

But she _didn’t_ have the words to say it. Any of it.

She _was_ her magic. Her magic was her. She… she didn’t want to be liked in spite of it.

Fenris’ fingertips drifted from her chin to her cheekbone, and she pressed her cheek to the palm of his hand.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Let us make the attempt.”

“Are you—?”

He raised one eyebrow. It made him look somehow both amused and exasperated. “Do not ask if I am certain, Amelle. I am as certain as I can be. That must be certainty enough, for now.”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, but his thumb caught at the flesh and he shook his head. “I don’t want to pressure you,” she admitted.

He gave a low chuckle. “You could not.”

An answering laugh was pulled from deep in her throat, but it sounded thin and wan to her ears.  “No, I probably couldn’t.  I must have forgotten who I was talking to for a second.”

The backs of his fingers stroked her cheekbone and Amelle let out a tremulous breath at the gentle touch.  “Perhaps I will have to remind you later.”

Her tremulous breath turned into an even more tremulous huff of laughter.  “I can think of worse things.”

“Mm.  As can I.”

They stayed like that for nearly a full minute longer as Amelle put her thoughts in order.  The possibility remained that any effort she expended wouldn’t work — there was always that chance.  She didn’t want to try and get her _own_ hopes up — objectivity was an invaluable tool at any time, but never more so than right now.  

 _But still,_ the tiny voice whispered up from inside her, _what if?_

“Should I—” Emotion thickened her voice and Amelle stopped, clearing her throat.  “Should we— would you prefer it if we—?”

“I have no immediate engagements.  If it is better to attempt this sooner rather than later, then you have your answer.  I have already told you I am certain.”

“All right.”  She drew in a steadying breath and nodded.  “All right then.  I… it will be better if we go to another room.  Better if you’re comfortable and… better if we’re not interrupted.”

This time Fenris’ smile _did_ turn gently mocking.  “You think constant interruption is a likelihood _now_?”

Amelle thought a moment how bloody quiet it had been the moments before Fenris had arrived, and breathed a soft, self-deprecating chuckle.  “All the same.  The library isn’t…”  She cast another look at the hideous statue and grimaced.  “Another room might be better.”

“Are there no… supplies you’ll need?” Fenris asked, getting to his feet and drawing Amelle to hers.  

She shook her head and showed him her two hands.  “Just the same ones I always use, and they haven’t let me down yet.”

Taking hold of one of those hands and twining his fingers with hers, Fenris simply squeezed and offered a silent nod.  Amelle found herself wondering if, despite his certainty, he mightn’t be a little nervous.  Maker knew _she_ was.

_I can do this._

They walked together up the stairwell and Amelle hesitated a bare moment before leading him to the room that had most recently been Sebastian’s recovery room.  In the intervening years, the scent of Mother’s perfume had faded, and healing Sebastian within those walls had done a great deal to… _change_ the room for Amelle.  The bedding was fresh, and most of their mother’s things had either by now been packed away in the Amell vault, or held places of honor in Kiara or Amelle’s bedchambers.  It was just another room with a comfortable bed, fresh linens, and, after a brief gesture from Amelle, a warm fire.

She gently disentangled her hand from Fenris’ and clasped them behind her back, where she hoped he could not see the way her fingers twisted around each other.  “Would you mind… lying down?”  When he sent her a curious look, Amelle shrugged and went to the bedside, picking up one of the pillows.  “Healing always goes more quickly when the patient is… comfortable.”  She sat upon the bed, placing the pillow in her lap.

Fenris sent the bed a vaguely wary look before approaching and sitting lightly on the edge.  After another moment’s hesitation he twisted around and lay back, resting his head gingerly upon the pillow.  Amelle took a deep, steadying breath before brushing Fenris’ hair away from his forehead.

“I know… I know I can’t make you any promises, Fenris.  But—”

His green eyes opened and he regarded her soberly.  “I recall extracting neither a promise nor a guarantee from you, Amelle.”  He closed his eyes and remained perfectly still but for the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.  “When you are ready.”

Another niggle of doubt pulled at her, even as she placed a hand on either side of Fenris’ head, cradling it gently.  She stroked his temple with her thumb, as much to calm herself as to reassure him, and with a deep breath, she summoned her mana and felt her connection to the spirit of Compassion flare to life, closing her eyes in concentration as the thrum of magic tingled past her fingertips and surrounded her hands in threads of blue-white light.

As before, it took a little while for Amelle to even _find_ what she’d discovered last time.  And, as before, it still felt strange to her, as the threads of her magic reached out and brushed against that… that _blemish._   Again she wondered what it was — was it some sort of… residual scarring left by the trauma Fenris had undergone in receiving his markings?  Or was it something more mundane than that?  She frowned and reached deeper, letting her mana flow down her arms as she channeled it into Fenris, focusing it on that infinitesimal _piece_ of him that felt so… wrong.  She felt Compassion’s presence like hands over hers, though she also felt his reticence — perhaps unsurprising, given the last time the Fade spirit had been in such close proximity to Fenris and his lyrium markings.  But the white tattoos remained dormant, and that in itself was strangely reassuring, for as long as Fenris was at the very least comfortable and didn’t feel threatened or, Maker forbid, _angry_ , those markings would remain dark.

It was hard to find an analogy for this type of healing. There was nothing to stitch together, or to soothe with poultice, or to bandage and make whole. Instead, she allowed her power to resonate within him, seeking out the strangeness and scraping at it, ever so gently, as if it might be merely a scab with fresh, pink, new skin beneath. She felt Fenris tremble beneath her hands and she pulled back at once. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, though an incongruous smile played at his lips. 

He shook his head gently, schooling his features back to quiet. “It… tickled.”

“It… I’m sorry? It _tickled_?”

Fenris lowered his brows in a good-natured glower. “To own the truth, Amelle, it _always_ tickles. It is only you’ve so rarely had to… focus your power so intently upon me for so long.” This was true, but for some reason the thought of him silently suffering through intense bouts of ticklishness every time she’d had to throw desperate healing magic at him on the battlefield just made her shake her head wonderingly. Fenris huffed a disgruntled breath, and she smiled, running her fingertips delicately along his cheekbone. Turning his head, he pressed a brief kiss to her fingers. “You may continue. I will not be overcome again.”

Her lips twitched involuntarily. “You won’t be overcome by… by the tickling?”

“It is not as amusing as you think it is, Amelle.”

“Fenris, it kind of _is_.” She giggled, and pressed her hand to her mouth to silence herself. “It’s just… oh, if _only_ I’d been able to tickle Kiara or Carver with magic. If _only_.”

He snorted. “Yes, I am certain you never found other ways to be troublesome.”

Grinning, she bent and kissed his forehead. “Spoken like someone who never had a twin brother—a much _stronger_ twin brother—who knew no mercy when it came to tickling.”

“Mmm. And you were entirely innocent.”

“I _was_.”

“You never hid his shoes or stole his things or…” A strange look passed over his face as he spoke, and she wasn’t certain he realized he’d fallen into silence until his inhaled deeply and blinked up at her. “Forgive me.”

Concerned, she reached out again, tentatively, with her magic. “What was it?”

“A ghost, perhaps. The faintest… recollection. Of something. It was gone before I could name it.” His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. “Perhaps… perhaps it is working, this idea of yours. Do continue, Amelle.”

This time she made no jokes about childhood or tickling. She laid one hand on his forehead and the other over his heart, once again seeking out the worrisome knot of unrelenting psychic scar tissue. After one minute or ten—it was so hard to judge time when she worked this way—she felt him tremble again, but this time she did not pull back. She redoubled her efforts, trying to heal him before discomfort bade her stop again. _There it is. There._

Triumph lasted only a moment. She pointed her power at the reluctant little spot, Fenris’ shaking stilled, and something _snapped._ At first she couldn’t tell if the snapping was in her or him, but she felt it acutely, like a lash against her hands. _Like a brand. Like a brand against my flesh._ The sensation _shot_ up her arms and suddenly her senses were filled with the choking combination of burning flesh and lyrium, the coppery taste of blood, the sound of a voice screaming in wordless agony — her own throat was _raw_ with it, and for the barest dizzying instant she wondered if the screams were in fact her own.  It was too much, all of it, and Amelle sucked in a gasping breath—this was no mere _ticklishness_ ; this was _indescribable_ —and pulled her hands away from him just in time to see Fenris’ markings flare to sudden brightness as his back arched from the bed and his mouth opened in a silent scream. There was nothing she could do but watch helplessly as he clutched at his head, teeth gritted, lips curled back in a snarl — but still, for all his agony, he made not a sound.  

Then, as unexpectedly as he’d started, Fenris went suddenly still, the brightness of his markings stuttering into darkness.  Amelle glanced down at her own hands for an instant, shocked to find them unmarred — she’d _felt_ something, a scalding brand, her flesh sizzling with it.  She dropped her hands to her lap, that instant of blinding, excruciating pain far from forgotten, but at the least pushed aside for the moment.  The only sound within those walls was the ragged rasp of labored breathing — Amelle’s as well as Fenris’.  Then his eyes snapped open and he stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling.  His body still trembled, but Amelle knew far better than to think for a moment it was because anything _tickled._

“Fenris?” she breathed.  How strange, she’d been sure her throat would feel sore and raw from all the screaming, from the smoke, from the lyrium—

But that hadn’t really happened, had it?  The only fire was in the hearth, she hadn’t so much as a drop of lyrium potion on hand, and no one was bleeding.

 _Correction_ , Amelle thought, feeling suddenly and almost violently ill, _it didn’t happen to_ me.

Fenris didn’t look at her as he sat up unsteadily; in the firelight Amelle saw his face was damp with perspiration, his eyelashes spiky with moisture.  He was grey beneath his tan, and sat staring into the fire as if he’d never seen it before.  Then he got to his feet, slowly, but strangely determined as he walked closer to the fire, hands clenching and releasing slowly, reminding Amelle painfully of that very gesture he’d exhibited before — before when he’d only been _nervous_ about this undertaking. _Before._

After an interminable bout of silence Fenris turned and stared at her, his chest heaving now and the look in his eyes was so wounded, so haunted, so _tortured_ it was almost better when he hadn’t been looking at her.  Swallowing hard, Amelle pushed to her feet, letting the pillow fall to the floor.  She took a step closer but dared not an inch beyond that, wanting to reach out to him, but something telling her she shouldn’t dare that, either.

“Fenris?  What happened?  What is it?”

He blinked and tried to speak, but the words… simply would not come.  He swallowed hard, and with visible effort, and tried again.

“I remember.”  His voice was an awful croak of a whisper, dry and cracked.  “I remember… everything.”

Amelle’s thoughts vaulted to the stink of burning flesh and lyrium and the stench of blood — _and blood magic,_ her mind whispered — and all the _screaming_ , and if that was even a fraction of what Fenris remembered…

Amelle felt cold, suddenly.  _Oh, Maker, what have I done?_

“You… you remember?” she asked, her own voice a whisper.

“My memories,” he said with a shudder, turning away and pressing his fingertips against his eyes, rubbing as if he might erase whatever it was he saw behind closed lids.  “Amelle.  You restored my memories.”

Amelle stared, the icy feeling in her gut only growing colder and tighter.  Truth be told, she hadn’t expected the experiment to _work_.  But it had.  It had worked horribly, horribly well.  She took another step and reached out a hand to touch his forearm, but Fenris jerked away from her, shaking his head mutely as he took a staggering step back.

“I… I am sorry, Amelle.  I must—I can’t.  I _can’t._   I must go.”

#

Fenris saw Amelle reach for him, her fingers tentative, her hand curled toward him the way one approached a frightened animal, and he staggered away. 

 _The sunburn across her nose was fading_.

He saw Amelle’s lips open—

_—the taste of sweat against his lips as he kissed her shoulder, her back; her throaty cry as she came, her body trembling against him; her sleepy sigh and whisper as she drifted to sleep in his arms: I love you, Leto—_

He knew Amelle must be speaking, but everything was clamoring in his head and he couldn’t make himself understand her. Eighteen years of voices and images and memories all battling for dominance, all pushing and pulling and fighting to find a place again in a mind that had once been wiped clean of them. It was too much. It was too much.

 _Riding on his father’s shoulders, laughing, hands fisted in his hair; Mamae whispering stories of her elven gods; Varania holding his hand, showing him the funny little treasures she’d collected—a broken comb, a dirty ribbon, a stone in the shape of a heart_.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Amelle’s face. Her eyes were wounded. He couldn’t bear it. He didn’t _deserve_ it.

_Liaria._

He reached blindly for the door, his fingers grasping fruitlessly at the air, but when she tried to step forward he flung his hand up defensively. She flinched. He _made_ her flinch.

_Hot sand beneath his feet. Heart pounding. Ears ringing with the cries of the crowd. They didn’t care if it was his blood they saw spilt; they didn’t care for him at all. Kill or be killed, Leto. Kill or be killed._

“I… I am sorry, Amelle. I must—I can’t. I _can’t_. I must go.”

Pushing open the door, he caught a last glimpse of Amelle’s expression, her tragic eyes, her too-pale skin, before he stumbled out into the hall and down the stairs. For a moment, he thought the maid was Varania. No. Orana. Varania was—no, not Varania. Orana. 

_Should I win this contest, the women in my life will have no cause to worry about anything, ever again._

He could not stop the moan from escaping his lips, but by then he was already out of the house and no one was nearby to hear it. It was raining. _It had rained that day, too, at the end. Water in his eyes. Blood washing away, as if it had never been. But oh, it had been._

Home. He had to go home.

 _I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I love you.  I’m sorry.  I_ had _to.  Forgive me.  I beg you, forgive me._

But there was no forgiveness for him, he knew that. He did not deserve it. Not after what he’d wanted. Not after what he’d done.


	59. Chapter 59

The heat was immeasurable.  

There was not a cloud in the sky, offering no buffer as the sun blazed unforgivingly down upon the field of battle.  Or, rather, what would soon be the field of battle.  For the moment it was merely an open arena, the hard-packed ground baking in the heat until that heat rose from the dry dirt in wavering ribbons, giving a strange, hazy effect to all below.  Were there a breeze, it might have been more tolerable, but today, at least, there was no breeze and there was no shade.  

Leto’s eyes went to the sky.  Not a cloud, not a hint of any to come.  He frowned slightly; without any rain, the arena would continue to soak in the heat of the sun, until the stones radiated with warmth through the night.  Without rain, there would be dust and grit.  He could almost taste it coating the inside of his mouth, could almost feel the sand grinding between his teeth.  Rain would bring relief and create a more forgiving battlefield.  This, however, only made the brow creasing at his forehead furrow deeper — a difficult battlefield was something he could use to his advantage.  He could use the heat, the dirt, the blinding sun — as long as _he_ was prepared for it, that was all that mattered.

He fingered the talisman at his neck — a piece of worked metal twisted and twined and hidden under his clothes, at his mother’s insistence.  The symbol of Elgar’nan meant little to Leto, beyond that it was a gift from Mamae — and when she had so little _to_ give, Leto knew better than to scoff.  Indeed, in that quiet, still place where secrets and dreams were allowed to exist and grow inside of him, he treasured it.  He had little opinion regarding Dalish traditions, regardless of how tightly his mother held on to every little ritual, every story.  To Leto there seemed very little point in clinging to the beliefs of a people they’d never known — or at least _he’d_ thought so.  

Regardless of this, for as long as he could remember, since he and Varania were small, Mamae had told them both stories of the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, tales of Elvhenan, of aravels and halla. It was a life neither he nor his sister had ever known; their mother had been captured by slavers and taken away from her clan as a young girl.  Leto imagined Mamae told them stories not only so _they’d_ remember, but also so that _she_ would not forget… despite all appearances indicated that her clan had forgotten about her.

Leto _also_ had little opinion of a people who never bothered to find those taken from them.  

She had been taken away and summarily forgotten by her own people; if they had cared — cared _enough_ — they would have _found_ her.  Instead she was, Leto was sure, forgotten by her clan.  That seemed enough reason to forget _them_ entirely.

“You’re scowling again.”

Leto turned with a start, despite how well he knew that voice, and its owner.  The aforementioned scowl melted away into a smile, his pulse tripping lightly in his veins at the very sight of her.  “Liaria.  How did you know I was—?”

She tilted her head, brown eyes twinkling as a bit of hair fell free from the ponytail she wore.  With an impatient flick of her fingers she sent the auburn lock away from her face, looked down at the open and empty arena, and back at him.  “You really have to ask?”

He shrugged.  “It… is helping me to prepare.”

“It’s the same arena it’s always been, Leto,” she said with a tired smile — the bridge of her nose was pink with sunburn and dusted with freckles and he wondered where she’d been stationed today.  

“Not true,” he countered, lifting his eyebrows as he took Liaria’s hand and guided her to the railing he’d been leaning against.  He pointed to the north end of the arena.  “The last time I fought here there had been rains the entire week before the tournament.”

“You twisted your ankle in the muck.  Believe me, Leto — I _remember._   You nearly gave your mother, Varania and me all heart attacks.”

“I _still_ defeated Tanius.”  And there was no denying the note of pride in his voice — he had beaten the other warrior handily, even injured as he was.  Liaria only chuckled and shook her head.

“And spent _how long_ afterward trying to heal?”

Leto grimaced at that particular memory — it was difficult enough to heal the injury at all; Varania hadn’t the training to elevate her talents beyond the most basic spells.  She’d done what she could, but time to heal was a luxury he hadn’t had.  Foul-tasting potions, though — those were much more plentiful, and he’d downed more than he truly liked to think about.  “As you love me, do not remind me of _that_.”

She smiled.  “As you wish, my own one.”  She looked down and tilted her head a fraction.  “How is it? The ankle, I mean.”

He picked up his foot and rotated the joint in question.  “Fine.  It’s been fine.”

“Stubborn will counts for something, I suppose.”

He acknowledged her tease with an indulgent shake of his head.  “My point, my love _,_ is that the arena is never the same from battle to battle, tournament to tournament.”

“And it may not be the same place tomorrow as it is today.”  She tugged at his hand, pulling him away from the railing.  “Come, Leto.  It’s getting late.”

“Late?  It is still full daylight—”

“And you would spend it in the sun and heat trying to anticipate _every_ opponent you will face tomorrow?”  She pressed close and wound one arm about his neck, lifting herself onto her toes and kissing him sweetly.  “I think what you truly require is… distraction.”  Liaria let the word linger temptingly, her full lips curving into a smirk.

“You,” he countered, taking her free hand and kissing the knuckles, “are a brazen temptress.”  

“But I am _your_ brazen temptress.”

“And I am forever thankful for that.”  His eyes raked over Liaria’s face, frowning again at the sunburn — she was far fairer than he was; Leto could remain in the sun for hours on end and only wind up sweaty and annoyed, never burnt or blistered.  “You look as if you’ve been on the wall all day.”

“You know they won’t station slaves on the wall.  And _you_ look as if you’re trying to change the subject.”  She kissed him again.  “Come.  If nothing else, you must allow your mother one more opportunity to talk you out of this contest.”

He sent her a slantwise look.  “And not you?”

She sighed and squeezed his hand, then looked out at the very arena he’d been scrutinizing earlier.  “I know better than to try and deter you.  I… it _is_ true I wish you wouldn’t compete in the contest tomorrow.  But… there are… _stories_ about Danarius, Leto.  It… it is a better position, I _know._   But… well.”  She smiled a little, but the edges of that smile were a little more ragged than he’d like.  “The women in your life worry.  Is that so bad?”

He reached up to cup Liaria’s cheek with his free hand and frowned.  Her skin was hot with the warmth of the sun and perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip.  He wiped away the moisture above her lip with his thumb, then placed a gentle kiss against her mouth.  “Should I win this contest,” he murmured against her lips, “the women in my life will have no cause to worry about anything, ever again.”

“They will not allow you to include me in your boon, love.  Surely you know that.  I am… no one.”

“It is my boon to make.  It will be allowed.”

“And what then,” she countered tiredly, “if it _is_ allowed?  What will we do with freedom, Leto?”

“What will you… _do_ with it?” he echoed softly, staring at her, blinking once, then twice.  He could not grasp that some of the slaves among him not only _knew_ nothing but a slave’s life, they _yearned_ for nothing but a slave’s life.  He certainly wanted more, and perhaps status was one way to achieve it.  “You _live,_ ” he answered softly, kissing her again _._   “You build a life of your own where you are beholden to no one.  Go where you want, live how you wish.”

“And leave you behind?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Unless you aren’t particularly bothered by being left behind.”

“Such markings, Liaria…”  He held out his hands, imagining the glowing, twining lines — the true prize for any warrior worthy enough to be Danarius’ bodyguard.  “Can you not imagine the power, the _strength_ I would have at my disposal?”  He laughed and held up his hands, wiggling his fingers.  “At my very fingertips?”

But Liaria was unmoved.  “With such a prize, Danarius will never allow you freedom, Leto.  Surely you know that.  You will be too valuable.”

He sighed.  “ _Your_ freedom — Mamae’s, Varania’s… that is what is more important right now.  Mine… will come.  I am sure of it.  These markings are but one step on a longer path.”

This time Liaria was the one who scowled.  “Don’t lie to me, Leto — you _want_ those markings, and even if an extra boon weren’t offered, you would still be competing for them.”

She wasn’t wrong — not entirely, anyway — but the words still grated upon his ears. “And why shouldn’t I want them?  You know as well as I that I am the strongest among the other warriors.  I can win this, Liaria.  I can, and I _will._ ”

“And you will not be deterred.  You will force freedom on me, whether I want it or not, so you can have your _status_ and your—”

“ _Force_ it on you?”  Leto took a step back, hating the way she flinched when he pulled away, though it did not stop him.  “Do you not _want_ freedom?”

Liaria rounded on him, suddenly. “You’ve never _asked_ me what I _want_ , Leto!  You want me to be free, but what do I _know_ of freedom?  What would I do with it?  And why would you give me something you yourself _would not take?_ ”  She flung and arm out and pointed at the arena, then let it fall, clenched her fists and paced, shaking her head.  “Mistress wants me to marry, Leto — she wants me to marry a _warrior_ and have dozens of fat children, so they _too_ will grow to be warriors and protectors of my Mistress’ house.”

He blinked, rapidly processing this.  “Then— then stay.  I’ll use the boon for Mamae and Varania, and… and you will stay and I— _we_ …”

She laughed, a  harsh, unpleasant noise, shaking her head at him.  The sweat-damp lock of hair fell loose again, but she only shook it out of her eyes.  “You will not be permitted to marry a lowly house guard, my love.”  Her smile was heartbreaking, doubly so when the acerbic tone fell from her lips as she added, “Don’t forget the importance of status.”

“What… what are you saying, Liaria?”

“I’m saying that…”  She bowed her head and rubbed hard at her forehead.  “I’m saying that winning those markings may _not_ be the answer to your prayers.  And I beg you to reconsider.”

They did not speak on the matter for the rest of the evening; instead, Liaria walked with Leto to the small home he shared with his mother and sister.  The smell of cooking food met them the moment they opened the door and Leto’s stomach gave a hungry growl.  It was a modest dish his mother made, and though she’d been  young when the slavers took her, she still knew better than most how to find and collect all manner of edible plants and herbs.  The Dalish, as she liked to remind her children, had always lived off the land, and she’d learned to gather herbs and roots and wild-growing fruits before she’d even left her mother’s skirts.  Slave or no, his mother was not the sort of woman willing to see her children go hungry, especially not when there were forests to forage; one did not need coin to eat well, Marillani reminded her children, frequently.

The moment she heard the door open, Leto’s mother looked up from the aged, dinged pot where the stew currently simmered.  Despite what had not been an easy life, his mother’s face remained youthful and, in Leto’s opinion, beautiful — green eyes so much like his own warmed when her gaze fell on him, and her lips eased into a tired smile.  For a moment he wondered for a moment when she’d had the _time_ to gather the ingredients for such a meal.  Swiftly following on the heels of that thought was another, harsher one:  _She is the reason you are doing this.  Never lose sight of that._

He would win his mother her freedom, or he would die in the attempt.

“You’re back earlier than I expected, da’len.”

Leto chafed inwardly at the endearment, but Liaria only smiled and went to his mother’s side to help.  “I don’t doubt he’d have stayed there until sunrise if he could.”

Varania stood by the table, setting down bowls for dinner, but did not look up.  Things had been tense between the siblings from the moment Leto announced his intentions to enter the contest and compete to be Danarius’ bodyguard.

“It is allowed,” he countered, looking first at Liaria, then his mother.  “Warriors are permitted to view—”

“And bake in the hot sun until the heat addles their wits?” Liaria tossed back with a wink.  

“He wouldn’t have had very long to wait, then,” Varania said quietly, her eyes trained on the spoon she held. 

Before Leto could let loose the retort forming upon his tongue, he saw Liaria shaking her head quickly at him.  _Not now,_ she mouthed.  Frowning, he nodded and subsided.

Dinner was a quiet affair, livened, as it frequently was, by Liaria’s enthusiastic tendency toward storytelling.  He leaned back in the chair, letting her words wash over him.  It would not be _so_ bad if she remained, he thought.  Surely the situation was not so dire as she believed — _surely_ he would be permitted to _marry_ , wouldn’t he?  The question of status between slaves was a formality, but Liaria wasn’t a maid or a cook — she was a trained fighter.  Surely it would be permitted.  _Surely._

Once the meal was eaten and the mess cleared away and cleaned, Liaria went to Leto’s side and, lifting herself on tiptoes, whispered invitingly in his ear:  “Your mother wishes to speak with you about the contest.  If nothing else, hear her out.  Then come find me later.  I believe I made a promise to… _distract_ you.”  Then she pressed a kiss next to his ear, smiling wickedly when he shivered, and left.

He found his mother sitting by the window, doing her mending by the meager lanternlight.  It was far too warm to light a fire in the hearth — beyond which to cook with, at least — but she seemed not to _need_ to see as the needle dragged thread through the material.  He stood by the arm of the chair, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.  Without looking up, his mother smiled.

“Just like your father,” she murmured.  “He had difficulty standing still, too.”  Leto could manage no response beyond surprised silence — Marillani seldom ever spoke of her husband, and she still felt the grief of his death keenly.  Though he’d not been Dalish — an elven mage from Seheron who was fleeing Qunari and templars alike when Tevinters had managed what warriors of the Qun and Andraste could not: he’d been all of sixteen when captured — Marillani had loved Arthal dearly and deeply.  

Leto and Varania had been too young to fully understand why their father had been killed at all.  It wasn’t until Leto was much older that he discovered the reason behind his murder: his father had rebuffed the advances of a magister intent upon taking him to her bed.  Whether she’d been angry and insulted that a mere elf — and _slave_ — had rejected her so soundly, or that her secret infatuation was decidedly less secret, no one knew.  Leto only knew that this woman had killed his father, and soon thereafter, she was likewise killed, put to death by Arthal’s own master.  But Leto didn’t delude himself into believing the man had any tender feelings toward the slave he owned, or that slave’s family.  No, the man was simply furious that his property had been taken away from him in such a manner.

It didn’t help that the murderous bitch in question had also been _his wife._

“I hope you are not too old and wise to sit and listen to your old mother speak, da’len,” she said, almost teasingly, giving him a little half-smile in the fading light.

Without a word, Leto knelt by his mother’s chair, resting his hands on the roughly carved wooden arm.  “Never, Mamae,” he answered, looking up at her.  

Her smile grew impossibly sad for a moment as she ran her fingers through his hair.  “You… look so much like him,” she said, resting her fingers beneath his chin.  “He would have been so proud of you.”

Some bit of tension inside Leto began to unwind.  Perhaps she would not try once more to—

“But I beg you to reconsider what you are about to do, my son.”

Leto sighed.  “I am doing this for you, Mamae.  For you and Varania — so you can be _free._ ”

“And what is freedom if we must leave you behind?”

“I will catch up with you, somehow.”

She sighed and rested a hand upon his shoulder.  Soon her fingers crept to his neck and pulled free the long strip of leather from which the symbol of Elgar’nan hung.  She let the talisman rest in the palm of her hand for a moment.

“Had you grown up among the People, you’d have received the vallaslin when you came of age, rather than a piece of worked metal.”  Her smile was wistful, as if she were imagining his face adorned with twining blood-writing.  “And now you are about to compete for markings of your own, and I… am afraid, my son.  Afraid for you.”

“All will be well, Mamae,” he said, clasping her hand in his.  “I give you my word.”

“You cannot know that.  And even you, my son, my da’len, with your father’s iron will… there are some things even you cannot promise.”

#

Rain still had not come.

Late afternoon sun still shone down on the arena, boring down into stone and earth until waves of rippling heat rose all around him as he’d fought — and won.  Today the heat was augmented by the hundreds of bodies crammed upon benches and in private balconies, their combined breath a humid wind as they cheered and screamed with each fallen warrior and each victor; more often than not, they were cheering for him.  _Him._   The carved tunnels beneath the arena _shook_ with the noise — Leto could even feel the vibrations beneath his feet.  Contests as grand as this, with prizes as coveted as this one, did not happen often; when one did occur, it was well attended.  Even more so than the more common tournaments.  The prize attracted the fighters, which in turn attracted spectators — and _such_ a prize attracted warriors from all over the Imperium.

Leto had been fighting them — and winning — since the early morning.  The early rounds weren’t enough to capture the attention of many spectators.  The hour was too early and there was less bloodshed; younger, less experienced warriors lost only their pride and a little blood, not their lives.  Once the herd was thinned and the stakes raised, people came out to watch and wager.

The day had been long — Leto had been there since before sunrise, nerves making sleep impossible — and his body now felt every demand he made on it.  His clothes and hair were soaked through with sweat — he wasn’t the only one; there was a well below the arena and many of the contestants were just as likely to drink the water as drench themselves with it.  He cupped cool water in his hands and first splashed his face with it, then cupped more and drank greedily from his hands.  

The contest was nearly finished, and he was still standing. 

 _Soon_ , he told himself, listening to the crowd’s screams rise nearly to deafening as another warrior fell.

Soon he would be in Danarius’ employ and would have the power the lyrium markings afforded.  Rumors abounded, as they always did — some said the branding gave the recipient more strength, more resilience, more speed.  Others said that the powers came from the Fade itself, and anyone possessing the markings could walk through walls or crush a man’s heart with bare hands.

He _wanted_ that power.  And Leto knew — he _knew_ — that once he was in possession of such abilities, whether the rumors were true or not, he would not remain a slave for long.  Powerful men were not slaves.  Sooner or later he would find — or _make_ — an opportunity to leave Tevinter.  He would catch up with Mamae, Varania, and — he dearly hoped — Liaria, and they would live freely.

He would give his mother the one thing her own clan had failed to provide: _freedom_.

His fingers drifted across his talisman once again and he closed his eyes, sending a lone, silent prayer for strength up to Elgar’nan.  He did not make a habit of praying to Dalish gods — he often felt they’d abandoned his mother when she needed them most — but perhaps this once, an exception could be made.  He traced the symbol slowly with a fingertip; he knew the shape of Mamae’s gift by heart.

A small boy came careening through the hold, his rapid footfalls against the dirt floor grinding softly.  “Leto!  Leto!  Domitia has been defeated!  Domitia has fallen!”

The fighter in question had been a favorite among the betting crowd; she was an elf, lightly built and possessing both a reputation for speed and a preference for dual blades — usually poisoned — in the ring.  If she’d fallen, then Leto’s own opponent would certainly be a challenge.

“Who remains?” he asked the boy.

“ _Ionus_ ,” he breathed.  “You will be fighting Ionus in the final round.”

Leto nodded slowly.  Ionus had the advantage of size and bulk over him — while a slave, Ionus was no elf — but that was an advantage he could quickly turn against the larger man.  Ionus preferred a greatsword, as Leto did, which gave Leto an intimate understanding of a fair number of Ionus’ weaknesses.  It would not be an easy battle, but Leto remained confident.  When rumors filtered down that Ionus was Hadriana’s favored pick for the match, it was all Leto could do not to laugh.  It would have surprised him not at all that similar rumors were making their way to Ionus’ ears — more games, of course.  But only a fool would fall prey to them. 

And Leto was no fool.

The spans of time between each battle were long enough for the fighters to catch their breath, but not so long that there was any chance of their muscles growing cold and stiff.  …Not that there was much of a chance for _anything_ to get cold in this heat, Leto thought wryly.  For his part, he’d kept moving even when he was not slated to fight; he wanted this too badly to lose because he’d been stupid or shortsighted.

In the interim, the packed dirt floor of the arena was raked smooth for the final round.  Blood that had been spilled earlier only soaked into the dirt where it was then left beneath the merciless sun to grow hard and dark, destined to be removed only by pounding rains.  The ground itself was smooth, but nothing could be done about the dark splatters soaked into the hard, dry ground.  They were baked in and glinted in the golden afternoon light like so many black gems.

As he waited, hearing and _feeling_ the crowd’s roar above and around him, Leto ran his hands slowly up his arms, imagining his prize adorning his skin, imagining the enhanced strength, the power…

To fail now would mean death.  It would mean no freedom for those he loved.  _Everything_ hinged on what happened next.  He touched the talisman again.

_I will not falter._

The arena trembled with noise, and just when he thought the cries couldn’t get any louder, they doubled.

It was time.

Leto strode out into the heat of the arena — the cheering he’d heard before doubled yet again.  He knew better than to think they were cheering for him — an elf and a slave?  Hardly. No, they were cheering for the promise of bloodshed; they were cheering for the promise of a few more coins lining their purses when all was over.  He did wonder how many were betting on him to win — and then he wondered how many _more_ were betting on him to lose.  Were the odds in his favor, or against him?  Leto had never been a particularly gifted gambler, and usually didn’t have enough spare coin to lose, but still he wondered.

From the other end of the arena, he saw Ionus’ imposing silhouette as the two fighters slowly approached the center of the ring.  He took in his opponent, keen eyes searching for any injury he could exploit, wondering whether it had been luck or skill that had allowed Ionus to fell Domitia.  Leto hoped it had been luck, and then hoped Ionus’ luck had run out.

The two fighters met in the center of the arena, eyes meeting.  They did not speak; there were no barbs traded, no dark promises to make the other suffer a long, painful death.  There was no emotion here — there was no place for it.  Here, the fight was merely part of a larger business transaction.

They both waited for the signal to begin, but instead of the pounding drums, the entire crowd fell suddenly and deathly silent.  Ionus’ eyes widened as they met Leto’s — the only hint of anxiety either fighter showed.  But there was excellent reason to feel such anxiety, as it turned out.

Danarius had left his private balcony and was at that moment walking out into the ring.  The arena, filled to capacity and only seconds before deafeningly loud, was now so silent that Leto heard the soft crunch of dirt and gravel beneath the soles of Danarius’ prohibitively expensive boots.

The two fighters watched the man destined to be master to one of them as he approached.  His gait was leisurely, his mien relaxed, as if he were merely out for an afternoon stroll.  As far as Leto knew, no one had ever interrupted the final round of such a contest before — but this _was_ Danarius’ affair, and if anyone could be permitted to break the rules, it was him.

“Dreadfully sorry for interrupting, lads, but I fear there has been a slight… change in the program.”

Leto had only enough time to exchange a brief, wordless look with Ionus before Danarius flung one hand up, letting a blindingly white chain of crackling lightning leap free from his palm.  With as much speed and force as anything that charged down from the skies, the lightning struck Ionus and his eyes widened as his muscles tensed and jerked, his mouth stuck in a wide, silent scream.  Still upright, his body twitched and jumped, like a puppet dangling from a string.  His mouth began to foam and smoke started to rise from his skin as the sickening stench of cooking flesh leeched into the air.

The spell ended with as much warning as it had started and Ionus smoldering body fell, hissing, to the ground.  Leto stared, feeling bile rise to his throat, both at the sight and the _smell_ of it.  He lifted his shocked gaze to Danarius, who was tilting his head and regarding Ionus as if he was marginally disappointed the man had died so quickly.

The magister then _smiled_ and raised his arms, addressing the crowd.  Those who were not still gripped by shock cheered and applauded this deviation.  Once the noise had subsided somewhat, Danarius cleared his throat and addressed the masses.

“Due to…” he looked at the dead warrior at his feet, his lip curling in evident contempt for the dead, “unforeseen events, I fear I am left with no other choice than to provide another challenger for our contestant.”  He stepped aside with a flourish and Leto wondered for a mad moment what he was _doing_ when he realized someone had been walking into the arena behind Danarius.  The blood roared in Leto’s ears.

_Liaria._

He could do little else but stare.  The breath had left his lungs in a rush, leaving him speechless.  His heart pounded mercilessly against his ribs as his mind struggled to understand what she was doing there at all.

Then, slowly, he realized what Danarius had said: _a new challenger._

“Do either of you require additional time to… prepare?” asked Danarius.  Leto tore his eyes away from Liaria and stared at him; the man was doing a poor job of hiding his mirth.

He _knew._

Leto’s eyes went once again to Liaria, but her own gaze was impassive and defiant.  Without taking her eyes from Leto, she said, “I do not.”

“And you?” prompted the magister, a knowing smile twining snakelike about his lips.

His throat was dry.  Words would not come.  Leto swallowed once, twice.  It was as if all the grit and sand in the arena coated his mouth, his throat.  “I… I do not.”

“Very well.”  And with another flourish, Danarius strode away, back to the cool privacy of his balcony, its awning rustling in a breeze too gentle to feel.  The crowds remained still and quiet, but the blood roaring in his ears drowned out every footstep Danarius took as he returned to his private seat.

He forced himself to look at Liaria, but she stood still and silent, her back perfectly, painfully straight.

“What are you doing?” he breathed.

“What I must.”

They had lain together the night before, and images from that night were now plaguing Leto’s mind — the glow of her skin as moonlight snuck through slats in the shutters, casting patterns on her body; the taste of sweat against his lips as he kissed her shoulder, her back; her throaty cry as she came, her body trembling against him; her sleepy sigh and whisper as she drifted to sleep in his arms:  _I love you, Leto._

“Why?  Why are you— _why?_ ”

From his seat, Danarius made a lazy gesture, and then the sound of pounding drums thundered in his ears.  The noise took him by surprise.

It had not, as it happened, taken Liaria by surprise.  Sword and shield drawn, she rushed forward, clashing her shield against his sword, the force of the blow sharp enough to make him take a staggering step back.  Survival and self-preservation kicked in and he sidestepped her next advance, swinging his greatsword around and blocking Liaria’s blade as it cut a great, sweeping arc through the air.

“ _Why?_   Are you truly asking me that, Leto?”  She advanced again, and again he lifted his sword to block hers.  Baring her teeth, she slammed her shield against his blade with enough force to knock it aside, and tried to slip her blade into the vanishing window of space her move had made.  “Didn’t you hear a word of what I said to you yesterday?”

His sword came up to meet hers and the blades ground hard against teach other, locking at the guard.  

“I do not recall the part where you revealed your own interest in becoming Danarius’ bodyguard,” he said, his voice a low growl.

“I told you Mistress wants me to marry, didn’t I?”  She pushed harder against him, but Leto did not budge.

“And I told you—”

“That you would marry me instead.  But Leto, I don’t _want_ to put down my sword to churn out brats just so that _bitch_ can brag about how many knife-ears she owns.  Don’t you _see_?  You cannot fix this.”  She pivoted, pulling her blade and shield back and angling both for another attack.  “You _can’t save me._ ”

“And I _will not kill you_ ,” he ground out through clenched teeth.  

The crowd, which had taken time to warm up to this new development — and surely there was a flutter of activity as people ran to change their wagers at the last minute — was now as loud as they’d ever been.  Once again the ground trembled beneath Leto’s feet, but now he felt no exhilaration for the fight — or the prize — only fear and dread.  

Liaria was skilled with a sword; Leto had already known that much.  They trained together, sparred together, and knew each other’s moves as well as they knew their own.  She blocked his attacks with as much ease as he blocked hers.  The only difference between them was the lack of hesitation in her advances.

Then, with a yell, she lunged forward; Leto dodged at the last instant, but Liaria’s sword still cut a deep wound at his right shoulder.  He stared a moment at the blood, then back at her — had she been trying to remove his sword arm entirely? 

“If I am Danarius’ bodyguard, I will own my own fate, Leto.  You said it yourself — those markings mean power.  Status.  _Respect._ ”

“I would have _freed you._ ”

He slowly became aware of the fact that the sun wasn’t beating down quite so mercilessly anymore.  The awning above Danarius’ balcony fluttered with more force now, and the breeze that met Leto’s overheated, sweat-soaked skin was… cooler.  He glanced up to see clouds gathering overhead.  The oppressive heat was about to come to an end.

“Freedom,” she spat.  “You wouldn’t have been able to free me, Leto.  Mistress never would have allowed it.  But you— you didn’t _see_ that, did you?  You thought only of yourself, thought only that because you willed it, you could make it happen.  You never even asked if I _wanted it_ , Leto.  You simply assumed that because _you_ want to be free, so must we all.”  Her eyes hardened and she circled him with nimble footwork, swinging the shield suddenly — three times, in rapid succession — then lunged forward, her sword at the ready.

He’d never imagined — never _dreamt_ …  

“You… never wished for it?” he asked.  “Never wanted it?”

“What I _want_ , my love, are those markings.”

The cold truth of it glittered in her eyes.  She wanted the prize, the boon, for herself.

Above, thunder rumbled, a low, threatening sound.  The wind picked up, sending loose sand and grit into swirling eddies all around them.  Still they circled, still they danced — slashing swords and raised shields sliced skin and bruised muscle, but still they fought.  Leto had stopped trying to understand — he knew he _couldn’t_ understand.  

He also knew he could not die here.  He knew it in his bones, as cool rain fell, slowly at first, then faster as the sky continued to darken and turn strangely yellow.  If he met his end here, his mother and sister were doomed to remain slaves for the rest of their days.

Leto could not allow that to happen.

“Forfeit,” he breathed, swinging his sword with purpose now, rain pouring down upon them both, plastering their hair to their heads, soaking their clothes.  Somehow the crowd sensed the intent behind his maneuver and _screamed._   “I beg you, Liaria,” he yelled, though he could barely hear himself above the noise, “ _forfeit._ ”

“Are you _mad?”_

_“Do not make me kill you.”_

“You arrogant _bastard_!” she yelled, setting her jaw and swinging her sword — a killing stroke.  It was meant to be, anyway.  But Liaria’s shield was raised too high, her sword arm held out just a fraction too far.  

Leto had only to angle his sword and watch with horror as, propelled by her own momentum, Liaria flung herself upon it.  Her eyes went wide, first with surprise, then with pain.  Closing his own eyes — a fruitless endeavor, for he knew he would see this moment in his mind’s eye for the rest of his days — Leto bowed his head, and as rain coursed down his face and neck, he _pushed_.  Her body gave against the blade, and he felt rather than heard — the crowd had exploded into chaos and noise; it was loud, so impossibly _loud_ — the _snap_ of her spine.

He dropped the sword and forced his eyes open.  To turn away now was a coward’s path.  He deserved to see what he’d wrought.

Liaria’s crumpled body looked too… _small._   Her legs were bent awkwardly beneath her, but if the blank, sightless gaze was any indication, she was beyond caring.  A tremor wracked its way through him, and Leto fell to his knees, lifting trembling hands to her face.  Her pert nose was still sunburned, and the freckles still stood out against the skin. Her lips were parted, and blood stained her teeth — a tiny splash of red showed at the corner of her mouth. 

He’d kissed that nose, those cheeks, those lips the night before.

Shuddering, Leto brought his fingers to her eyes and closed them, then pressed a kiss to her forehead.  She was still warm.

 _I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I love you.  I’m sorry.  I_ had _to.  Forgive me.  I beg you, forgive me._

Rain continued to pour down upon them both, pooling beneath Liaria, the gathering water tinted red with fresh blood.

“Well,” drawled a voice from behind him.  Shuddering, Leto looked over his shoulder to find Danarius standing there, looking immeasurably pleased — though whether the magister was pleased with Leto or simply pleased with _himself,_ it was impossible to tell.  The rain did not touch him; a shimmering light seemed to surround him and the water simply beaded up and slid off.  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure you truly had it in you.  But…” he nudged Liaria’s body with the toe of one boot, “it would appear you do.  Most excellent.”

He knew.  _He’d known._

Leto’s trembling fingers smoothed back Liaria’s wet bangs, trailing down her temple and lingering against her cheek.  The rain coursing down on them both was cold now and he was nearly sure he could feel the heat draining from her body.  When he looked up, he saw her blood surrounding them.  There was nothing he could do for her now; indeed, he had done _enough_ “for” her.  He was the reason she was dead in his arms now, her skin growing slowly colder.  The sunburn across her nose was fading.  

“Stand, lad.”

For a moment his limbs would not obey.  His movements were jerky as he lowered her head gently to the ground and pushed to his feet.  His hands and clothes were soaked through, streaked with Liaria’s blood.  Slowly he turned to face his new master.

Danarius’ thick, steely brows twitched together and his cast a quick, disdainful glance down at Liaria’s body.  “Oh.  That.”  He sighed and shook his head.  “Now, really, what kind of bodyguard would you be if I had any cause to doubt you?  I need to know you’ll kill _anyone,_ lad _._   And if you’d kill your sweetheart for a boon, you’d surely kill to protect me.  Don’t you see?”

Leto was numb throughout; he couldn’t think, could barely _speak._ “It… was a… test?”

Danarius’ smile was sharp and cruel.  “It was a test, _Master._ ”

Leto shuddered.  His guts wrenched, and for a moment he felt like he was going to throw up.  “…Master,” he echoed dully.

“Something like that.  You’re _clearly_ skilled.  I just needed to know you were… devoted.”  He waved a hand at the scene surrounding them.  “If this was a test, my boy, you’ve passed with flying colors.  _Now,_ ” he smiled and it struck Leto there were too many _teeth_ in that smile, “I believe we have a small matter of a boon to negotiate?  Perhaps you’ll follow me up to my balcony; this mud is positively ruining my boots.”  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode away, the shimmering barrier still protecting him from the elements.  He did not look to make sure Leto was following him; it was merely expected.

When he was able to walk, his steps were stiff and halting, as if the rest of his body had forgotten how to move.  Everything hurt, inside and out, and it took too much _concentration_ to walk.  But walk he did, following Danarius with halting steps as the rain continued pouring down on him.  His body, no longer burning with heat and exertion, began to feel slightly chilled, and he willed his teeth not to chatter. But the chill, it seemed, went deeper than his skin; it seemed to permeate him completely, settling in his bones, icing over his guts.  Finally they reached Danarius’ balcony and the magister settled into a seat and looked up at him expectantly.

His teeth _were_ chattering now.  “The boon I… h-humbly request, Master, is freedom. For my mother and my… m-my sister.”

“That’s all?  Really?  Oh, _that_ can be arranged,” he replied, looking eerily amused.  “Now, tell me your name, boy.”

He was shivering, but did not dare to bring his arms around himself.  He wasn’t sure it would help, anyway, so deep was the chill.  “…It is L-leto, Master.”

Danarius’ eyes dropped to the talisman at his neck.  “And you are… Dalish, Leto?”

He swallowed hard and willed his voice to be steady, his teeth not to clack together with the cold he felt.  “My mother is, Master.”

His eyes did not waver from Leto’s neck.  “That is the symbol for… Elgar’nan, is it not?”  

He nodded once, suddenly strangely apprehensive.  “It is, Master.”

Tilting his head, Danarius reached up and took the piece of worked metal into his hand and _pulled._   The leather snapped.  Leto did not move, though his hands slowly curled into fists.

“An interesting choice,” he murmured.  

The faintest glimmers of anger sparked dimly, somewhere deep inside of him.  “A gift from my mother, Master.”

“Oh, well that _does_ make sense.”  He held the symbol in his hand, looking entirely too _thoughtful_ as he considered it.  “But I don’t quite think it _suits_ you.”

The talisman vanished in a pocket.  Leto felt his eyes widen as that anger flared to life in his chest.  For the moment, even the chill permeating his bones seemed to burn away.  “…I do not understand, Master.”

“Admittedly my knowledge of the Dalish tales is… a bit rusty.  You can tell me the story of Fen’Harel, can you not?”

He looked around, briefly.  The seats were far from empty, and there were several other magisters watching him with thinly veiled interest. Hadriana did a poor job of hiding her laughter behind one hand. “…Now, Master?”

“Unless you have somewhere better to be?” he chuckled.  The others laughed.  The anger that had begun a slow burn in his bones slowly grew hotter.

“Fen’Harel is… the Dread Wolf, Master,” answered Leto, his tone neutral and even, at odds with the burning anger and twisting grief threatening to engulf him.

“And he betrayed the gods, did he not?”

Leto felt another wave of nausea as he nodded, but he did not dare look out again where Liaria’s body lay.  “Yes, Master.  He—the Creators called him brother and the Forgotten Ones believed him their ally.  They trusted him and he sealed them both away, betraying them all.”

Danarius’ smile was slow and unpleasant.  “Yes, that’s the tale I was thinking of.  Hmm — do you know, I think that suits you admirably.  But you are not quite a _dread_ wolf,” he said, his mocking tone scraping its way down Leto’s spine, ”still too… _little_ for that.”

Leto stood up a little straighter, but said nothing.  Finally, Danarius waved him away.  “We’ll discuss that more later.  I believe you have a prize yet to collect, do you not?”

He was startled and realized it probably showed.  “…May I… speak with my mother and sister beforehand, Master?”

Danarius made a careless gesture as he plucked up a glass of red wine.  “Oh, why don’t you do it afterward?” he asked airily, taking a drink.  “I’m sure they’d _love_ to admire the work.”

Leto began to agree, but hesitated.  What had seemed such a clear path before now was irreparably muddied. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to see his mother, to beg her forgiveness, but he couldn’t bear the thought of confessing his sin to her — if she did not already know what he’d done.  He knew she would not have wanted him to pay quite such a high price for anyone’s freedom, including her own.  After a brief internal debate, he nodded.  “Very well, Master.  I will… see them afterward.”

The magister’s smile was inscrutable and enigmatic — and unpleasant — and Leto’s anger struggled under the chill of sudden uncertainty.  “Provided it doesn’t… slip your mind, my little wolf.”


	60. Chapter 60

Sebastian was exhausted. He was too old for late nights laced with anxiety, especially when morning came early and with morning came responsibility. He’d been asleep less than three hours when his manservant gently shook him awake—nearly losing an eye before Sebastian realized he wasn’t being attacked; he’d have to speak to the servants about that—and guided him through his morning ablutions. Even now, several hours later, he still felt drowsy, and all the tea in the world was doing nothing to help keep him alert.

When the soft knock came on his study door, he assumed it was Corwin and called out for the man to enter. However, when he looked up, it was not his Steward standing in the doorway but Kiara, looking almost bashful—in addition to perfectly wide-awake. Even after her nighttime rambles. He wondered how she managed it. 

Pushing himself upright, he offered her a polite bow.

She laughed lightly, but he noticed the way her hands were twisted in her pale grey skirts, and how her eyes didn’t quite rise to meet his. “Are we backtracking now, Sebastian?” she asked. “Will it be always bowing and curtsying and _Your Highness_ and _my lady_?”

“You’re the one hovering in my doorway looking as though you fear being sent away. Won’t you come in? Or are you on your way elsewhere?”

Even her smile was oddly shy, but she did take another step into the room before pausing again. “I—remembered you mentioning your paperwork. I… thought I might see if you needed help.”

“You know I was joking about putting you to work as my secretary.”

This broadened her smile somewhat. “I know. But I’d rather help you than…”

When she drifted into silence, Sebastian filled in the blank. “Tasia wanted you to do something… _ladylike_ , didn’t she?”

Kiara scowled. “There may have been talk of embroidery.”

“Maker forbid.” He gestured for her to take the seat opposite him. She crossed the room and perched on the edge of the chair, gaze darting from the stacks of paper on his desk to the tepid tea to the pile of quills in need of sharpening. 

She glanced up at him and then down at her hands once again. “If you prefer to be alone…”

He chuckled and repeated, “Maker _forbid_. No, Corwin will join me shortly, and I’m sure he’ll be all too happy to put you to work. How are you at forging signatures?”

“Frighteningly proficient, actually.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

She stood, leaning over his desk; blushing, he studiously looked anywhere but at the expanse of skin her action displayed. Reaching for a blank piece of parchment and a quill, she took a long look at a document already sporting his signature. Then, very carefully, virtually flawlessly, she recreated it.

“That’s…”

“Not very ladylike, I suppose?” she finished, grinning. “But much more useful than embroidery.”

He did not protest, although he was growing increasingly fond of the embroidery even now decorating the neckline of her gown. Embroidery was a _lovely_ invention as far as he was concerned. Blinking, he returned his gaze to the perfect scrawl of his signature and the quill still held between her slender fingers.

“My pen is yours to command,” she added. “I promise to use it for good. I learned my lesson when I was young and stupid.”

“Oh?”

“I sent a forged love letter to the maddest girl in Lothering, having no idea she’d been crazy about Carver for _ages_. She believed every word in the letter, and started telling everyone she and Carver were going to get married. Poor Carve didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but it got so bad he would _hide_ if he thought he saw her coming toward him in the street. Eventually I had to own up to the truth. I… broke her heart, a little. It was foolish of me. I felt terrible.”

A shadow passed over her face as she mentioned her brother, but before Sebastian could offer his condolences, she said, “I’m worried about something.”

“Did you send someone else a false love letter?”

She shook her head, wearing the ghost of a smile. “No. It’s only… what if Varric and Isabela bring Amelle _here_? What if she doesn’t get my letter in time?”

“It went by way of a fast courier, Kiara. I’m certain it will arrive before Varric and Isabela do. The mountain passes can be challenging. They will not make the trip as quickly as one accustomed to the route.”

Her eyes widened. “Will _they_ be safe? I-I didn’t even think about _them_ not being safe.”

He smiled, attempting to reassure her. “The roads are clearly marked. Varric will keep Isabela from wandering off, I’m sure.”

One corner of Kiara’s mouth turned up. “Now that you’re a prince, you should see about getting her boat back. She really was distraught.”

“It’s a _ship_ ,” he corrected, mimicking Isabela’s voice.

She laughed, but only for a moment. Then the shadows returned, and her brow furrowed. “It’s just…”

“You’re allowed to worry.”

“Don’t let Amelle hear you say that. She’ll give you her patented ‘I’m a big girl who controls fireballs and can burn your face off’ speech.” Kiara gazed past him to the fireplace, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was… thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She continued reluctantly, “About the… problem in the city. One thing will… usually trump fear.”

“And that is?”

“Money,” she replied. “As much as I wish you could just _order_ people to stop fearing mages—and as much as I wish they would _listen_ to that order—I know it doesn’t work that way. But what if… what if we change the game? What if… we offered a _bounty_? For captured mages. Or for information leading to the capture of a mage.”

He frowned, leaning forward on his elbows and peering at her over his steepled fingers. “It would not foster a… climate welcoming of magic. The fear would still rule. You must see that.”

She sighed. “Baby steps? The thing is… if we work with the Chantry, with the templars, we can prove whether the accused even _possess_ magic; I feel relatively certain none of them will. If we offer money _only_ for the genuine article, and only for the _living_ … we may save lives. Or at least go some way to preventing burnings. Even the most bloodthirsty mob would prefer their pockets be lined with coin, I think.”

“I don’t—”

“Her plan has merit, Your Highness.”

Sebastian started. Bloody Corwin. He was going to attach bells to the man. The Steward bowed and added, “Forgive me, my lord. The door was open. Lady Hawke, a pleasure.”

Sebastian shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair. “You don’t think this would inspire an even _greater_ witch hunt, then?”

Corwin inclined his head, permitting Kiara to speak. “It might,” she admitted. “But only at first. Gradually they’ll learn their neighbors and friends and family members aren’t harboring any secret mages—or secret magic of their own—and I think the fervor will die down. Perhaps then damage control could be implemented. It’s just I was… I was considering what you said, about how knocking heads together mightn’t be the best way of solving this particular problem. This… seemed like a different option.”

Sebastian gave her a considering glance. He thought the color rose slightly in her cheeks, but it could just as easily been a trick of the light.

Corwin added, “You do have a meeting with the Revered Mother this afternoon, Your Highness. You could speak with her then, see what she thinks.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “How reasonable is she?”

“Very, as far as I know. She has vocally disapproved of the way the city is currently treating its… mages. I believe she, too, would see the merit in Lady Hawke’s plan.”

“We’ll discuss it with her then, I suppose.”

The Steward cleared his throat meaningfully. “I… heard there was a situation last night. With the pretender prince.”

Kiara spoke first. “He says his name is Morven Vael. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Ahh,” said Corwin.

“Ahh?” echoed Sebastian.

“Ghosts always _do_ come back to haunt. I suppose it was foolish to believe them gone simply because they were silent.”

Incredulous, Sebastian shook his head. “You’re not telling me the bastard was speaking the truth?”

“At first no one talked of them because the mere mention of Connall Vael—the elder—brought your grandfather to tears. He had two sons, aye. One tried to kill the other to solidify his own power. He failed, and was banished. A story was spread of murder on the road to Antiva. After a time it became habit not to speak of them, and then… and then I believe out of sight genuinely became out of mind. They were forgotten. The story was believed.”

Sebastian stood and began pacing, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. “How did I never _hear_ of it? How did no one mention them as… as suspects in the murder of my family? Surely—” 

“Everyone believed them dead, my lord. Ghosts do not conspire against the crown.” Corwin sighed. “Connall Vael is dead. He… killed himself years ago. It is certain. His body was seen by the Eyes. Morven and his mother disappeared afterward. I-I am embarrassed, my lord, not to have considered the possibility myself. Your Highness—”

“No,” Sebastian said. “Enough of him. I will speak with him again when—if—he wakes. For now, we must deal with matters at hand. I will lose no more of my subjects to this madness in the city.”

“If you would prefer, I can return when you and the lady Hawke are finished your audience.”

“Oh,” said Kiara brightly—just brightly enough Sebastian knew she was trying to cheer him by adopting false cheer herself, “I’m here to help. I’m going to be Sebastian’s secretary. At least until he promotes me to head of his secret spy network.”

Corwin raised his eyebrows, and Sebastian felt the faint heat of a blush in his cheeks. “Why, that _is_ a promotion, my lady. Prince Sebastian must think highly of you indeed.”

Kiara, oblivious, continued, “You see? I can sign all Sebastian’s papers for him while he paces and grimaces at the walls and makes decisions about…” she shuffled through one of the piles and snickered. “Is this one here honestly asking him to decide about new draperies for a sitting room?” Affecting a very serious tone, she asked, “Your Highness, would you prefer blue velvet or gold?” Without waiting for him to answer, she asked Corwin, “Could I ask them for purple with pink and yellow polka dots?”

“They would endeavor to find such a thing if you asked in his name, aye.”

Picking up a quill, Kiara scribbled a note, chuckling under her breath all the while.

“Dare I ask?” Sebastian asked.

“Ducklings!” she cried. “Blue velvet with yellow ducklings.”

“Ahh,” said Corwin. “I see you are not a woman to be trifled with, Lady Hawke. I will let you make _all_ the difficult choices.”

“And I can be as ridiculous as I want?”

“Imagine you are a prince and tailor your ridiculousness to the level of the inquiry.”

“I can do that.”

Smiling to herself, Kiara curled up in her chair and began reading the papers Corwin handed her way. Sebastian watched until the Steward looked up and met his eyes. The old man’s smile was all too knowing. Keeping his own expression carefully bland, Sebastian returned to his desk and began making his way through his own stack of papers. If he glanced up rather more often than usual, he attested it to the sleepless night and not the woman sitting opposite him, chewing on the end of her quill and laughing.

The morning did pass more quickly than usual, however. He had to acknowledge that.

#

When the door to Sebastian’s office opened, admitting a small, slender woman whose hair was not grey and whose face was unlined, Kiara only rose because Sebastian did. Two templars followed, flanking her, but still Kiara waited for another woman to enter. An older woman. It wasn’t until she recognized the robes of a Revered Mother that she blinked and gave a polite curtsey. The Revered Mother’s lips curved into a faint smile; evidently Kiara was not the first to underestimate her based on first impressions alone.

Perhaps because she—knowingly or not—had been expecting a Starkhavenite version of Elthina, Kiara couldn’t help being taken aback by how very young the Revered Mother was to hold such a post. Her hair was so pale a blonde any threads of silver in it were lost, and though very faint lines marred the skin at her eyes and around her lips, Kiara thought them laugh lines rather than those of encroaching age. If the woman had reached her fortieth year, Kiara vowed she’d eat her own boots, right down to the sole. 

Still, there was something reserved about her. The Revered Mother’s clear, hazel eyes were calculating. A moment later, Kiara recognized the look: she was evaluating them. She had not yet decided how she felt about this new prince, who had yet to prove himself and who’d come back to Starkhaven with a woman in tow who’d been party to the most horrific act in recent Chantry history.

Kiara supposed she could hardly blame her, for all that. In fact, she found herself rather respecting the woman. Calculating and evaluating meant the Revered Mother was withholding judgment until she could form opinions of her own.

 _That_ was such a welcome change Kiara found herself smiling without any reserve of her own.

“Ahh,” said the Revered Mother by way of greeting, “and you must be the visitors who caused Sister Leena such anxiety upon your arrival. I am only sorry I was not there to greet you myself.”

“Your Reverence,” Sebastian said. “I wish this meeting could have happened under better circumstances.”

A shadow passed over the woman’s features. “As do I, Your Highness, as do I. I am afraid… I am afraid the people of Starkhaven have turned away from the Maker in their fear. It bodes ill for all of us.”

“Is it true they’re accusing you of harboring mages?”

The Revered Mother’s eyebrows arched, and Kiara swallowed hard. The woman didn’t even need to _speak_ to make Kiara feel she had, perhaps, spoken out of turn. When the Revered Mother did speak, however, it was not to admonish. “Indeed. We are not, incidentally. If there are mages in Starkhaven, they’re hidden well. This has not been a safe city for mages, not since the Circle burned.”

“Erilynn was Revered Mother then, was she not?” Sebastian asked. “Forgive me. I had not heard she’d passed.”

The Revered Mother inclined her head. “I remember you, Prince Sebastian, but I imagine you do not remember me. I was only a newly raised Sister when you left, and you had not yet learned the value of time spent in the chantry, then. Our paths rarely crossed.”

Sebastian blinked, and Kiara saw the astonishment cross his face as he realized the woman didn’t simply _look_ young, she _was_. “But that… is a remarkable…”

The Revered Mother laughed, and something about the sound made Kiara rest easier. “My name is Illona. And aye, I suppose not many attain the place I have in the time I have done it. The Maker moves mysteriously, and you must admit He sometimes has plans we could never anticipate. I no more thought I would be Revered Mother than you thought you’d be Prince, I daresay. Yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Sebastian agreed quietly, gesturing at the three chairs arranged in a semi-circle by the fireplace. “Won’t you please sit?”

Whatever the Revered Mother had been expecting, if the quick furrowing of her eyebrows and twitch at the corner of her mouth was any indication, a seat by the fire hadn’t been it. She looked between them both for an instant and smiled before turning and gliding across the floor. She chose the center chair and Kiara arched an internal eyebrow. Either it was chance, or the Revered Mother wanted to see what might happen if she and Sebastian were not side by side for this particular interview.

Kiara tried very hard not to think of it as a variation of _divide and conquer_.

As Illona sat, her skirts whispered in a hush of material around her. She folded her hands in her lap and smiled up at Sebastian. “I confess, I’d thought for a moment you planned on speaking to me from behind that monstrosity of a desk.”

Kiara snuck a glance at Sebastian; she could tell he felt vaguely sheepish now, though he was doing an admirable job of hiding it. _He doesn’t want to ask her about the bounty court so he’s trying to butter her up. Maker’s balls, you’re sneakier than I give you credit for sometimes, Sebastian._

“With respect, Your Reverence, conversation across such a surface frequently requires a great deal of shouting.” Kiara even had to commend him on his delivery—respectful without being stuffy or pretentious, with just a hint of humor so he didn’t come off as a pompous ass or a ridiculous clod.

And, Kiara noticed as she took her own seat, the Revered Mother didn’t appear to have been offended by his attempt at humor. So there was that.

“I imagine these walls have seen a great many shouting matches over the years, Your Highness. Wise of you not to rush things in that regard.”

Sebastian froze momentarily as he took his seat, his eyes flicking to Kiara and she saw he was wondering the same thing she was—it was difficult not to hear the hint of something _more_ in the Revered Mother’s words.

But Revered Mother Illona caught the silence and the look and laughed again, shaking her head. “Come now. I hardly think we will make any progress at all if we search for hidden messages in every word. I meant what I said, Your Highness—there will be plenty of time for heated debate later. We need not enter into that brand of discussion on my very first visit.”

Kiara had the distinct feeling she didn’t want to get into a debate with this woman, heated or otherwise.

And she didn’t think it was wise to stop parsing the woman’s words for nuances and hidden messages, just because she told them to.

“Ahh, the Champion of Kirkwall does not trust me,” Illona said. Kiara blinked.

“Kiara Hawke,” Kiara said in response. “This isn’t Kirkwall. And, begging your pardon, Your Reverence, I don’t _know_ you. It seems unwise to trust anyone you don’t know. I… do not mean any offense.”

Illona’s smile faded, turning thoughtful, even as her eyes narrowed. “Then you will not be offended when I say I have little enough reason to trust you, either, Kiara Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. I believe the Grand Cleric knew you _and_ trusted you, and things went rather ill for her.”

Sebastian froze, his jaw clenching, but when he spoke his voice was the same measured, reassuring calm. “Kiara was as grieved by Her Grace’s death—and the manner of it—as any of us, Revered Mother.”

“Nor did I mean to accuse her—”

“Did you not?” Sebastian asked. “Forgive me, Your Reverence, but I do not believe you.”

“Sebastian…”

Sebastian only shook his head, and his expression pled for silence. Kiara bit down on the end of her tongue and watched as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Starkhaven is in danger. The _people_ of Starkhaven are in danger, and right now? The danger appears to be coming from within, rather than without. Kiara might make a convenient target—the pretender certainly thought so—but she is not to blame. I will have that made perfectly clear. Your Reverence.”

“You spent a fair number of years as priest before putting that crown on your head,” Illona said. “And yet it has taken you a week to consult with me. Protocol dictates—”

Sebastian bowed his head. “I know what protocol dictates. And I know I ought to have seen you before this. I was—”

“Distracted?” Illona asked pointedly, her gaze flicking over Kiara so rapidly that she almost thought she’d imagined it.

But whatever she’d thought imagined, Sebastian had seen too. His eyes flashed, his fingers closed into fists, and his tone was one of barely controlled anger. “By any number of things, aye, and most of them more pressing than making sure the Revered Mother knew a new arse sat on the throne of Starkhaven.”

Kiara was watching closely, and so she saw the crack in the surface of the Revered Mother’s implacable calm. She just wasn’t certain if the crack indicated the line between enemy or ally. She feared it was one or the other.

“I thought we’d have time enough for pleasantries and… and _protocol_ when the people we’re meant to be protecting and watching over weren’t burning one another in the streets.”

The silence that followed was vast, and Kiara looked rapidly between Sebastian and the Revered Mother—except he wasn’t just _Sebastian_ anymore. Right now, he was _the prince_ , and everything from the set of his jaw to the tension radiating through his body, to the stubborn tilt of his chin made that entirely clear. Kiara bit her tongue and she realized she’d been holding her breath.

“You are a man with priorities, then.”

“We all have priorities, Your Reverence. Much of the time it comes down to whose priorities align with ours.”

Kiara’s heart pounded in her ears as she watched them. _We need her on our side, Sebastian,_ she thought at him, as loudly as she could.

“And you’re wondering whether our priorities… align, I assume, Your Highness?”

“At the moment, I am hoping they will, Reverence. But I do not, as yet, know for certain.”

The Revered Mother leaned back a little in her chair and cocked her head slightly, her eyes narrowed in what looked more like scrutiny than scorn. “Then perhaps you might tell me what your priorities are?”

Some of the rigidity left Sebastian’s shoulders as he inclined his head at the Revered Mother and said, “I believe I have shared my main priority with you already.”

The look the other woman gave him was utterly inscrutable. “Humor me.”

Sebastian let out a sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. “I want to see the madness in Starkhaven’s streets stop. I want never to hear utterance of another person being burned alive. I want neighbor to stop turning on neighbor. I want people to stop being _afraid._ This is their home—no one should be made to live in fear in their own home. I want to see rule and law and _order_ restored. _Those_ are my priorities, Your Reverence.”

“That is… quite a list,” said the Revered Mother, still watching him closely.

“These burnings must stop,” he replied, and the emotion in his voice, so close to desperation, made his accent all the sharper. “Before anything else is done, _that_ must end.”

Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the flames in the hearth. Illona bowed her head and Kiara narrowed her eyes, looking for any hint that the gesture was affected, but she saw none. When the Revered Mother raised her chin, something of the serene mask had been lowered, and the pain in her eyes was evident.

“Then our priorities most certainly align, Prince Sebastian,” she said, “but I fear you will meet with the same difficulties I have done.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “When the first… rumors reached me, I tried to stamp them out. I did all I could think to do. I sent templars into the streets; I spoke lengthily during services; I had brothers and sisters ministering from dawn until dusk. Then the rumors became murders, and the murderers were so… convinced, and so terrified, they turned even against the Chantry. You… you saw how the chantry sits empty. I have lost one templar to the fires, and half a dozen more have been beaten to within an inch of their lives by mobs in the streets. There… there is no _reason_ to appeal to, and if they will not listen even to the Maker…”

“Money,” Kiara said abruptly. “They may not listen to the Maker or their prince or _reason_ , but they might listen to money.”

The Revered Mother’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, as though Kiara’s words had left a tangible odor she found offensive. “I do not see how.”

“People… like money. They’ll do a great deal for it. I think they might stop _burning_ the mages—the false mages—if they are told a live, unharmed mage will net them gold.”

The wrinkled nose became an expression of complete disgust. “You mean to _bribe_ them?”

Kiara swallowed hard, glancing toward Sebastian. He still looked uneasy, but he nodded. “The promise of gold. For a genuine mage. But… but I think for it to work, we need your help. Everyone knows a templar can detect a mage. People will bring their suspects to the palace. To… to an open court of some kind, expecting to be paid. But the templars will prove the mages are only—only brothers and sisters and neighbors. Those who bring them in will be shamed. I-I think shame may curb some of the fear, and I certainly hope it will throw cold water on the madness that’s been leading to pyres in the street.”

Some of the disgust faded, but Illona still looked thoughtful. “And if they bring you a genuine mage? Your… sympathies are _known_ , Champion. What will you do then?”

Kiara exhaled hard through her nose, pressing her lips together. She’d known a question like this one had to be coming, and she wondered exactly what and how much the Revered Mother knew about her sympathies and how much they’d been… misrepresented. Finally, she shook her head. “I think even a genuine mage would prefer to be brought to the Circle than burned alive.”

Though she knew—she _knew_ —there were those who wouldn’t.

Illona watched her closely, eyes narrowed just a fraction, and Kiara felt the smallest spark of anger. _Let her search my words for a falsehood if she likes,_ she thought. _Given that sort of choice I’d rather see Mely in the Circle than burned at the stake too._

Of course, Kiara’s plan would then include breaking her sister out of said Circle and hightailing it for somewhere safe. She remembered how surprisingly tolerant King Alistair had been regarding the issue of mages when she spoke with him in Kirkwall. But that was a worry born of a hypothetical question, and that sort of thinking would do her no good at all. 

“You realize,” Illona said, “Starkhaven has no Circle to speak of.”

“Then perhaps a genuine mage might simply be remanded into the Chantry’s custody until a more permanent arrangement might be found.”

“Incarceration?” Illona asked. There was the strangest hint of _something_ in her voice and Kiara had only just begun to bristle when she realized the Revered Mother was baiting her.

“No,” Kiara answered evenly, shaking her head. “There is no… no _shame_ in being a Circle mage, but nor should there be shame in wanting to live a life beyond stone walls.” _With your family_. “I have no objection with the _idea_ of the Circle itself, you must understand.” Kiara sent Sebastian a brief glance, only to see he was watching her with such burning intensity that she discovered it was suddenly difficult _not_ to fidget. But his look gave nothing away, and she wasn’t sure if he was pleased, or if she was on the verge of setting off an international incident. 

“But…?” prompted the Revered Mother.

Kiara pursed her lips and thought, wryly, _In for a copper…_ “Neither do I think being a _mage_ is a crime.”

“You do realize, according to Chantry law, being an apostate _is._ ”

“ _If_ a genuine mage is found—which I highly doubt will happen—then offer that mage _sanctuary_ in the chantry. Treating mages like criminals, taking them into custody and incarcerating them—again, assuming a true mage is found—won’t ease people’s fear of mages, Your Reverence. And _fear_ is what we’re trying to combat.”

“And you, Your Highness?” Illona asked. “You condone this plan?”

“Not without reservation,” he replied, “but I value Kiara—Lady Hawke’s opinion, and my Steward believes there is some merit to it.”

“Corwin?”

Sebastian blinked and nodded.

“That was wise of you.”

The Revered Mother rose abruptly, and, as if on strings, Kiara and Sebastian followed suit. Glancing about the room once more, Illona said, “I believe it is a plan worth attempting.” Then her sharp gaze turned once again to Sebastian. “Whatever your reservations, you must set them aside. I… understand the uniqueness of your position, but for all Lady Hawke’s cleverness, this stratagem must seem to have originated with you, and you must support it wholeheartedly.”

Kiara winced. “Or they’ll think I’m trying to—”

Illona nodded firmly. “Aye, that is precisely what they’ll think, Champion.Your name casts a long shadow. I would not see Starkhaven lost to it.”

Bowing her head slightly, Kiara said, “Nor would I, Your Reverence.”

In a gentler tone, Illona added, “I believe your sincerity, Lady Hawke. And it is a good plan. I think it may even stand a chance of working.”

“As long as it’s not tainted by association,” Kiara said bitterly.

Illona’s smile was a sad one, and not without pity. “I see we understand each other. I… must admit I was not expecting to do so.”

Though he said nothing, Kiara could feel the tension radiating off of Sebastian.

But the Revered Mother wasn’t wrong. And he knew it.

And Kiara didn’t want to see _him_ lost to her long shadow, either.

Illona brushed her hands down the front of her robes before clasping them loosely before her. For all her youthfulness, in that instant she looked every inch the Revered Mother, serene and collected and very much aware of her power. Kiara fought down the urge to genuflect. “I will send templars, so you may have them on hand in case word of this… bounty spreads quickly.” Then she looked at Sebastian, and her brow furrowed. “This is a… delicate time for you, Your Highness. You must start as you mean to go on. The precedents you set now will haunt you all your reign.”

Sebastian inclined his head, but Kiara could see his jaw working.

“I do not say these things to cause offense—”

“Then please,” Sebastian replied very, very evenly, “do not say them. I am _aware_.”

“I see that you are. Forgive me, Your Highness.”

“No forgiveness is necessary, Your Reverence. You spoke as you felt you must.”

Kiara felt, just a little, as though she’d missed something. She almost asked, once the Revered Mother had taken her leave, but Sebastian still looked too grim, and he buried himself so completely in his work, she knew he did not wish to speak of it. Very aware of her shadow, Kiara curled into the chair on the opposite side of his desk and read pointless missives until her eyes blurred, and Corwin arrived to inform them it was time to dress for dinner.


	61. Chapter 61

**KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON**

 

The house in Lothering was never quiet.  It was always full of movement and noise and life _—_ Mother, humming as she baked bread; Papa’s deep voice always seeming to carry, regardless of how softly he spoke; Carver’s heavy footsteps — _You sound like a herd of bronto banging about, cub,_ Papa used to say with laughter in his eyes; Amelle and Kiara whispering to each other in the dark of their shared room as beams of moonlight poured through the window, elongating the shadows cast by their cozy, narrow beds.

Whenever Mother hummed, it was always the same tune: a lilting, sweet melody that made Amelle want to sway and twirl, bouncing up on the balls of her feet and down again.  Papa would sweep into the kitchen and catch Mother up in his arms — she always tilted her head back and laughed and said, “Malcolm, _really,_ ” as he pulled her into a waltz around their tiny kitchen. 

First, there was no more dancing, no more deep, rich laughter reaching all the way to the rafters.  Then there were no more heavy, booted footsteps or the clank of Carver’s greatsword in its scabbard.  Now there would be no more music.  No one would hum Mother’s tune again, Amelle knew.  One by one, the Hawke family’s voices had been silenced.  Where there had been five there were now two, and the house wasn’t full of noise or life.  It was full to overflowing with sorrow, loss, and so much grief.

Amelle moved silently about the kitchen, trying hard not to think of _that_ tune, trying not to hear Mother humming it — for she still did, even after Papa’s death, though a sad, melancholy note wove through the melody then.  A song sung for a dance without a partner. Mama never danced again.  

The delicate bone china tea set clinked softly as Amelle measured out the tea with shaking hands, and though she didn’t want it there, she found Mother’s tune lodged too firmly in her head.  Amelle didn’t hum, and she didn’t sway, but it was impossible not to move to the melody haunting her.  As she emptied the final spoonful of tea leaves into the pot, she tapped the spoon against the side in an inadvertent rhythm.

When Amelle realized what she was doing, the spoon dropped with a clatter — too loud, too jarring in the silent house — and the noise was enough to make her flinch.  She gripped the countertop tightly and closed her eyes, every muscle in her body going rigid as she waited for the memory to pass.  Amelle didn’t keep her eyes closed for long, though — she couldn’t anymore; she saw far too much when she closed her eyes, and there were moments—like this one—she was certain she’d never sleep again.  Her mind’s eye was too full of desire demons and Quentin’s madness and Mother’s pale skin, once flawless as porcelain, stitched hideously together, jagged lines marring her slender neck, the clumsily-stitched black thread like a terrible, sawtoothed smile below the face Papa had loved so dearly.

The memory of Papa guiding Mother effortlessly around the kitchen was superimposed with the jerky, uncontrolled movements of the patchwork monstrosity that had worn their mother’s face, and Amelle’s eyes flew open as her stomach clenched and threatened to revolt.  Not that it much mattered — she’d already lost the contents of her stomach several times over tonight.

_Why, Mama?_

But no answer came.  The house was silent.

Amelle’s heart pounded harder and tears stung again at her eyes — they were already reddened and swollen and burning, and Amelle clenched them tightly shut, feeling the drops slide down either cheek.  She breathed — it was important to _breathe,_ the better to control the rogue power bubbling to the surface and swirling hot beneath her skin.  So she counted each breath in and out until her mana settled.

_There.  No burning the house down tonight._

She filled the kettle and flicked her fingers at it, giving that extra power a direction, and within moments steam billowed from the spout and the kettle began whistling merrily.  Too merrily.  Amelle poured the water into the teapot, more to stop that whistling than anything else.

 _Why weren’t you here, Papa?_   _Why didn’t you save her?_

He’d have sensed the magic in Quentin right off, Amelle was certain, and he’d have steered Mother safely to Gamlen’s.

If Papa had been alive, Quentin wouldn’t have looked twice at her.

_His victims are attractive, healthy women with few social ties…_

The china clinked softly as Amelle set the lid on the teapot and paced the length of the kitchen, arms wrapped around her as if warding off a bone-deep chill.  She was shivering, but it wasn’t the slightest bit cold in the kitchen — the fire in the hearth crackled and blazed, orange flames licking upward as they danced upon the logs.  She stepped closer to that heat, still hugging herself, trying to will away the icy chill that lodged itself in her very core.

A log snapped and sent a spiral of sparks upward.

The house was so bloody _quiet._

She stood at the hearth, trying not to see the night’s horrors, trying not to hear Mother’s last words, her voice too raw, too soft, too paper-thin and broken to be hers.  

Carver and Papa, waiting for her on the other side of the Veil.

 _Maker, I hope so_.

“Take care of her, Papa,” Amelle whispered thickly to the roaring fire.  She knew what her father would have said in response, and when she closed her eyes, she nearly heard his deep voice in the crackle of the flames upon the logs.  _You girls only have each other now.  Take care of kit, rabbit. Let her take care of you._

“I’m working on it,” she breathed, turning and picking up the tea-tray on her way upstairs.  Kiara had gone into her room after Gamlen left and hadn’t come out again.  A bad sign. It was too quiet there, too.

Kiara had always been the one who took care of people.  She’d taken charge after their father died — and, oh, Amelle could still remember how that had made Carver chafe.  Kiara was confident, capable, responsible.  Kiara commanded loyalty and respect.  Over the years, Amelle had healed all manner of wounds and injuries in her sister, but this was something she could not heal — it was something she had no idea _how_ to heal.  Amelle wasn’t even sure it was an ache that _could_ be healed.

But tea seemed a good a start as any.

The clock ticked as Amelle climbed the stairway, her slippered feet silent upon the carpeted stairs, hitting each step on either a _tick_ or a _tock_.  Her footfalls made no noise—

_You sound like a herd of bronto banging about, cub._

—but she felt the force of each step shudder up her legs as she climbed to the second floor, to Kiara’s room.

It wasn’t much of a surprise to find the door wide open — Kiara was beyond caring about privacy, and Amelle was almost certain it simply hadn’t occurred to her sister to close the door.  

Hovering in the doorway a moment, suddenly unsure, Amelle watched her sister.  Kiara — usually too full of energy to stand still — did not move, and seemed barely to breathe.  Still dressed in sweaty, blood-streaked leathers, she sat slouched in a chair by the fire, staring into the flames but not _seeing_ them; her face was still, stone-like, revealing no emotion but naked misery that sent a bolt of pain lancing through Amelle’s breast.  Kiara’s hair hung limp, sweat and grime making it darker, the brick-red locks clashing starkly against cheeks too pale beneath smears of blood. Not hers.  Even Kiara’s hands still bore the grisly reminders of that night; her bow, dropped carelessly by her bed, bore dark red handprints where she had gripped the weapon with bloody hands.  

Kiara was filthy, ground down, and clearly exhausted, but her eyes, unlike Amelle’s, were utterly and eerily dry.  That bothered Amelle most of all.  Her sister had not cried.  Why wouldn’t she cry?

Amelle coughed softly and waited for her sister to look up before crossing the threshold into the room.  Kiara moved her head just a fraction, just enough to acknowledge she’d heard Amelle approach.  Kiara looked again when Amelle entered, carrying the tray — looked properly, this time — and in the firelight dry eyes met Amelle’s damp ones for an instant before turning to once again blankly regard the too-hot fire.  

For too long after their father’s death, Amelle had found it impossible to look Kiara in the eye.  Her sister’s eyes — which could change from stormy to silver and back again in less time than it took her to draw a bow — were identical to their father’s.  Whether it had truly been there or not, Amelle had seen judgment in those eyes — condemnation for not reaching Papa soon enough, not being a powerful enough spirit healer to sense whether his spirit was still tethered to this side of the Veil, for not being fast enough, clever enough, or simply _good_ enough to save him.

Neither of them looked much like their mother.  They both had the Amell nose, and Mother’s hair had once been as red as Kiara’s, but the resemblance ended there.  Amelle couldn’t help but feel this was something of a blessing, for she remembered all too keenly how it hurt to see Father’s eyes for so long… after.

Moving quietly about the room, Amelle set down the tea tray and poured her sister a steaming-hot cup of the dark liquid, the scent of it laced with lavender.  She poured a splash of milk and a drop of honey in the cup and then pressed it into her sister’s too-cold hands.  Cold despite the fire.  Cold despite the sheen of sweat covering Kiara’s face, dampening her hair, and darkening her leathers.

“You should try and drink this.”

Kiara looked dully down at the cup.  “I don’t want to.”

“Try, Kiri.  Please.”

Kiara brought the china teacup to her lips as if it weighed more than she could possibly hope to lift, and she drank, closing her eyes. Her expression twisted into something like pain; too hot, perhaps. The water too hot. Unsurprising, really, given how much mana she’d sent its way. Still, after a moment, Kiara took another drink, and though the look of pain did not quite vanish, it lessened.  

Amelle poured herself a cup and knelt upon the floor, slowly, gradually inching closer until she rested her head on her sister’s knee.  The combination of sweat and leather, smoke and blood— _blood magic_ and _necromancy,_ stinking of rot and foulness and bitter-smelling herbs—coming off Kiara made Amelle’s throat tighten as too many memories still tethered too tightly, too closely to those scents, filled her head.  She blinked back the sudden, renewed deluge of tears

Soon, Kiara’s hand came to rest gently against Amelle’s hair, as if her sister needed reassurance that she was still there, that she wasn’t alone in that empty, silent house.  Amelle, too, needed reassurance, though Kiara didn’t know it.  Reassurance that they’d survive this, reassurance that nothing, whether it be time, circumstance, or blighted bad luck would claim another Hawke anytime soon.  

Father.  Carver.  Mother.  Three Hawkes, gone, two remaining.

They two had to remain safe, for they were all that remained.

###

###

###

Cullen found the violets in the garden of Templar Hall, struggling to survive in the shadow of something much larger. He smiled when he saw them, not only because they’d had somehow managed to survive against all odds, but because he knew he could offer them a better home elsewhere. He knew just the windowbox, with just the gardener.

Very carefully, he uprooted a small cluster of the delicate plants, trying not to jostle the dark purple flowers or cut the roots, wrapping it all carefully in a small swath of linen bandage he kept in a pouch on his belt. Amelle would be pleased. Violets had always been plentiful in Ferelden, and she’d been lamenting the lack of Fereldan foliage more and more lately, beginning with, though by no means _ending_ at the hunt for Andraste’s Grace.  Even as he handled the plant, its faint scent brought to mind the way healers at Kinloch Hold had made use of violets for a number of poultices and draughts—he had no doubt Amelle would be able to put them to good use as well.

For a city that had undergone as much madness as Kirkwall had in the past months, it was pulling itself back together admirably.  Or perhaps the attempts to return to normality were indicative of nothing more than stubborn will—it was hard to say.  Templar Hall no longer bustled with rumors and questions and speculation; even Ser Hugh had ceased dropping _hints_ about the Champion’s sister, though Cullen did not think for a second that Hugh had truly forgotten the matter.  It was only temporarily shelved until such time came that the matter could—and likely _would_ —be broached again.  Cullen hoped the younger man hadn’t seen fit to write the letters he himself had invited him to write; for all that Kirkwall was healed, too much was still unsettled and strange, and Cullen was not overly enthused about facing down yet more conflict anytime soon.  Mainly because his priorities and loyalties were in the midst of an uncomfortable shift, and he was stuck trying to maneuver his way around them, like navigating a dark room in which all the furniture had been rearranged.  

The conflict of interest, of course, was Amelle Hawke.  Cullen was intimately acquainted with the perils of befriending a mage, and yet, there Amelle was, growing more and more disconcertingly _friend-like._   He’d told himself, during her recovery, he was only stopping by to see her to make certain such a vast outpouring of magic hadn’t left her altered.  And then, once the clinic was open again, he stopped by because it was his duty as a templar to do so.  And now… well.  Now he was bringing her a medicinal plant.  Offhand, Cullen could think of no official reason for such a visit, which likely meant he was better off not thinking too hard about it.

And yet, it was impossible for him to simply overlook what the three of them had endured, Fenris, Amelle, and himself.  Though it wasn’t anything like friendship between Cullen and the elf, Fenris was significantly less hostile now than before.  They’d appeared to reach some sort of tacit agreement, the two of them, and though Cullen wasn’t entirely sure the details of such an agreement, mutual respect now existed where none had been before.  Perhaps, someday, there might even be camaraderie.  

The whole thing was enough to make Cullen feel almost optimistic, until he remembered concepts like _friendship_ and _camaraderie_ with apostates and those who harbored and protected them wasn’t the done thing when one was a templar.  Less so when one was the acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.

This increasingly unpleasant train of thought was, thankfully, brought to an end when Cullen reached the Hawke estate.  It took longer than usual for Orana to open the door when he knocked, and when she did so, she looked as near to frazzled as he’d ever seen her. Panic welled instantly in his gut, but Orana’s discomfiture faded as she took in his face, replaced by relief. “S-ser,” she stammered, “perhaps you can… she’s so _upset_ , ser.”

His little errand and pleasant thoughts forgotten, Cullen settled the plant in Orana’s hands and entered the house at once. He heard Amelle before he saw her, though her voice was drifting down from the upper levels of the house. “ _Orana!_ Where did you—Maker’s _Breath_ , where did you go?  Where’s my other staff?  I can’t— _Orana!_ ”  

The mabari whined when Cullen approached, pushing his head under Cullen’s hand. Cullen dragged the tips of his fingers through the short fur absentmindedly, but it was enough for the dog, who barked and took a few steps toward the stairs. Then he stopped, gazed at Cullen, and barked again, louder.

Cullen followed, Orana quavering at his heels.

“ _Orana!_ ” Amelle cried—and Cullen found himself taking the stairs two at a time, grateful he’d not worn his full plate, because he’d never heard Amelle’s voice so raw with pain and panic, and he’d certainly had more than one occasion to see her distressed since Hawke left Kirkwall.

He found her in her bedchamber, a staff in each hand and an open pack on her bed. Healing supplies and clothing and no fewer than half a dozen other staffs were scattered on every available surface. She turned when she heard him, and he went cold at the sight of her. She’d been crying—was still crying; her face damp—but if her pallor and the blotches of patchy color on her cheeks were any indication, she’d been weeping a long time. Her eyes were swollen, the green too-bright against the red rims of her eyelids, and her hair stood up, as though she’d pushed her hands through it too many times without brushing it down again.

“Cullen. _Thank the Maker_ ,” she said, dropping both weapons with a clatter and crossing the room at a run to throw her arms around him. Without the barrier his armor would have provided, he could feel the tremors wracking her slender frame. He rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades, but she stepped backward almost at once, her eyes wild. He recognized the crackle around her, the scent of smoking fabric, and he saw the hems of her sleeves were singed. He’d seen enough mages on the brink to know Amelle was standing on it.  He could only imagine what news could so affect her.

“I have to—” Amelle began, but she stopped when Cullen reached out and took her hand, guiding her to the bed. Her knees buckled and she sat heavily, disrupting a pile of bandages. One white roll fell to the ground, unfurling against the rug. 

“You have to take a deep breath and explain what’s going on,” he finished, perching on the edge of the bed beside her. 

Her fingers tightened spasmodically around his, and he felt their supernatural warmth. His own skin tingled with her barely restrained magic. With a sigh, he focused his own will and threads of white light twined around the hand he held, until her skin was the temperature of normal skin and the threat of self-immolation had faded.

Amelle did not pull her hand away. If anything, she held tighter to him, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hardly louder than a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Amelle,” he pleaded. “ _Tell_ me.”

“I-I got another letter. From Starkhaven.”

When she said no more, he asked, “From your sister?” even though he feared he already knew what her answer would be.

“No,” she said. “From my sister’s healer.” Her breath caught on the inhale, and before she could rise again, he squeezed her hand. Her exhale was shaky, but she remained at his side. He wasn’t certain if it was the lingering affects of his cleanse, or if she’d managed to regain control of herself, but no twinge of magic sparked now. “Apparently… apparently Kiara was… injured. Was poisoned. She was given an antidote, but still…” Again she took in a deep breath and released it slowly, and when she continued, her voice was a little stronger, a little less hysterical. “The healer is concerned Kiara may have… spent too much time in the Fade.” Finally she looked up at him again, and he would have given anything to banish the torment from her eyes. “She said—the words she said—she thinks maybe Kiara came back… _wrong._ That’s what she said. _Wrong._ Tell me…” Amelle swallowed hard in an obvious attempt to compose herself, but when she spoke again, her voice remained tremulous and frayed with worry. “Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means, Cullen.”

He wanted to reassure her, but a shudder of memory tore through him, visions of abominations he recognized by their robes and not their faces— _begone, demon._ He asked, “The healer. Is she a mage?”

Amelle shook her head. “From what I gather, mages have been hard to come by in Starkhaven since its Circle fell.”

He paused, thoughtful. “So she may not be as certain as a mage would be. Perhaps your sister was only disoriented.”

“Why hasn’t _she_ written, then? It’s not like Kiara to… Cullen, it’s been so _long_ since I heard from her.  Only one letter when she first arrived?  That’s—even if we argued before she left, even if—that’s still not like her.”

He grimaced. Hawke was perhaps not the best or most frequent correspondent, true, but she wouldn’t let Amelle _worry_. Reluctantly he said, “Starkhaven’s Chantry still has templars assigned to it. You should—”

“I know,” she interrupted, her free hand twitching as if to dismiss his words the way she’d dismiss an irritating insect. “I wrote at once, and sent my reply with the courier who brought it. I told the healer to keep Kiara under templar watch, but…”

“It is… highly unlikely your sister could be influenced in that way, Amelle.”

Again she shook her head. “You mean, you _don’t_ think my sister is an abomination waiting to emerge at the slightest provocation?”

“Amelle…”

Her voice grew higher, more strangled.  “An abomination who would have to be put down like a rabid dog?”

“Amelle.”

“She said _wrong_ , Cullen. _Wrong!_ So… so I have to go. I have to… I know there’s nothing to be done, if she truly… but I have to go. You know I do.”

“Of… course,” he said slowly. “Is that where Fenris is? Booking passage on a ship?”

Amelle’s expression froze and she went suddenly pale, leaving only two high points of color on her cheeks. “Fenris,” she echoed, breathing a short bark of a laugh—if it even could have been called a laugh—and shook her head, her expression going from sorrowful to stern as she straightened her shoulders. “No, Fenris is not booking passage on a ship. I am going overland; it is faster. And I’m going alone.”

“No,” he replied instantly—less as a command and more as an exclamation of absolute incredulity. Amelle glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the mess the tears had made of her face; she looked too tragic for anger. She also looked determined, and again Cullen felt the coldness of dread wash over him.

“You will have to smite me from here to the Void to stop me, Knight-Commander, and I still won’t go easily.”

“That’s not what I—Amelle, please. I understand your needing to go, but you mustn’t go alone.”

“Fenris isn’t coming,” she said tiredly, tugging her hand from his at last, and rising to begin stuffing her belongings into her pack. 

Cullen frowned, confused. “He’s not concerned about Hawke? That doesn’t sound like him. Even apart from—”

Amelle grimaced, but ignored him, interrupting with, “Fenris doesn’t know, and I’m not going to tell him. Aveline has a city to keep safe. And you… I know my sister asked you to watch me, but leaving Kirkwall puts me rather far from your jurisdiction. Consider yourself relieved of duty. I will answer for it, if she’s…”

“No,” he repeated, and this time it was not only distress that bade him speak. “ _Think_ , Amelle. No one doubts your love for your sister or your formidability, but you are not indestructible. What if you meet a templar on the road? Do you think he will pause and let you explain you had no hand in the destruction of Kirkwall’s chantry? You _cannot_ go alone.”

“What,” she scoffed. “Should I take Merrill? Orana?”

“I will accompany you.” _Maker preserve me._

For several moments she simply stared at him, mouth agape and expression dumbfounded. “You will—you _can’t_ , Cullen. You’re the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall! A day trip to the Wounded Coast is one thing, but this… this is a month or more.”

Even as he spoke, he knew he was setting a logistical nightmare into motion. She was not wrong, of course, but… Kirkwall had many templars, and even a few he trusted, Maker be praised. Amelle had only him if, for some inexplicable reason, she refused to involve Fenris. “Acting,” he reminded her. “It is only a matter of making someone _else_ acting Knight-Commander. No one has been named to the post yet, not officially.”

If she’d had color in her face to lose, he felt certain she’d have lost it. As it was, her paleness took on a greyish tinge and she shook her head slowly. “This… this goes above and beyond the call of—”

“Please don’t say _duty_. I consider you… you are a friend.” Not until he’d said the words did he realize the truth of them. “What… what friend would do less?”

Tears welled in her eyes the moment before she raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Cullen, I…”

“Have packing to do, it would seem. As do I. I know time is of the essence.” He gave her a strained, calculating look. “You’ll wait? Or _do_ I need to smite you from here to the Void?”

She didn’t quite smile. “You have an hour. I need to hunt down horses, yet.”

He saluted and turned for the door, but before he could leave her, she reached out and grabbed his hand. When he stopped, expecting to face her indecision or outright dismissal, she instead embraced him tightly. She still trembled, though not quite so powerfully, and the crackle of rogue power had not returned. With her face pressed against him, her voice was muffled. “Thank you,” she said. “After—I just—thank you.”

He squeezed her back, though without the same bone-crushing fervor. “You know your sister,” he said gently. “She would tell you not to give up on her quite yet. She would probably say it with a smirk, or just before asking an impossible favor, but she’d say it. In this case, I advise you listen. Her reasoning is usually sound.”

Amelle snorted against him.

“If you ever tell her I said so, I will deny it entirely,” he added with more lightness than he felt. Already he was trying to shift rosters and plan promotions. “And I will smite you for good measure. When she’s not looking.”

She didn’t laugh, but the ghost of a smile was enough.

#

It had been easy—perhaps alarmingly so—for Fenris to remain in the mansion for days on end.  Though he had not spent an abundance of time there as of late, whenever he _did,_ Orana never let him leave the Hawke estate without a basket or bundle of something edible.  Generally he’d tried to refuse, but the maid always insisted she’d made too much and it would go uneaten otherwise.  As such, he had food in what passed for a kitchen, he had water and, of course, he had wine—he needed little else—and so Fenris elected to remain among the shadows of Danarius’ mansion, and the shadows of his own memories.

The shock had worn off, leaving him with no choice but to face his memories, to close his eyes and relive the many lost moments. At times they were so great in number they crowded in his mind, overwhelming him, too many to count.  Occasionally, Fenris felt certain some ought to have belonged to someone else.  But he knew—he _knew_ beyond a shadow of all doubt they were his own, every last one of them.

Fenris did not have a poor memory. He recalled the night he first met Hawke in exquisite detail: the scent of woodsmoke lingering on the chilled night air and the rustle of the wind moving the limbs and leaves of the great tree in the alienage.  The taste of anger upon his palate, bitter and hot, descending on him the moment he’d discovered one of her companions—her _sister_ —was a mage.  Months stretching into years of vigilance as he waited for the mages in Hawke’s company to ruin them all.  He’d watched Amelle Hawke closest of all, for of all Hawke’s companions, Fenris was certain it would be her sister she was blind to.  And in his vigilance he watched her fight enemies and heal allies, sometimes doing one within a scant breath of the other.  He knew the first moment he’d caught himself _admiring_ her control—a night when, surrounded by Qunari intent on Kirkwall’s destruction, Amelle had summoned twin storms of fire and lightning, felling enemies and scorching stones, but leaving the rest of them virtually untouched.  It hadn’t seemed possible at the time—both her control and the fact he’d been _admiring_ it.

That memory and other, more distant ones—distant and old, and yet _new_ and vivid—battled in his head for dominance.  He remembered clearly, painfully, the love he’d felt for Liaria.  Fenris had loved her dearly and openly and without fear; he’d intended to spend the rest of his days by her side—and in the end she had betrayed him, and he her.  As testament to that betrayal, he could still hear the crack of her spine echoing through his skull, could very nearly feel the pommel of his greatsword in his hands as she flung herself unwittingly against his blade.  Sense-memory mocked him with the remembered sensation of her body pushing against the blade, followed by resistance, his own muscles tensing, a snap traveling up his arms and through his heart _,_ echoing through his head forever, and then the smooth ease of a blade moving through a body with nothing left to stop it. 

He remembered Danarius’ mocking laughter, his unmitigated glee at the drama unfolding before his eyes.

Such recollections were painfully fresh—the last night he’d spent in Liaria’s arms rose traitorously in his mind, mocking him, haunting him as thoroughly as any shade.  But then, almost before he fully realized it, other memories surfaced, rising like the dawn and filling every corner of his mind, casting every shadow into light: the memory of a sudden impassioned embrace against a bedchamber door; of a touch so gentle it hurt in a way Fenris was unused to hurting; of the fear he’d felt, carrying a limp, magic-spent form through dank tunnels up to the light of day; of the hours spent afterward by a bedside, certain his misguided attempt to help had instead rendered that pale, still form Tranquil, that her smiles were forever lost to him; of the blinding relief that had flooded him when he discovered she was as whole as she’d ever been.  These memories dimmed those of Liaria’s caresses, her lips against his throat, her false whispers pouring like poison into his ear.

As much as the memory stung, the worst ache came when he closed his eyes and saw Amelle’s face, her shock when he pushed her away, her pain when he staggered back, away from her, wanting nothing more than to put miles, cities, _worlds_ between them.  He could not bear her touch; he could not stand to let those memories mix with others, could not let the phantom of Liaria’s face contaminate the memory of Amelle’s gentle touch, of the smell of her, the taste of her, the very thought of her.

So he ran.  Ran like he’d grown so used to doing.  He ran from Amelle—and now he had the memory of that, too.  And, oh, how it stung _._  

His disgust with himself boundless, Fenris tried to lose himself in the oblivion of drink, but alcohol only numbed things temporarily, and the ache was worse—far worse—when intoxication faded into sobriety and, inevitably, regret.  Disgust and regret conspired to weigh him down even now as he rolled over in his rumpled bed with its sweat-sour linens, pressing his face into his pillow and wishing desperately for just one more bottle of _something_ to dim his thoughts and dull his pain.  But it was not to be — Fenris had consumed or shattered every last bottle of wine at his disposal.  He was left with nothing but sunlight filtering in through tattered drapes, and a pounding headache.  And his memories.

Strangely, despite the headache—or because of it—Fenris remembered his sister now, clearer than ever.  The echoes of their mingling cries of happiness and laughter as they’d played in the courtyard while their mother worked, the way he’d chased her, pulling at the long red braids she’d favored at the time—loving her as only an elder brother could love a younger sister. Affection tempered with exasperation. He remembered that, too. He’d seen it between Hawke and Amelle often enough, without realizing their relationship reminded him of the one he’d long since lost.

Fenris also remembered the day Varania’s magic first showed itself—she barely seven, and he only a few years older.  He’d been in awe at the ice shards she’d showed him, of the frost she’d conjured on an oppressively hot day.  Soon enough his awe had been replaced by the knowledge that he had to be something unique, too, or else be lost in a sea of mediocrity.  He had to work to make himself _special._   It was such a strange collection of different reflections—his decision to fight in the arena exhibitions, how badly he wanted to be as _special_ as his sister, how strongly he’d wanted to prove that to his his parents—who’d never needed any convincing—and to himself, who would never believe it anyway.  Of course he’d been far too young to see his parents had not cared which of their children had magic and which did not.  And then it had been too late—his father dead and Fenris—no, _Leto_ —the man of the family before he’d been a man at all.

He’d failed them.  He’d failed them all, betrayed them all in one way or another.  His pride had hidden nothing but hypocrisy.  His own father a mage, and Fenris— _Leto_ —yearning to be as exceptional as his sister, without realizing none of it had been necessary _._ He’d failed or betrayed any who had showed him kindness throughout his life: his mother, Liaria, the Fog Warriors—even Hawke he’d unwittingly betrayed to a demon of the Fade.  Amelle was just another in an already too-long line of betrayals.

Fenris’ thoughts returned to Amelle.  He would have to face her at some point. He knew it.  The realization brought an entirely new wave of contempt, one that taunted and mocked the way he’d run from her, the way he’d hidden himself away to lick his wounds—to _brood_ , Varric would have said—and it was enough to pull him out of bed and unsteadily to his feet.  His head pounded and his stomach roiled, but he was upright.  And in dire need of a bath.  

Several hours later, mostly spent with sword in hand, training as he stretched his muscles and fought invisible foes, Fenris had scrubbed the sweat and stink from his body and eaten a stale bun and a bit of fruit.  He hardly felt fortified, for his mind still swum with images and memories all trying to find their place and establish priority amongst themselves.  But he was well enough to speak with Amelle and excuse himself from her company for the… foreseeable future, bracing himself for the scorn he knew he deserved.

But upon opening his front door, a folded and sealed piece of parchment fluttered and fell to his feet.  Someone had lodged it in between the door and the jamb, and as Fenris crouched to retrieve it, he saw what he recognized as his name scrawled on the front.  He frowned at the writing—the first letter was legible enough, but the rest was scrawled in such tiny, cramped writing reading was nigh impossible.  Turning it over in his hands, a circle of wax revealed the templar seal, and without hesitation, Fenris pulled open the note to find yet more illegible words.  Swearing under his breath, Fenris frowned, but even mustering all his concentration, he found himself able to identify only four words in the short missive:  _Amelle,_ _gone, Starkhaven_ and at the bottom of it all, the Knight-Commander’s signature.

Cursing again and slamming the door behind him, he turned rapid steps toward Lowtown and the alienage.  

Fenris had very little use for Merrill under ordinary circumstances, but perhaps this would be one instance when the Dalish mage might manage to prove herself useful.  He dearly hoped so.


	62. Chapter 62

It was raining. 

Not just drizzling, but _pouring_ , which rather changed Kiara’s intended plans for the morning. Archery practice was all well and good, but when one was already skilled enough to make the kinds of shots she’d made in her little competition with Sebastian, one no longer had to suffer long hours of practice in the driving rain. So when Tasia asked her plans for the day, Kiara sighed and said she intended to spend the morning in the library, before joining the prince and his steward in the afternoon.

Tasia’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, my lady,” she said sweetly—too sweetly, “but did you not tell me much the same thing the day before yesterday?”

Kiara huffed a laugh, even as she glared out at the sheets of water cascading from the sky. “I swear I truly intend to spend the morning reading about Starkhaven history today, Tasia. The Steward has me… helping with some correspondence, and I find myself woefully uneducated.” She shrugged, and gestured toward the window and its dreary vista. “Would _you_ want to brave that, if it wasn’t absolutely necessary?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t, my lady,” Tasia replied, already rustling through the wardrobes in search of whatever garment fit her idea of _library gown_. “But then, you do all _sorts_ of things I would never do. I’ve learned not to assume.”

Kiara watched as Tasia held several dresses up, and then just as swiftly discarded them again. She almost asked what criteria the maid was judging them on, but didn’t want a lesson in sartorial suitability. When she tried to remember the simplicity of her life in Kirkwall—wake up, clothes on, tea and a sweet bun—she found the memory already growing dim.

“That one’s… pretty,” Kiara offered lamely as Tasia pulled a froth of pale green from the wardrobe. 

Tasia wrinkled her nose. “And it would wrinkle like mad if you spent the morning doing nothing but _sitting_ in it. No. The color’s right, though.”

Several minutes later, Tasia chose a gown and for the life of her, Kiara could never have explained _how_ it was in any way different than the earlier green dress. She held her tongue, and allowed herself to be manhandled into the garment. It wasn’t until she was almost finished putting the final touches on Kiara’s hair that Tasia’s expression darkened and her hands stilled.

Confused, Kiara turned in her chair and asked, “Something the matter, Tasia?”

“My lady, I…”

Confusion shifted slightly toward dismay. It was so unusual to see Tasia less than cheerful. “Tasia?”

The maid shook herself briefly, and smiled, but the smile was as forced as anything Kiara had ever seen. It was so strained it was almost a grimace. “Nothing, my lady. I pinned your hair wrong. That’s all. It’s last season’s style. Forgive me.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows. “Tasia. Just now you looked a little as though someone killed your puppy in front of your eyes. You can… whatever’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

Tasia ducked her head, and a faint flush spread over her cheeks. “Forgive me, my lady, I shouldn’t have… I was only wondering something it wasn’t my business to wonder.”

“Something miserable?”

The maid shrugged one shoulder, gaze still firmly on the floor. “How… how long have you known Prince Sebastian?”

Kiara chuckled, sitting back a little in her chair. “Goodness, is that all? I met him almost seven years ago, I suppose, give or take. I, uh… do you honestly not know this part?”

Tasia raised her eyes only briefly enough to give her head a weak shake in the negative.

“He wanted help finding the people who’d murdered his family.”

“Finding?” Tasia asked.

“Killing,” Kiara amended.

Tasia grew very still. “And that was you?”

“That was me. We weren’t… I didn’t actually get to know him until three years ago, though, really. We’ve been… friends since then.” She smiled ruefully. “For the most part.”

Tasia lifted an errant strand, twisted it around her fingers, and pinned it to Kiara’s head. Her fingers trembled, but before Kiara could ask her—again—what was wrong, Tasia asked softly, “Is he… does he… my lady, will he be a good prince?”

“Of course,” Kiara replied instantly and without hesitation. This time she did not merely turn in her seat; she rose and took Tasia’s hands in hers. Still the maid did not look up from the floor. “Why do you—?”

“It’s only we’ve had so many years of… of _bad_ princes, my lady. And I hear—I know it’s only gossip, and of course all the servants are happy enough to spread whatever they hear, lies or truth, but…” Tasia finally, _finally_ looked up, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. Kiara, startled, squeezed the young woman’s hands even tighter.

“ _Maker,_ Tasia! What is it? Are there rumors about Sebastian? About me?”

Tasia gave a weak, watery smile. “Of course, Lady Kiara. Plenty. But it’s not… have you met Lady Serie?”

Kiara blinked at the non-sequitur. “Um. I don’t think so?”

“You’d… you’d know if you had. She’s very pretty. Her mother is… elegant. And ambitious.”

Kiara frowned, turning possibilities over in her head. “You think she’s plotting against Sebastian?”

“Not… as such, my lady. I only… wanted to make you aware of their existence. I do not think they would do physical _harm_ , but… well, I think Lady Aileene does not… approve of your presence here.”

“Surely she’s not the only one.”

Tasia looked a little as though she wanted to say more, but instead she pulled her hands from Kiara’s grip and brushed them briskly against her skirts. “She’s just ambitious,” Tasia repeated slowly. “And she has a beautiful daughter. And she doesn’t _like_ you.”

“Thank you. For the, uh, warning.”

Tasia only shook her head again, and silently finished styling Kiara’s hair.

#

Starkhaven history was dry. 

Kiara supposed _all_ history was a bit dry once all the life was stolen from it and it was written down in the plainest, dullest language possible. Still. When she realized she was flipping pages without even _pretending_ to read the words on them, she closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

Wandering past the shelves, more to stretch her legs than because she was looking for more books, she wondered absently how many of Sebastian’s spies were scattered about, without her knowledge. She wondered how many plots had been foiled.

She wondered if she’d ever stop wondering about such things, and what it would mean if she _did_. She’d grown rather too quickly accustomed to things like library gowns and maids and impossible hairstyles. It still gave her pause when Ser Kinnon or Ser Maisie or one of her other guardian knights fell in step behind her, but she no longer questioned the necessity. Visible guards and invisible ones. She glanced up to find Ser Maisie the usual distance away, watching without giving the impression of watching. Kiara knew her sharp gaze missed nothing. As if sensing Kiara’s thoughts, Maisie dipped her head in acknowledgement. Kiara returned the gesture and turned back to the bookshelves. Nothing jumped out at her. Literally or figuratively.

Shaking her head, she returned to her plush chair near the fire, only to find the seat opposite had been taken. Smiling in a manner she hoped looked welcoming instead of annoyed, Kiara lifted the next book from her pile. Two sentences in, she knew it was just as dry as the previous one, and she grimaced.

“The volume on the bottom is your best bet,” the newcomer offered.

Kiara blinked at her. She was a handsome woman, who either knew her assets and dressed accordingly, or who employed a lady’s maid nearly as talented as Tasia. Not a hair on her head was out of place, and though she was likely old enough to be Kiara’s mother, clever cosmetics took ten years from her age.

“If you’re looking for a book on Starkhaven history that won’t put you to sleep, that is. Try the volume on the bottom, there. The one by Garel Dannic.”

With a slightly warmer smile, Kiara said, “Thank you.”

The woman nodded, and returned to her own book. Just as Kiara was opening the Dannic book, the woman added, “It is no simple thing, trying to understand a world you weren’t born to.”

Kiara settled the book on her lap, and felt her smile turn brittle. Something about the woman’s tone spoke of something… deeper than merely attempting to understand foreign politics. “I’m sorry?”

The older woman’s face gave nothing away, but her words, when she spoke, were undeniably cool. “You don’t belong here.”

“I’m _sorry_?” Kiara repeated.

A faint, cruel smile pulled at the woman’s lips. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Then we are understood.”

“I don’t think we are. I’ve never even _met_ you, and I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about. The prince himself has welcomed me—”

“Don’t be insufferable. Everyone knows _why_ you’re here, my _lady_. And I am just the one who’s decided to inform you it will not happen.”

Kiara’s eyes darted around, once more scanning for the Prince’s Eyes, but this time because she had the oddest feeling she might _need_ them. Maisie took a step closer, but Kiara shook her head slightly. The noblewoman sitting opposite her wasn’t overtly threatening, but her eyes were too sharp, and her expression too calculating. Something about her made Kiara’s bones ache, and set her teeth on edge. 

Instead of replying or reaching for the knife hidden in her skirts, Kiara opened the book and attempted to read the first paragraph. It was, in fact, just as dry as the others. It began with a dull description of the Vael family tree—births, deaths, marriages—which was engaging only because Kiara recognized some of the later names. She was about to look for evidence of Morven’s family when she was interrupted again.

“Interesting reading, don’t you think?”

“Not particularly,” Kiara snapped, flipping the book shut and tossing it onto the top of the abandoned pile.

The woman leaned forward, her green eyes narrowed. “This isn’t Kirkwall. You’re no Champion here. Perhaps playing the man with your weapons and your brashness served you there, but you’ll always be an outsider in Starkhaven. Always. You don’t belong here. You never will.”

“Who do you—?”

The woman continued as though Kiara hadn’t spoken. “Oh, you’re pretty enough, and I suppose all your… activity has made you lithe, if nothing else, but you’re so _clearly_ out of your league. You’re certainly no match for me.” 

Kiara’s eyes widened in a sort of horrified bewilderment. “Well, you’re just thirteen kinds of crazy, aren’t you?” Kiara rose to her feet. “If it’s all the same to you, I think maybe we’ve had quite enough conversation for today, Lady…?”

The older woman unfolded herself gracefully and rose to her feet; she was an inch taller even than Kiara, who was used to being the tallest woman in a room, and it was just enough height to let her look imperiously down her nose as she smiled. “You’re quite right.”

She took three steps before Kiara called out, “Are you a coward?”

The woman turned her head, sneering over her shoulder. “Hardly.”

“But you won’t name yourself?”

“Who are you to demand such attention from me?” The woman lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “You are no one, and I am the matriarch of one of Starkhaven’s first families.”

Kiara swallowed, struggling to rein in her frustration. “Did you miss the part where Sebastian said to insult me is to insult him? I’m fairly certain he wasn’t just making idle conversation.”

The woman laughed, sending a shiver down Kiara’s spine. Something about that laugh spoke of victory, and the woman’s expression was shrewd. “And are you a child, then, still hiding in your nursemaid’s skirts, unwilling or unable to speak for herself, to fight her own battles? Answer me this, foolish girl: what can you offer? Wealth? Prestige? You have nothing but a tarnished name hardly clinging to its vestiges of nobility. To say nothing of your other murderous, disgraced moniker. _Hawke_. How… very common.”

Part of her wanted to draw her slim blade, to shout at the woman to cease her… words. But the greater, wiser part kept Kiara’s hands still at her sides. Words. She didn’t know how to fight a battle like this one. The lines were unclear, and the method of attack too… personal. Especially coming from a complete _stranger_. A palace library was not a training yard or a slaver’s den or a cave filled with giant spiders, and Kiara was horrified to realize the woman spoke the truth… she _was_ out of her league. She wasn’t _used_ to not having words. Several retorts died on her tongue before she could speak them; she knew this woman would be unmoved by threats, and would find sarcasm puerile.

It wasn’t so much the words, Kiara realized: it was the _disrespect_. She wasn’t used to being spoken to as an inferior. It had been a long time since those first days in Kirkwall, and the mantle of Champion had made inferiority and contempt things of the past.

When she was armed, at least.

Still, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“You are a brave little soldier,” the woman remarked. “I will grant you that. But you are no princess, not for all your borrowed finery and high connections. Good day, Kiara Hawke.”

It seemed hypocritical to insist on a title she’d never insisted upon before, but _this woman_ choosing to leave off the ‘Lady’ honorific was both deliberate and offensive. Kiara’s tongue darted out to moisten dry lips, but by the time she thought to speak, the woman was gone, her words echoing in the silence of the library.

“Who was that?” she asked Ser Maisie, once she found her voice again. “Who was that woman?”

“Lady Aileene Caddell, my lady.” Maisie’s expression turned sour. “And she ought not to have spoken to you in such a way. Not after the Prince’s—”

“Mmm,” Kiara said. “I—sorry, you don’t mind leaving this with me, do you? I’d rather not drag Sebastian into something like this if it’s not necessary.”

Maisie gave her a calculating look, and Kiara wasn’t sure if respect or disappointment drove the expression. After a moment, the knight gave a brief salute. “As you wish, Lady Kiara.”

“Maker’s breath, Tasia,” Kiara groaned under her breath, sinking back into her chair and retrieving one of the dull tomes she’d cast aside. “Saying she doesn’t _like_ me may win for understatement of the year.”

She thought she heard Maisie chuckle, but when she glanced over her shoulder, the guard’s face was as watchful and impassive as ever.

#

Much as she wanted to shrug the encounter off entirely, as the day wore on Kiara found her thoughts returning again and again to Lady Aileene Caddell’s barbed words. It was not unlike scratching an already inflamed insect bite. Each time she remembered _you do not belong here_ , the ache grew ten-fold. She was annoyed by how much the words troubled her, and the annoyance annoyed her _even more_. She was no stranger to feeling out of place, after all, but somehow everything around her—the finery, the servants, even the smiling prince on the other side of the desk—seemed to magnify her deficiencies.

Finally, it was the Steward who said softly, “My lady? You seem… preoccupied.”

Kiara glanced down at the missive she was meant to be reading, and realized she’d been worrying the edges of the paper ragged. Startled, she dropped it, and folded her hands in her lap. “It’s the… rain,” she lied. “Too much energy. Didn’t get a chance to work it out in the practice yard this morning.”

Corwin looked very much as though he didn’t believe her. Bending at the waist, he retrieved the fallen letter and set it back on the desk. Before he could cast his sympathetic gaze her way—somehow sympathy seemed even more upsetting—Kiara reached for another stack of correspondence. 

“Ah, my lady—”

But she saw straight away what they were: lists of attributes and dowries and accomplishments. Each was from a Lady discussing the merits of her marriageable daughters. The letter on the very top of the stack was from Lady Aileene Caddell, speaking of her daughter, Serie (riding, singing, drawing, dancing said the list; Kiara had to wonder if the woman knew _anything at all_ about what Sebastian valued).

Sebastian finished whatever he’d been working on, glancing up at Corwin’s concerned tone. Kiara flushed, turning away from his guileless gaze. _Of course_ , she thought. _He is prince now. Of course._ “Kiara?” he asked. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she said, calmly setting the papers back on the desk and rising in the same motion. She was grateful her heavy skirts hid her trembling knees. “I think maybe I’ll get some air after all. A little rain never hurt anyone.”

“I’ll join you—”

“No, thank you,” she interrupted. Hurt warred with concern on Sebastian’s face, and because she could stand neither, she only looked away. Swallowing past the knot of perplexing emotion in her throat, she forced her lips to smile and her shoulders to shrug. “You know me, Sebastian. I never did take well to being cooped up indoors.”

“Kiara,” he said, “if this is about the other night…”

It wasn’t, but since it was a very good excuse for her behavior—far better than the real source of her dismay, in any case—she only waved her hand and scowled as though she were still angry about his reaction to her leaving the palace without his permission. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just… need some air. Alone. Please.”

She turned in time to see Sebastian, stung, sit back heavily in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingertips and shook his head. “If you’re certain…”

The Steward was not quite so easy to fool. His hazel eyes watched her carefully, darting to the pile of papers she’d been looking at. Meeting those eyes, she shook her head once, firmly. Corwin inclined his head, but not before she saw the disappointed twist of his lips. She felt her shoulders hunch forward, just a little. No matter. Let the Steward be the latest to be disappointed with her; she was growing all too certain he would not be the last.

#

The fresh air didn’t help.

Kiara stalked through the gardens, feet slipping in the mud, until her dress was soaked through, but still she felt the tight coil of disgust burning in her belly. Amelle would tell her she was feeling sorry for herself, and would likely refuse to heal the headache and the chill that came of walking outdoors without proper garments. 

Kiara was, of course, alone. She wished for her bow, but she’d left it in her chambers. She was relatively certain even _that_ activity wouldn’t clear her mind.

“Oh, Mely,” she said aloud into the silent gardens. “I’m acting like an idiot, aren’t I?”

The rain didn’t answer, but Kiara knew her sister would have looked at her, arched an eyebrow at the sodden gown, and replied _yes, yes you are_ without reservation. Then Amelle would have hugged her.

Kiara missed her sister’s hugs. She even missed her sister’s arched eyebrows and wry remarks, but mostly she just… missed Amelle. It occurred to her that this was the longest they’d ever been apart. “It hasn’t been a week,” she told the rain. “The courier’s probably only halfway to Kirkwall.”

Patience, she mused, had never been much of a virtue.

Kiara sat in the rain until the light began to shift from a pale grey to a darker one. Tasia was going to have a fit. Scrubbing the backs of her hands over her cheeks, Kiara rose and walked back through the gloaming. In the palace the hallways were quiet, with most of the nobility in their chambers dressing for dinner. Kiara was glad of it. Her sodden skirts left a damp trail on the stones, and the few servants she passed gasped before hiding their shocked expressions behind their hands. Kiara opened her mouth to apologize—her foolishness would mean extra work for them—but their embarrassment kept her silent.

Alarmingly, Tasia said nothing when Kiara entered. The maid went a little pale, and then immediately began hustling Kiara through her evening preparations.

“Tasia,” Kiara pleaded, “perhaps I might stay—”

“No!” Tasia snapped, and Kiara stiffened at the young woman’s tone. “Hiding from them lets them win. Don’t you see? You’re playing into her hands. I _warned_ you, my lady.”

“Do I want to know how you know about my sparring match with Lady Aileene?”

Tasia lifted the damp tendrils of Kiara’s hair and blew out a disgusted sigh before coiling the lot into a simple chignon and accenting it with jeweled pins. “I know because I know. I know because everyone is gossiping. Yesterday you were the heroine who playfully dueled the prince. Today you’re carpet beneath Lady Aileene’s fashionably-heeled foot. _That_ is how gossip works, my lady. And that is how quickly fortunes can change because of it.”

“I’m not hiding.”

Tasia closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “You are. And you’re lying about it. Whatever she said to you, it was calculated to make you… feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t true.”

Kiara twisted her hands together in her lap. “But it was, Tasia. I _don’t_ belong here. I _am_ out of my element.”

“The prince says you belong, so you belong. _He_ wants you here, so you’ll stay. Nothing Lady Aileene says or does will change that.”

Kiara allowed herself a brief, painful moment to contemplate how things would change once Sebastian chose a… chose someone from the pile of possibilities sitting on his desk. Perhaps he already had, and simply hadn’t told her. He… he probably thought she wouldn’t approve.

She didn’t. Though it certainly wasn’t because of the vows he was going to have to break.

“You don’t understand, Tasia,” Kiara said softly. “You only… you only know this.” With a sweeping gesture, Kiara encompassed the dress and the shoes and the hair. “And it’s not _real_. Not for me. This is me playing dress-up. It’s not who I _am._ I might have a noble name—one of my names is noble, anyway—but I don’t live in this world. I never really have. I’m not soft and sweet and lovely. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, I’ve never attempted to draw anything in my life, and no one would ever list my dancing as an accomplishment. My hands are calloused because I _use_ them, and I’m not used to playing cruel little games with words. I don’t _fit_ here.”

Perhaps it was only that Kiara had spent the better part of her afternoon thinking about her sister, but when Tasia crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out her chin, there was something very… Amelleish about the stubbornness of the gesture. It made her want to laugh and cry all at the same time. “You may have calloused hands, and maybe you don’t simper and smirk and gossip like the rest of them, but you’re worth twenty of Lady Aileene, and fifty of her daughter.” Tasia’s brow furrowed and she hesitated before adding, “With respect, my lady? The only thing that doesn’t belong here is your self-deprecation. It is unbecoming, and I don’t think it’s part of who you are any more than… than the playing dress-up is.”

In an almost violent gesture, Tasia brushed her hands along the front of her skirt, as though in an attempt to banish nonexistent wrinkles. Then she nodded once, definitively, and said, “You are going to be late for dinner if you don’t go down now. Hold your head high, my lady. You may not be like them, but they’re not like _you_ , either.”

Kiara managed to hold her head high at first. It was hard not to notice, however, that whoever controlled the seating arrangements had managed to maneuver her even _farther_ away from Sebastian once again. He looked away from the pretty brunette who was to serve as his dining companion and smiled at Kiara when she entered. Kiara tried to smile back, but found she couldn’t. Instead she tilted her head and offered a brief wave before stalking down the table to the seat bearing her name on a place-card. _Her_ dining companions consisted of a man old enough to be her grandfather who, evidently, was nearly blind and almost certainly deaf, and a wide-eyed young lordling who _might_ have been sixteen if one squinted hard and rounded his age up.

“My lady,” breathed the boy, “what an honor to be seated next to you. I saw you shooting the other day! You _and_ the prince, of course, but the way you handle your bow… I’ve never seen anything _like_ it.”

He continued on in much the same rambling manner for the better part of the meal, while the old man on her other side periodically glanced around and bellowed, “ _Where’s my dinner_?” at the top of his lungs, even though his dinner was _very clearly_ settled on the table _directly_ in front of him.

 _At least I don’t have to talk_ , Kiara mused, eyes wandering down the table to Sebastian. The pretty girl reached out and laid her fingertips on Sebastian’s forearm, laughing delicately at something he’d said. Kiara scowled. _Delicate_ laughing was hardly real laughing at all, but Sebastian seemed amused enough, and all his attention was focused on the brunette.

“Who is that?” Kiara asked abruptly, startling her young companion in the middle of a one-sided conversation about something to do with arrow fletching. He blinked and his already wide eyes widened further still. “Sitting next to the prince. Who is she?”

“Oh,” the boy said, swallowing and turning his own gaze down the table. “Lady Serie Caddell.” His smile took on a foolish, slightly-dreamy quality. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? All the lads—well.”

“Of course,” Kiara said on a sigh, forcing herself to turn away from the irritating tableau. “Forgive me. I missed your name.”

It took the boy a little longer to remove his longing gaze from the _lovely_ Lady Serie, and he stared at Kiara a moment too long before replying, “Oh. Sorry. I’m Garreth Grayden. Ah, Lord Garreth Grayden, I guess. The… the title’s new. I keep forgetting it.”

Because she was forcing herself to pay attention to the boy, she saw the flicker of grief cross his features.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Your father?”

He nodded, glancing down at his half-eaten dinner. “He was in Kirkwall. You know. When everything happened.”

“I’m… I’m very sorry, my lord.”

The boy tilted a weary half-smile in her direction. “Just Garreth if you don’t mind, my lady. ‘My lord’ still sounds like my father.”

“I don’t mind, if you’ll do the same for me. I grew up on a bloody _farm_. All this bowing and scraping and ‘my lady’ing puts my teeth on edge.”

She was relieved when the weariness faded and was replaced by a genuine laugh. “A _farm_?”

“Chickens, sheep, a couple of cows, and the most obnoxious asses in Ferelden.” She winked. “Donkeys, I mean. Not my family. They were okay, most of the time.”

“And are they all…?”

“It’s just my sister and me now.”

“So, your father…?”

Kiara nodded, feeling the old pain as clearly as when it had first happened. _Oh, Papa._ “When I was just a little older than you are. I… understand how hard it is, Garreth.”

The boy’s face crumpled, but he didn’t quite shed the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Kiara put a hand on his tense forearm, and he looked up at her, pleading. “Does it get easier?”

“It gets… different,” she said. “It doesn’t stop hurting, though. And you don’t stop missing him, not ever. But… you stop thinking about it all the time, and the pain becomes bearable.” She paused, letting the boy take her words in stride. After a moment he swallowed and nodded, dashing the backs of his hands across his cheeks. “Do you have other family?”

He frowned. “My mother. But… she’s not handling things very well. She hasn’t left her rooms since… well, since.”

Laying her hand over his, Kiara gave him a bolstering squeeze. “Are those an archer’s callouses I feel?” she asked lightly, and he gave her a weak, grateful smile—as much for changing the subject as for the physical contact, she thought.

“Aye, my lady—” on her glare, he amended, “ _Kiara_. I’m not… I’m not very good, really, but I like it. The… the _quiet_.”

She huffed a laugh. “I like the quiet of it, too. My brother was a swordsman—so bloody _loud_ , all that crashing and banging and grunting. An arrow just… _sings_.”

Garreth’s lips pursed, and she could see him working up the courage to ask her a question. Before he could, she offered, “Find me tomorrow, if the blasted rain lets up, and we’ll practice together. If you like.”

“I would… like that very much, my—Kiara.”

“ _Where’s my sodding dinner?_ ” yelled the old man beside them. “You trying to starve me to death? I won’t have it! It’ll take more than that to kill me, you bastards! Where’s my _dinner_?” 

Kiara and Garreth exchanged a look, and then Kiara turned and gently began to help the old man eat.

When at last the bell sounded to signal the end of dinner and the beginning of the evening’s festivities, Kiara glanced at her young dining companion and made a face.

“Fancy a dance, Garreth?” she asked. “Though I feel I should warn you, I haven’t the first idea what the steps are, usually. Your feet may not thank you for accepting.”

He bowed before extending his hand. “If you’ll teach me the bow, I’ll teach you the dance,” he said lightly. “Then we’ll be even.”

She laughed, but Garreth was true to his word, and was a surprisingly good teacher. At the end of the set, she’d only stepped on his toes once. He bowed again, and said, “I… I want you to know I don’t blame you. Some people do, I know. But I don’t. You… you’re the first person who’s spoken to me about my father like it’s _acceptable_ to grieve. You’re the first person who hasn’t intimated everything would be _all better_ if I just put a pleasant face on and pretended hard enough. So. Whatever happened in Kirkwall… I don’t blame you.”

Before she could form a response, they were interrupted by Sebastian’s arrival. He smiled down at Garreth and inclined his head in greeting. “Lord Garreth. I… heard about Lord Daylin. You have my condolences.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Sebastian’s smile widened. “But I fear I’ve come to steal your partner, if she’ll have me.”

Garreth grinned. “Better your feet than mine, my lord.”

“I wasn’t that bad!” Kiara protested.

With another courtly bow, the young lord said, “Until tomorrow then, Kiara. Thank you again. For everything.”

When he’d disappeared into the crowd, Sebastian turned a bemused eye on her. “Making friends?”

“It’s what I do best,” she retorted.

With one hand resting lightly on the small of her back, Sebastian guided her into the dance. After several moments he said, “Rumor has it you weren’t making friends this morning. You had an… altercation with Lady Aileene in the library? Is that why you were so out of sorts this afternoon?”

Kiara looked down, ostensibly to watch where her feet were going, but mostly to avoid the look on Sebastian’s face. _And are you a child, then, still hiding in your nursemaid’s skirts, unwilling or unable to speak for herself, to fight her own battles?_ “I didn’t stab her, so I’m calling it a draw,” she replied, nearly stumbling. Sebastian’s strong hands merely held her upright and guided her into the next figure.

“Kiara, did she say something? Should we be concerned? Do you suspect she was involved with the pretender?”

Kiara snorted. “She doesn’t like me. I’m pretty sure it’s nothing more sinister than that. She caught me off-guard. That’s all. Who told you, anyway?”

He shrugged one shoulder and turned her lightly. “I asked. I was… concerned.”

“Because I was cranky?”

“Because you weren’t yourself,” he said quietly. “You’re… you’re under my protection. I thought I made that clear.”

She sighed. “I can protect myself, Sebastian.”

“No one doubts that. Nevertheless…”

“It’s nothing. Please. Forget about it. I know I’m trying to.”

His brow furrowed in blatant concern, but she only raised an eyebrow in silent challenge and he held his tongue. Clever man.

They spoke no more as they danced, and Kiara was relieved when the music ended and he stepped away, bowing slightly. “Kiara,” he said, “I wish you would—”

Whatever he wished was interrupted by the arrival of the pretty brunette from dinner. Kiara didn’t scowl outright, which she considered a victory on par with her defeat of the Arishok. The girl did not so much as acknowledge her, however, so Kiara supposed she might have scowled all she liked. Instead, Lady Serie put her hand on Sebastian’s arm, turned her body just enough to completely exclude Kiara from the conversation, and said lightly but pointedly, “It has been some time since you were at court, Your Highness. I suppose you might be forgiven.”

Sebastian blinked and shook his head, looking down at the young woman as though he didn’t recognize her. “Pardon me?”

“Precedence,” she reminded him, her green gaze—like her mother’s, but without the flash of cruel intelligence—flickered dismissively over Kiara. “You dance with your dinner partner first, or you risk slighting her.”

“Precedence,” Sebastian repeated hollowly, glancing over Lady Serie’s head and giving Kiara a faint shrug. Then he led the girl onto the dance floor. Kiara watched, wishing for someone to keep her company, or for something—a glass of wine, a bow and arrow, _anything_ —to keep her hands occupied. At the end of the dance, Serie rose to her toes and whispered something in Sebastian’s ear that made him blush. He lowered his head, but whatever words he spoke in return were lost across the distance.

It didn’t matter. Kiara had seen enough. Head held high—Tasia would have to grant her that—she crossed the dance floor, ignoring requests and glares and the few genuine greetings sent her way. By the time she made it back to her own rooms, her head was spinning in a way that had nothing to do with wine or exhaustion. Tasia stood at once, her embroidery hoop dropping to the floor in a clatter.

“My lady,” she said, her voice too gentle, her expression too worried. “You’re back early. You look—shall I send for Jessamine?”

“I don’t need the healer,” Kiara snapped sharply. Tasia blinked. “And I don’t need a lecture. I need to sleep. Wake me up when I receive a bloody reply from my sister.”

“My lady…?”

Kiara lowered her head, the fight gone. “Not tonight, Tasia, please. Just… not tonight.”

The maid curtsied, but the way she bent her neck didn’t completely hide her expression of dismay.


	63. Chapter 63

He woke to pain.

Cullen knew pain. And this was still worse than anything he’d ever felt before. Fire prickled along every nerve, burning beneath his skin, and white-hot heat sent spikes of agony into his head. Every breath tore at his lungs, never allowing him to take in enough air, pressing, pressing. Still he fought, but every twitch of every muscle made his bones feel like they were breaking beneath his skin, again and again and again. 

Desperate, gasping, he tried to remember—he’d been on duty. It was his turn to stand guard before the Harrowing Chamber, even though no Harrowing was planned, and the room was empty. No. No, that had been long ago; this was a different pain. This was not violet light and desire demons whispering in his ears, this was darkness and the tang of lyrium in the air and the feel of a fist clenched tight around his heart. No. That was a dream. This was fire under his skin and his lungs in a prison.

“Cullen,” whispered a voice in his ear, familiar, too familiar.

When he opened his eyes,  a slight girl knelt before him, with tousled, reddish hair and eyes a pale color caught between green and grey. She wasn’t smiling, but he knew her left cheek held a dimple when she did. She reminded him of someone else—no, that wasn’t right. Someone else reminded him of her? He tried to shake his head, to clear his thoughts, but the pain was too great. It scraped and scraped at the inside of his skull, burning his eyes, _burning_.

“Sol— _Amell_ ,” he gasped, the word torn from him in a moan. “You… shouldn’t… your room. Curfew.”

Her hands were open in her lap. Flames danced there, tiny rivulets leaping from one palm to the other. She tilted her head, eyes wide, her innocent expression sabotaged by the red shadows cast by the fire in her hands. “Cullen,” she repeated. “What’s wrong?”

He grimaced as the pain squeezed tighter, stealing the breath from his lungs so he couldn’t scream. “Abominations,” he managed. “In the Tower.”

“I’m not an abomination,” she said, even as the flames jumped from her hands to run races up the sleeves of her robes. They burned neither cloth nor flesh, and she did smile then, her dimple showing. The heat made her hair dance around her face. Reaching out with one of her burning hands, she pressed the fingertips to his heart. “And I’m not in the Tower.”

He managed a scream, though his voice was all but gone and the sound emerged broken and raspy. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t _concentrate._ He needed… he needed… he tried to gather enough will to—no, a smite was too much, but even a cleanse eluded him. He longed for white light to chase the shadows away, to burn the red with holiness, with—but no. Even squeezing his eyes shut did nothing; the skin of his eyelids burned red, just like everything else.

She laughed, running her fingertips down his cheek, leaving fire in her wake.

“Cullen,” whispered a voice. Not the same one. Different, but still familiar. Similar.

He did not want to open his eyes, to see the burning girl. A wash of coolness spread over him from head to toe. At first it soothed, quenching the fire. But a moment later the cold seeped deeper, chilling his bones, making his blood sluggish. Even his heartbeat began to slow. “That’s… enough,” he said through chattering teeth. He clenched his jaw, but still he shuddered. “Cold.”

“No,” she said, as the cold turned somehow _colder_. “You’re burning up.”

This time when he opened his eyes, it was a different girl kneeling beside him. No, older than a girl. A young woman. Her hair was shorter and darker, her eyes greener, but still she reminded him… no, still he was reminded? He knew her. He _thought_ he knew her. She wore no mage’s robe, but a staff lay on the ground between them. One of her hands rested on the wood; the other hovered above him, glowing a blinding blue-white. A trickle of blood, almost black in the silvery glare, ran from her nose and over her lips. As he watched in horror, she reached up and smeared the blood on her fingers, smiling. Then she wrapped her bloodied fingers around her staff. Threads of red-black began to weave through the pure light, and when the tendrils of black touched him, pain and heat began to mingle once again with the cold.

“Blood magic,” he breathed. “No. Not _you_.”

“What are you talking about? Cullen, wake _up_.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said through gritted teeth. “I _believed_ you. You’re just like the rest. You’re just like the _rest_!”

Somehow, even with the cold and the heat and the pain, Cullen drew himself to his hands and knees. “Maker preserve me. Maker guide me. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are… blessed are…” He struggled for control, and a dim glow formed around his fingertips, spreading up over the first knuckles, then the second. Soon his palms held holy light, holy warmth. He closed his eyes again, seeking the still, calm place. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. This, this my reward for trust and leniency? Blessed are those who… blessed… _even you_.”

“Cullen,” whispered the voice again, and this time he heard fear in it—genuine fear. Fear of the Maker, as was right. Fear of His wrath. _They shall find no rest in this world._ It sounded as though it came from far away, drifting on eddies of air and breath and blighted _magic_. “It’s Amelle Hawke, Cullen. Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s not real, whatever you’re seeing. Wake _up_.”

The white light around him brightened, rippling outward in a wave. He heard a grunt of distress, followed by a mumbled curse and a moan. “Andraste’s ass, Cullen,” groaned the familiar voice, “You did _not_ just smite me _in your sleep_.”

He opened his eyes. A nightbird called out, and was answered by a second. The fire had died, and though it was a warm night, the breeze was chill. One of the horses whinnied; they both looked at him with fear-widened eyes.

Amelle lay sprawled, half atop him and half on the ground, blinking. Her staff was on the other side of the firepit, and no blood dripped from her nose or stained her fingers. She grimaced as she tried to push herself away from him, weak limbs failing, and groused, “Reasons a relationship could never have worked between us. Ow.”

Something about the grimace and the lack of blood and the _joke_ was enough to shake the last vestiges of memory and dream and horror from his mind. “Oh, Maker,” he choked. “ _Amelle_.”

She glared at him. “Maker my ass, Cullen. Oh, my _head_.”

Hands shaking, he helped her sit, propping her up to lean against a convenient tree trunk. “Fire,” she ordered, “and tea. And then you’re going to explain what _that_ was all about.”

#

It was never pleasant, being smited. Smote?  Whatever. Either way it was unpleasant. This was certainly not the first time glowing white light had knocked her flat.

Smiting was even less pleasant, however, when it came out of nowhere, and when the smiter was just about the very last templar she’d have expected a smite _from_.

To say nothing of the _in his sleep_ bit.

Leaning against her tree trunk, Amelle watched Cullen rebuild the fire—there would be no help from her to light it this time. She could see him still struggling, trying to… bury whatever had so distressed him. She frowned as he tried several times to strike sparks from his flint; his hands shook too hard to manage it easily.

By the time he’d done as she asked, rebuilding the fire and bringing her a tin mug filled with tea, his hands were steady and, except for a hauntedness in his expression and a complete unwillingness to meet her eyes, he seemed once again calm.

Seemed was the operative word. Too often _seemed_ was a healer’s worst enemy—she’d seen it often enough in the early days of the illness in Kirkwall, after all. A broken bone seemed like a broken bone, not a symptom of lyrium-driven madness. In men like Cullen, she suspected devotion to duty and the unwillingness to appear weak hid all sorts of ills; they strove to _seem_ fine at all times, even when fine was furthest away from _truth_. Amelle was only surprised she’d not noted it before. But then, the mask Cullen wore was a good one.

An old one, she suspected. One that almost fit as closely as his real face.

He apologized again as he handed her the mug, his voice sincere, but his eyes still downcast. The warmth felt good between her palms and though her bones still ached and her mana was still depleted, she began to feel the breath and life of her magic returning in a faint trickle.

Cullen did not sit. He stood opposite her with his hands clasped behind his back and his neck slightly bowed. Perhaps it was the guilt in his mien, or that he looked so much _smaller_ out of his massive plate armor—she was still growing accustomed to that—but he appeared in that moment very much like a soldier expecting a dressing down from a superior officer, or, more pitifully, like a child about to be chastised.

After a hot, comforting sip of her tea, Amelle said, “Remind me again why traveling with you was meant to be the safer option?”

He closed his eyes briefly—clearly not ready to joke yet, then—and shook his head. “Amelle…”

“Oh, Cullen, please. I’ve been smote before. It’s not the end of the world. I’m starting to feel better already. But I think I’d like to know _why_ it happened. That part seems rather important, don’t you think?”

His face closed like a book slammed shut. It went so carefully blank and hard Amelle nearly choked on her mouthful of tea. Not until the openness was gone did she realize just how much she’d come, these past weeks, to take it for granted. It was not her friend Cullen, but the _templar_ standing before her now, the same one who’d once almost carted her off to the Gallows, and this time no Kiara could intercede for her. She swallowed hard and actually, for a moment, felt the faint tug of fear in her gut.

“Cullen,” she said gently, not quite able to keep her voice as light as she wished it to be, “you’re giving me a crick in my neck. I can’t stand right now. Won’t you sit? Please?”

His jaw worked silently, and just when she thought he was going walk away, he instead sat heavily, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. He still wouldn’t look at her. “I was… dreaming.”

“So you… thought you were smiting a… Fade spirit, or something?”

He shook his head again, and she thought she saw a crack in his mask, just for an instant. “How much… what do you know of what happened at Ferelden’s Circle?”

“Ferelden’s… Circle?” she echoed. “I… only the rumors, I suppose, of some trouble near the beginning of the Blight, and that the Hero arrived in time to put a stop to it.”

Cullen chuckled humorlessly. “Oh, yes. The Hero arrived. I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘in time’ however. She arrived in time to save a handful of mages. And a handful of templars. The rest were… not saved.”

Even in the dimness of firelight and darkness, Amelle saw the shadow darken his features, and, more than that, she _recognized_ it. It was the same shadow she saw on Kiara’s face. On Fenris’. On Sebastian’s. She imagined her own face wore it all too often. “Maker,” she breathed, “You were _there_?”

His lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. “Your sister never told you. I confess myself surprised. I would have thought… I would have thought she’d have _warned_ you, at the very least.”

“My sister,” Amelle echoed. “Of course.” 

This, at last, brought Cullen’s eyes up to meet hers. “Doubtless she wanted to spare you the details.”

“I could fill books with the things Kiara keeps from me to ‘spare me,’” Amelle retorted. “But this isn’t about Kiara. Or me.”

“I… would spare you, too, if I could. It was—” he grimaced, cutting at the air between them with a swift, sharp motion of his hand. “I thought I was past this. If I had better _control_ —you don’t know me, Amelle. You think you do, but you… can’t.”

Amelle hesitated only a moment before offering her mug of tea. He stared at it as if he could not understand its significance. She urged it an inch nearer, until he took the hint and relieved her of it. After another moment, he drank deeply.

“Tell me,” she said. “Try.”

A fine network of fissures spread through his carefully constructed mask as he held the mug near. “Amelle…”

“It’s all right, Cullen,” she said softly.  “We’re both awake — I promise you; we’re awake.  This isn’t a dream and it isn’t the Fade and whatever you have to say, I will listen.  You can tell me anything.”

He let out a short, brittle laugh, his fingers tightening around the mug; clearly a battle raged in him, but Amelle had no idea which sides were in play, or which was going to win.  

“I don’t…”

She waited.

“… _Want_ to.”

He was being honest, at least.  She had to credit him that.  “Might I ask why?”

“I have worked too hard to get past this,” he said, staring down into the mug.  “To prove myself worthy of my rank, of my men, of the Order itself.  And I am… I am afraid you… won’t understand, that you’ll… see me differently.  That you… that you could even come to hate me, once you’ve heard — once I’ve told you…”

“Cullen,” she began gently, “did you explode the chantry and kill hundreds of innocents in the name of justice for all mages?”

He looked horrified and jerked back.  “Maker, _no._ ”

“I… don’t mean to make light of anything you went through, and I sincerely hope you don’t take it that way, but… but _that_ is an act I don’t understand.  It is an act I will never understand, and one I don’t think I’m capable of forgiving.  And yet it’s an act I still… feel somewhat responsible for, and I must live with that sense of responsibility. So… whatever it is you are afraid of telling me, for fear I’m going to judge you?  I’m telling you now… you aren’t getting rid of me quite that easily.”  She offered him a smile she hoped was reassuring.  “I will listen.”

“You say that now…”

“Yes, well.  What friend would do less?”

Hearing his own sentiments echoed back at him was enough to ease some of the tension in the set of his shoulders.  He blinked at her, and if it was because he hadn’t expected to hear the words at all, or simply surprised she’d stoop to such a tactic and use his words against him, Amelle didn’t know.

So, gently, she added, “You think a little sleep-smiting is going to make us enemies? Clearly you don’t have siblings. Carver used to do worse just to see how I’d react. Do you have these dreams often?”

“No,” he replied. “Although they have been more frequent of late.”

“Since the Gallows, you mean?”

“Since the Gallows.”

She sighed. “Who doesn’t have nightmares since the Gallows?”

Letting out a long, slow breath, Cullen stared into the tea, as though trying to divine answers in its depths. “I was on duty when it started. Outside the Harrowing Chamber. There was no Harrowing scheduled that day, so I anticipated a quiet shift. More fool me. I remember that: thinking it would be quiet. I… liked the solitude. Much of it I don’t remember well, but I remember that: standing in the hallway below the stairs, shifting from foot to foot, counting cracks in the stonework.” He fell to silence, but as it was a silence of gathering thoughts and not one of recalcitrance, Amelle waited patiently.

“I heard screaming. A great deal of screaming. At first I didn’t believe my own ears. I hesitated. I didn’t want to leave my post, but the screaming went on and on. The screaming… the screaming I have never been able to forget, even though I wish I could.”

He was pale in the moonlight, and he looked so sick and wan she had to resist the urge to check him for a fever. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow and upper lip and Amelle could see the hesitation and uncertainty in the way his hands gripped the mug, in the faint, nearly imperceptible quaver in his voice—one wrong move, one wrong sound, and she knew he’d bolt, shut down, shut her _out_. So Amelle held very still, just as she would have done with a wounded rabbit or broken-winged bird, and she _waited_.

Finally, he continued.  “I ran, following the sound of the screaming. It was coming from everywhere. The halls echoed with it. Cries of rage, of despair. Death cries. Too many death cries. Death has a different sound. I turned the corner and saw a templar—a fellow called Erron, if I recall correctly. I froze. After all my training, everything I’d spent my entire life preparing for was happening before my eyes and I… froze. Erron had his blade raised over a boy. A mage boy, only a few weeks past his Harrowing. The boy was… cowering. He was surrounded, and Erron’s eyes were mad. He had these cornflower blue eyes all the girls whispered about, but nothing sweet remained in them then. They were bloodshot, and the whites showed all the way around his irises. I don’t have any idea who any of the other templars were—men I ate with, laughed with, served with, but I remember the madness in Erron’s cornflower eyes.”

Cullen closed his own eyes then. Amelle hesitated a moment before laying her fingertips gently on his knee. He didn’t flinch—or smite her again. He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew the mage, a little. He was nice enough, I’d always thought. Polite, to mages and templars alike. We spoke sometimes. He—once had occasion to offer me condolences, and they were genuine.” Cullen raised the mug, but it was already empty; he looked into it as though it had somehow betrayed him.

“You have to understand, I was… friendly with many of the mages in the tower, before. I was naive. I thought—I thought if we could bridge the gaps between templar and mage, we might all be better off. They used that against me. They made me see how wrong I’d been. But that was later. Later. Then I stood in the doorway, watching as Erron’s blade swept down toward the mage boy’s bared neck. While I stood frozen, the mage… changed. It was the first time I’d seen the birth of an abomination. He killed Erron and three other templars before I was able to focus enough to call a smite.” Cullen shuddered, and his lips compressed in a hard line. Amelle watched him rebuilding his composure the way he’d rebuilt the fire. “I… they tell you, you know. They try to prepare you. We learn duty because friendship… friendship makes you freeze. Friendship makes you doubt. That mage nearly killed me, but I-I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was frozen in the doorway and then the abomination was dead on the end of my blade and I couldn’t stop thinking about the way that mage boy had once offered me, a templar, his sincere sympathy. He’d been kind, when he didn’t need to be. Then he was dead. And the tower was still screaming.”

“I…” Amelle kept her hands in her lap, though she wanted badly to _do_ something with them. She simply didn’t know what.  “I heard it started with a mage who… wanted to side with Teyrn Loghain at Ostagar.”

“Uldred,” Cullen said, his voice going low and ragged, nearly a growl.

“That part’s… true, then?”

He gave a tired nod, and for a moment that lasted just as long as a flicker of firelight, Cullen looked years older.  “He… attempted to explain away Loghain’s betrayal, but the Circle remained unconvinced.”  He frowned again at the cup and, as if needing something to keep his hands occupied while he told the story, he began making more tea — two cups, this time.

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Amelle asked as he found a second tin mug and measured out the leaves.  “It’s… that’s… _good_ they didn’t…”  He looked away and Amelle’s words trailed off.

“Yes.  It’s — that they didn’t side with him is… yes.”  He cleared his throat and fidgeted with one of the mugs before setting it aside as the water boiled.  “Apparently he’d… sought out the blood mages hidden within the Circle.  Convinced them to ally themselves with him.  When he tried to leave after his… proposal, such as it was, was dismissed—”

“He… he tried to leave?  But I thought—”

“No, it… would not have been permitted.  But Uldred had his followers, and upon being told he could not leave, he — they — attempted a coup.  His followers rose… they’d banded together and during the attack, Uldred summoned a demon — attempted to, I should say.  Instead, he himself became an abomination, and then…” he stopped, a muscle twitching in his jaw.  “Templars pride themselves on being able to discover blood mages, but Uldred evidently had a gift for sniffing them out.”

“Did he?” asked Amelle, “Or were some willing to turn _to_ blood magic if it meant siding with someone they thought powerful enough to be worth the risk?”

“Does it really matter?”

“In the end it doesn’t, but perhaps you’re giving him too much credit for being perceptive, when he was probably simply gifted in the art of persuasion… or intimidation.”

Cullen let out a short, hoarse laugh.  “You’re more correct than you know.”  

Amelle looked over at the kettle over the fire and with a subtle flick of her fingers, sent the water boiling.  At the sound, Cullen glanced over at the fire, then back at her, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re quite recovered, then?”

Amelle simply lifted her shoulders in a small shrug.  “Enough to help things along.  You were saying?”

He turned and poured the boiling water, passing one of the mugs to Amelle.  “I wasn’t there when… when he turned on them all.  I heard it from others, though honestly I don’t know how _they_ knew.  Not when so many didn’t survive.”  He looked down into the cup, watching the tea leaves unfurl in the firelight, slowly tinting the water.  “There was so much panic and confusion.  So much screaming _._   I’m not sure anyone truly knew what was going on, and then… the Veil tore and with the demon Uldred summoned, others came.” He paused then, and Amelle saw the memories—the horrors—flicker across his face as Cullen tried again to banish those thoughts.  “You… you cannot imagine the chaos, Amelle.”

But Amelle was silent.  In fact, after those days in Kirkwall, after Anders and Meredith and… everything, Amelle _could_ imagine such chaos.  After what she had seen become of Keeper Marethari, she _could_ imagine precisely what Cullen was describing.  She could imagine it all too well, and she wrapped her arms around herself to combat the shiver making its way down her spine. The mug of tea she’d set by her ankle sent lazy curls of steam into the night air.

Cullen sent her a sympathetic look, and silently sat opposite her once again. She suspected he had more to say, but he was patching up his mask, swallowing his words with every gulp of tea. “Tell me the rest,” she insisted.

He bowed his head, and inhaled deeply, holding his breath at the apex before releasing it again, just as slowly. Even with the moment of preparation, she could hear the tremor deep in his voice—terror and horror and sorrow all mixed together, all scrabbling for dominance.

“I don’t know why Uldred didn’t kill me right away. Perhaps because I refused to break, like so many of the others. It became a kind of game. One I couldn’t win, of course. I lost the second that cage closed around me and the first of many demons started whispering in my head. That… that was what he did to me. Imprisoned me. Summoned demons to torment me. I lived a hundred lives, before the Hero showed up. A thousand. Some where wretched. Some were sweet. Some were beautiful—so beautiful I almost let them be real. All of them hurt, though. Even the beautiful ones. And none were genuine.”

“You didn’t lose, Cullen.  How can you think for a moment you _lost_?”

He looked at her as if she were daft. “I did smite you in my sleep because I _dreamt_ you were a blood mage. Is that the action of someone entirely in his right mind? Trust me, Amelle. I lost.”

She leaned forward, meeting his eyes in the firelight, holdinghis gaze and pinning him with her own.  “Cullen. You are alive. You are alive and _fighting_. Uldred is not.”

Cullen watched her for several moments, clearly trying to parse her words for more meaning than they actually held.  “You don’t… care that I dreamt you were a blood mage?”

Amelle cocked an eyebrow at him and took a sip of tea.  “You think I ought to feel betrayed because, oh dear, _how_ in the Maker’s name could you think such a thing of me?”

“I’d… w-well, I’d thought…”

Another sip, more deliberate than the last, and during which time Amelle never broke eye contact.  “That I’d be offended that you’d dream unflattering things about me?”

His mouth worked silently.  “It sounds—”

“Kind of silly when I put it that way?”  She shook her head.  “We have virtually no control over our dreams.  Sometimes the fears we’re shown aren’t logical, but fear itself isn’t logical.  It doesn’t mean you secretly suspect I’m a blood mage.”  She took his free hand, squeezing it.  His fingers were still cold and clammy in hers.  “Perhaps part of you is still afraid. You were betrayed before, punished — _tortured_ — for believing mages and templars could be friends.  And perhaps part of you still wonders if you and I have any right being friends in the first place.  Maybe you’re afraid you’ll freeze when you know you ought to act.”

But Cullen was already shaking his head.  “No, it’s not—”

She pushed herself up onto her knees and leaned close — too close for Cullen to look away, even if he’d wanted to, even if he’d _tried_.  “I… accept what I am,” she told him, her voice low and intense.  “And I know… I know what can happen if— _I know_.  I don’t _want_ to be a mindless… _thing,_ ” she said, willing the tremor from her voice, “a thing that would slaughter those I care about without compunction.  Being trapped like that is… it’s worse than death.”

“ _Amelle_ —”

But she kept on, squeezing his hand harder and harder.  “You did that young man a kindness, you know.  It may not feel like it, but you did.”

“I believe that,” he said, though his voice betrayed him with a quaver of doubt. “I do know it. But I… it’s not the memories. It’s not even the dreams. It’s the lack of _control._ I cannot guarantee something like this will not happen again. Perhaps… we are not too far from Kirkwall. Perhaps you would be safer traveling with Fenris. I am… I am certain he would be willing.”

A short huff of humorless laughter burst forth.  “ _Willing_ ,” she drawled.  “Right.”

He sighed.  “Amelle—”

“No, Cullen.  This isn’t something easily fixed, I’m afraid. I think I’ll take my chances with sleep-smiting.”

He frowned, but did not immediately attempt to argue, which she considered something of a feat. After a moment the frown softened and he said, “Tell me.”

She tried to smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Is it to be a night for confessions, then?”

“Have you something to confess?”

She looked down at her hands, murmuring, “That makes it sound a bit more sordid than it is, I’m afraid.”  

Cullen said not a word — he simply watched her, waiting.  

Amelle slid further into silence, putting her thoughts into order.  She didn’t want to tell tales that weren’t hers to tell, but nor did she want to give a sequence of events entirely without context.  “If you were unaware,” she began, “Fenris was at one time… not at all fond of mages.  He had very good reason to hate them, I thought, even though he counted me among those who did not deserve his trust.  I stayed out of his way, and he didn’t crush my heart.  It was an… acceptable arrangement.”

Cullen’s expression was entirely too shrewd.  “Obviously something changed.”

She shrugged and moved a little closer to the fire.  “I managed to prove myself to him in the intervening years.  I proved I wasn’t a… a viper waiting to strike.”

“And he came to care for you.”

Amelle blushed even as her heart twisted in her chest and tears rushed to her eyes.  “I… suppose he did.  Eventually.  That… it didn’t happen _quickly._   I don’t—still don’t know how it…well.  The how is neither here nor there.  Fenris… there was a matter that I… offered my assistance with—”  Amelle bit down hard on her lower lip and twisted her fingers around the handle of the mug.  “I thought he needed help, and so I offered my skills as a healer. I thought it was merely an old injury. He… accepted, though it was a complicated, delicate matter.”

He looked as if he were waiting for Amelle to elaborate; she made a pained face.  “To tell you more would betray his confidence.”  She rubbed hard at her forehead before attempting to explain further.  “I’d thought trauma was responsible for something, but it turned out—I discovered, too late—magic was responsible.  I healed the trauma, dissolved the spell—however you want to phrase it.”

“Something went wrong?”

“Yes,” she sighed.  “And no.  What I attempted… worked, though, to be honest, I’d had doubts.  I thought I could—after healing the spring, I felt so much better _._   Stronger.  I thought something in him needed to be healed, and in my bloody _pride,_ ” she spat, “I believed I was the one to do it.  Thought I was doing him a bloody _favor._ ”

“Amelle.  What happened?”

Another question lingered beneath the words. A templar question.  “On my word, no _questionable_ magic.  I simply… healed something that probably would have been better left alone, and in the process unraveled any of Fenris’ trust I may have earned over the years.”  She glanced up to meet his eyes and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  “He left and I haven’t heard from or seen him since.”

“You didn’t… try to find out—”

“No.  No, you didn’t see the look on his face.  He—whatever happened when I healed—Maker, I don’t even think I can _use_ that word in this case.  Whatever happened, he was the furthest thing from happy or relieved or… or…”  Amelle trailed off, looking down at her hands.  “He said he had to leave, and then he left.  He didn’t… seem to want…”

“But—”

“Whatever was or wasn’t between us, I ruined it with my bloody, sodding, _blighted_ magic. And my pride. Mustn’t forget the pride.”

“Amelle…”

“It’s done now,” she said, unable to keep the weariness from her tone. “And I have Kiara to worry about. Making amends to Fenris—however I’m meant to do so—will have to wait until I know if she’s okay.”

“Not if. She will be fine.”

Amelle tilted her head and fixed him with a steady gaze. “You’re not a very good liar, Cullen, but I’ll give you points for trying to cheer me up. Especially since you’re the one with the terrible nightmares and sleep-smiting.”

To his credit, he recognized the attempt to change the subject and, more blessedly, obliged her. “More tea?”

She smiled weakly. “As I think neither of us will be sleeping again tonight, that seems an excellent idea, yes.”


	64. Chapter 64

It was still raining.

Tasia said nothing when she came to wake Kiara, and she kept her expression carefully bland. Without conversation or criticism, the maid chose a gown, helped Kiara dress, and tied her hair back with a simple ribbon. Kiara opened her mouth to… to ask the matter, or to soothe, or to apologize, but because she couldn’t decide which was most appropriate, she said nothing. With nothing having been said between them, Tasia curtsied and departed again.

Kiara glanced at her bow, but she felt too… _peculiar_ to consider using it. She was so jittery and annoyed she was half-afraid she’d take someone’s eye out for looking at her the wrong way before she could think better of it. Instead, she belted the knife Sebastian had given her around her waist, drank down the dregs of her lukewarm tea, and followed Tasia’s lead. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do or where she was going to go, but staying in her rooms wasn’t the answer.

It would be too easy for Sebastian to find her there, and after her restless night filled with troubling, troublesome thoughts, he was the very last person she wanted to see.

Kinnon was the guard on duty outside her suite, and she felt a weight lift from her when he offered her a salute and a lazy smile. “My lady,” he greeted. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

She snorted. “No one warned me about the rain.”

“If we warned people about the rain no one would ever come,” he said. “Still, you get used to it.”

Kiara wrinkled her nose. “I had my fill yesterday. Indoor activities only, today, thank you.”

Kinnon waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she laughed. It felt good to laugh.

“So,” she asked conversationally, “are you guarding the door? Or are you guarding me?”

“You, my lady. Begging your pardon. Prince’s orders.” Kinnon rubbed at the bruise on his jaw and winced. “Well, Captain’s orders. I think the prince would have ordered me to man the city gate, if he had his way. Alone. Possibly against some kind of vast, oncoming horde.”

Baffled, Kiara asked, “The city gate?”

Kinnon shrugged. “Farthest post still under the jurisdiction of the palace guard. But no matter. Here you find me. Are we taking a stroll?”

She sighed. “You have to follow me around, then?”

He widened his eyes in an exaggerated expression of injury. “Why, my lady, with a tone like that you’d think you wouldn’t _want_ to spend your day with me. I’ll have you know I’m _charming_ company.”

“Fine. You have to follow me around.” She rolled her eyes and turned, heading deeper into the palace. She kept her pace _just_ fast enough that Kinnon had to half-jog in his heavy armor to keep up. He did so without complaint, but when she paused at a junction she heard him breathing heavily and felt a pang of guilt at making him pay for her irritation with the weather, and Sebastian, and _all of bloody Starkhaven_. Turning, she offered him an apologetic smile.

“No wonder the Captain made us draw straws,” Kinnon mused. “It’s all becoming clear.”

“He did not.”

Kinnon grinned. “Funny if he did, though. Are we going some place particular, my lady? Or just taking a wander through the bowels of the palace for fun?”

“I want to see the pretender.”

A shadow stole Kinnon’s mirth. “He’s still sleeping, my lady. No change. You would’ve been told.”

“I know. I just…” she clenched and unclenched her hands, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. “I just need to _do_ something.”

“If you want to stare at a sleeping man, I’d be happy to volunteer.”

She poked him sharply in the side, expertly finding the gap between breastplate and backplate. He winced and groaned. “You’re a big baby under all that heavy plate, aren’t you, Ser Kinnon?”

“Aye,” he replied. “A soft and cuddly one.” When she only gave her own groan in reply, he added, “Oh, very well. It’s the right corridor you take to the dungeons. If you must.”

“Would you rather I go practice archery in the rain?”

He raised his eyebrows and gestured for her to precede him down the righthand corridor. “The short straw, indeed.”

Morven was still sleeping. Of course. She hadn’t expected anything different, really. He lay on his pallet, nearly unmoving. She didn’t think she was imagining that he looked… smaller, somehow. Kiara doubted anyone was painstakingly forcing _him_ to drink bowls of broth drop by drop. Crouching down next to him, she peered into his still face. His eyelids fluttered, but she recognized the look of one wandering the Fade. She almost wished—no, no matter how much she wanted the information trapped in the man’s head she wouldn’t risk Amelle going into the Fade for one such as _he_ , even if she were here to ask.

When she laid her fingers on his forehead, she found his skin oddly dry and far, far too hot. “When was the healer last here?”

One of the guards on duty saluted her and replied, “Yesterday evening, my lady. She… she comes two or three times a day, to dose him with the sleeping draught.”

“Send someone to fetch her. He seems… too sick. Sebastian wants him alive if possible.”

The guard saluted again and departed at once. Drawing near, Kinnon asked, “How do you know?”

“My sister’s a healer. I’ve gotten used to watching her work. Fever’s a strange symptom. He was clammy before, not feverish.”

Kinnon pointed at the bandage wrapped around Morven’s hand. “Infection?”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to take my chances. What I wouldn’t—never mind. We’ll see what Jessamine has to say.”

Kinnon nodded. “While we’re waiting, I… was wondering something.”

“So was I,” she admitted, “but you go first.”

“Those things you said before… about dragons and giant spiders. Was that some kind of… some kind of game you and His Highness were playing? To poke fun at me?”

She chuckled. “Would that it were. No, no, I’m afraid that was all true.” At his wide eyes, she added, “I hear Kirkwall’s a bit of a hotbed for that sort of thing, though. I’m sure you’re safe as houses up here in Starkhaven. No giant spiders need apply.”

“And you dueled the Arishok? Truly?”

“In single combat. With a bow. It was… pretty much the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, actually. But I’m told it looked awfully brave from the outside. I’m not sure I believe it. I seem to recall a lot of running. And hiding. And running some more.”

Kinnon shook his head wonderingly. “Aren’t you… forgive me for asking, but aren’t you _bored_ , my lady? With… this?”

He looked so bewildered she couldn’t help her laughter. “I used to long for peace. I thought if I never saw another slaver or bandit or mercenary or giant spider again in my life, I could die a happy woman.” The laughter in her voice faded, and she remembered the casual ease with which Lady Aileene had dismissed her. _You are a brave little soldier._ “The troubles in Starkhaven may not have blood magic or demonic possession or malevolent artifacts at their root—I hope—but they won’t go away on their own, and people are dying. It’s… tempting, Ser Kinnon, to sit back. But no, as long as there are people to save—people _I_ can help save—I’m not bored.” She huffed a sigh. “I could do without giant spiders, though. Honestly. They’re horrid.”

After a moment of silence, Kinnon said, “You said you were wondering about something too?”

One corner of her mouth tilted up in a brief smile. “What did you say? To make Sebastian punch you? He’s not usually the hot-headed, short-tempered type. Well. Not without cause, anyway.”

To her surprise, Kinnon didn’t reply at once with the flip remark she half-expected. He went a little pale under his tan and ducked his head. “I said something… I deserved it,” he mumbled. “I-I’d probably have punched me too, if I were him.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows. “Goodness. Was it something terribly nasty about Andraste?”

Kinnon’s paleness disappeared instantly under a blush. He still couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “Something like that, aye. It… doesn’t bear repeating. My lady.”

Kiara lifted her shoulders in a shrug just as the door opened to admit Jessamine and the guard. Nodding her thanks to the latter, she turned to the healer and gestured at the prone pretender. “I think there’s something wrong with him.”

“He shows every sign of dying,” Jessamine snapped so viciously Kiara flinched. “Of course there’s something wrong with him. He ate enough deathroot to fell a bronto.”

Kiara inclined her head to accept this, but added, “It’s not just that. He’s feverish.”

Jessamine blinked and crossed the room at a jog. “Believe it or not… that may be a positive sign.”

“How so?”

“I think it means his body, at least, is fighting the poison.” Jessamine knelt beside Morven’s cot, lifting one eyelid to peer beneath, and checking his brow for fever as Kiara had done. She hummed slightly under her breath, shaking her head, before searching in her satchel. The potion she retrieved was one Kiara vaguely recognized. She tended to avoid potions as a rule, unless Amelle was physically _forcing_ one down her throat, but this one she’d taken before, on occasion.

“Stamina draught?”

Jessamine glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “To treat the fever would let the deathroot win. This, at least, might give him strength enough to buy the fever time to do its work.” The healer sighed as she worked Morven’s jaw open and dripped the potion slowly into his mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady. I know it seems as though I’m muddling through, but I’ve never—this is new to me. I am afraid I’m mostly making things up as I go along.”

“You aren’t the only one,” Kiara replied, with a faint smile. Then, more seriously, she added, “I suppose that’s your way of telling me you really don’t know when he’ll wake?”

“When?” Jessamine scoffed. “Try _if_. And no, I’ve no idea. He’s held on this long. He may hold on longer. He may wake. He may die ten minutes after we leave this room. We’ve no way to know.”

Kiara watched in silence as the healer worked. Jessamine clucked her dismay when she removed the bandages and found Morven’s hand swollen. It was… illuminating, really, to watch the woman work. Amelle would have closed her eyes and the wounds to the hand would have been a memory; faint lines of scar tissue, if that. Kiara was fairly certain even the deathroot poisoning would have caused her sister little trouble.

 _They’re killing people for being mages, Kiara,_ she admonished. _Do not wish your sister here. Not for this. Not for anything. She’s safe where she is._

When Jessamine finished—healing took a great deal _longer_ without magic to aid it—she rose and brushed her hands on her blue robe, slinging the satchel of supplies over her narrow shoulder.

“May I walk with you a while, Lady Kiara?” she asked.

“Certainly. You… you haven’t news from the courier yet, have you?”

Jessamine gave her head a weary shake. “It’ll be another week at least before we can expect to hear anything, I’m afraid. No. I… I did want to speak with you, though.” She gazed warily at Ser Kinnon, who only smiled and shrugged and fell back a couple of steps.

“Captain’s orders,” Kiara explained. “They don’t want me wandering off. Or getting lost.”

“Or getting killed,” Ser Kinnon remarked. “But I suppose that’s just a minor concern.”

Jessamine glanced between them and hugged her arms tight around her body. Then, after a moment, she nodded to Kinnon and said, “Perhaps they have the right of it.”

Kiara frowned, brow furrowing at Jessamine’s dark tone. “Have you heard something?”

“Nothing one could base an accusation on, but… I hear troubling rumors, Lady Kiara. There are those who feel you… you are here to represent Kirkwall’s interests. That you… that _you_ are the one whispering into the prince’s ear.”

“I’d have to get close enough,” she groused. “Or at least take my place in the queue.”

Jessamine didn’t laugh. Her steady gaze was unblinking and unamused. “You may think the things you do are beneath notice, my lady, but they are not. Everything the prince does is noticed, and remarked upon. If you disappear into his office for an afternoon, some believe it is because you wish to… influence him. I have… I have heard the word _puppetmaster_ spoken.”

“That’s _treason_ , Mistress Jessamine,” Kinnon breathed. “To doubt the prince’s motives… to doubt Lady Kiara when he has _expressly_ indicated the punishment…”

Jessamine bowed her head. “They’re not my words, Ser Kinnon. I only want Lady Kiara to know what is being said of her. Starkhaven has suffered through two bad princes; it does not want a third. Nor, I think, does it want the Champion of Kirkwall making decisions on behalf of a city that is not hers.”

Kiara thought of making a joke about yellow-duckling curtains, but held her tongue. Both Jessamine and Kinnon looked entirely too uncomfortable for flippancy. “I’m not trying to influence Starkhaven politics,” she said. “Maker, I actively avoided getting myself named Viscount of Kirkwall precisely _because_ I wanted nothing to do with politics.”

Jessamine looked sympathetic. “Forgive me for mentioning it, my lady. It seemed… important you know.”

“I don’t blame you, Jessamine,” Kiara replied. “Indeed, you’re right; it is important. I’m not sure what I can do to push back against _rumors_ though. That’s the kind of battle I’ve never had a talent for fighting.”

Kinnon bristled. “Tell me who speaks them, and _I’ll_ push back.”

“I’m afraid that would only look worse for me.” Kiara sighed. Kinnon didn’t look convinced, so she explained, “The only thing worse than having the local sovereign in one’s pocket is having people suspect you also control the local military. I’ll… be aware. I’ll… keep a lower profile.”

Jessamine curtsied deeply. “Again, forgive me, my lady. I do not speak to offend.”

Kiara waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve never been one to shoot the messenger, Jessamine. I… I’ll think of something.”

_You don’t belong here._

Jessamine left them then, but Kinnon said nothing. Kiara found herself glad of the silence; she wasn’t certain what to think about any of it. When she realized she was anxiously wringing her hands, she buried them in her skirts and forced herself to breathe until she no longer wanted to root out everyone who’d had the gall to criticize her and shout _I only want to help!_ in their faces.

Halfway back to her chambers, Kiara and Kinnon were met by Garreth Grayden. He grinned and held his bow aloft. “It stopped raining, my lady.”

“Thank the Maker,” Kiara replied, with genuine relief. “I fear I’ll run mad if I don’t get to shoot something, and quickly.”

Kinnon sent a slantwise glance her way, but she ignored it, choosing instead to smile and clap Garreth on the shoulder. _His_ enthusiasm, at least, was infectious. “It’s a pity I can’t get my _own_ bow, but Tasia will only pitch a fit and make me change into an archery gown if I try to sneak out with it now.”

Garreth arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t she… _your_ _maid_? I think you’re allowed to tell _her_ what to do.”

Kiara feigned horror. “Clearly you haven’t met Tasia.” Behind them, Kinnon chuckled knowingly. Flinging her arm over Garreth’s shoulders, Kiara tried not to think about Jessamine’s words, or their import. _You don’t belong here._ “Let’s go. It’s not like I haven’t shot an unfamiliar bow before. I’m sure the practice yard will have one to suit.”

Perhaps shooting would do the trick. She could use a little quiet.

She feared it wouldn’t be enough.

#

He heard the laughter even before he turned the corner. Kiara’s he recognized at once, of course. Tasia stood at the doorway to Kiara’s bedchamber, half-hidden, and she gestured for him to approach silently by pressing finger to her lips. Peeking over the smaller woman’s shoulder, he saw Kiara standing on her bed armed with the fire poker and holding a pillow like a shield. Four little pages—he recognized the one who’d insisted on the wagered kiss—sat enthralled at her feet. The other servants had ceased even pretending to go about their duties and also watched.

“Then what do you think happened? The Hero raised her sword high—” Kiara raised the poker, “—and without hesitation she roared a valiant battle cry and flung herself straight at the heart of the Archdemon.” Kiara leapt from the bed, over the heads of her enraptured audience, and stabbed her poker into the door of one of her wardrobes. The children clapped and cheered as Kiara theatrically battled her furniture. Beside him, Tasia’s eyes widened; he imagined she was tallying the cost of repairs. Sebastian didn’t care; he’d have paid for a hundred wardrobes to see Kiara so delighted.

“Then what happened?” cried the littlest page, his hands clasped and his voice filled with awe.

“The Archdemon let out a terrible roar heard by everyone in all of Denerim. The walls shook. Dust and stone began to fill the air as it writhed upon the battlements, pinned by the Hero’s blade. Still she held. Still she battled, heedless of her own pain and injury. A great light filled the air and when it faded, the Archdemon was dead. And the Hero lived!”

“Wow,” said the littlest page. “Did that happen for real?”

“For really real,” Kiara intoned.

“Was she wearing a dress like you?” asked the sole little girl.

“Probably not,” Kiara replied. “I imagine one goes to battle an Archdemon in very heavy armor. I’m certain even Mistress Tasia couldn’t find a gown appropriate to Archdemon-fighting.”

Tasia snorted lightly.

Another of the pages piped up, “And then did everyone live happily ever after?”

Kiara grinned. “Of _course_. Heroes _always_ get to live happily ever after.”

“Then do _you_ get to live happily ever after?” asked the littlest page, utterly guileless.

Kiara’s smile turned just a shade too close to brittle, but her reply was glib, “I’m no hero, little master Davin. Just a girl with a good shot who doesn’t care for bullies and who doesn’t suffer fools.”

Another of the pages said, “I heard real heroes are all eight feet tall. And shoot fireballs out of their fingers. And ride griffons.”

Kiara pondered this with an exaggerated scratch of her chin. “I’m certainly not eight feet tall,” she said at last. “I can barely light a candle with a taper without burning my own fingertips, and I’ve never seen a griffon.”

The boy Davin remained unconvinced, staring up at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “I think you’re a hero,” he said stubbornly. “And I’m going to be an archer just like you.”

“Are you now? It takes a lot of practice. And you’ll get lots of blisters on your fingers, but you still have to keep on practicing,” Kiara warned lightly. Sebastian pushed the door open just a little wider, and her smile faded when she saw him. “Well, my little friends, it looks as though I have a very important guest just now, so you’d best all get back to your posts. I’ll tell you another story later. Maybe one with Grey Wardens. I hear _they_ have griffons.”

The passel of pages jumped up when they saw him, scraping into their halting, childish versions of bows and curtseys. Davin nearly tipped over in his haste, but Kiara reached out and steadied him. Before he ran off with his companions, he turned and pressed his face into her skirts, throwing his arms around her legs. She yelped and nearly fell herself, unbalanced by the sudden hug.

“Thank you, Lady Kiara,” he said. “You tell the best stories.”

“Oh, go on, you flatterer,” she replied, tousling his fine blond hair. “You’ll give me a big head.”

Davin frowned up at her. “I think your head is fine.”

Kiara laughed and shooed him away. Sebastian noticed the other servants trailed the boy, leaving him alone with their mistress, and a glance at the door revealed it was now firmly shut. He wondered if Tasia still stood on the other side, ear pressed to the wood. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Without so much as looking at him, Kiara bent and retrieved the fallen mock weaponry.

“They love you,” he said.

Returning the poker to its holder at the hearth, and tossing the pillow back onto the bed, she replied, “Oh, children are easy. They like stories and adventure and jokes about bodily functions.”

“Like Isabela, without the drink.”

Wryly, she added, “And without the sex.”

“I don’t know,” he replied mildly, “Young Davin seems inordinately fond of kissing.”

“He’ll be a heartbreaker,” Kiara agreed. She glanced up at him then, meeting his eyes for an instant before quickly returning her gaze to the floor. “Do you need something, Sebastian? Or is this a social call?”

“I haven’t seen you in two days. You come to dinner only to eat and you disappear before the dancing.”

“Oh, you know,” she said with false cheer, “I’ve been busy. Children to wrangle. Archdemons to slay. Never a dull moment.”

“Kiara, please…”

Wheeling around, she jabbed a finger into his chest so forcefully he took a half-step backward. He didn’t think it was intentional, but she’d managed to hit exactly the spot the sword had slid between his ribs and the old ache combined with the new was enough to set the world spinning a little. He blinked, attempting to clear the stars from his vision. 

“What do you want me to say?” she snapped, all amusement, all laughter gone. “That I’m happy to be held behind your walls like a bird in a cage? I’m not. I think it’s _important_ for me to be out in the city, proving I’m not the mad puppetmaster pulling the new prince’s strings. You’re the one who won’t let me defend myself.”

“It’s too dangerous. It is an unnecessary risk.”

“Spoken like a politician,” she spat, her voice heavy with derision. “And now I can’t even help indoors, either, for fear the gossipmongers will think I’m whispering poison in your ears behind the closed doors of your office.”

He felt his own ire rising to meet hers. “I _am_ a politician. And I don’t _understand_. You’re… punishing me for caring about your safety? Who’s saying you’re whispering poison? If someone’s said something to you—”

“Oh, forgive me, Your Highness,” she interrupted. “What would you have me do? Trail about after you like a puppy at heel? Question your prisoners? Smile and nod and greet people as though I belong here? _Dance_? Help choose a bloody wife to go along with your duckling draperies?”

He gaped. “What are you—?”

“Do you think I’m _stupid_?” She clenched her hands into fists at her sides—he was certain it was to keep herself from hitting him again, but he had no idea why she was so angry. Or why in the Maker’s name she was talking about _wives._ “Corwin and the Revered Mother and even the sodding _servants_ … all of them keep hinting about it. I—it’s so embarrassing. They’re trying to _prepare_ me.” She paced away from him, stalking to the window. “To say nothing of that bitch—no. It doesn’t matter. Look, I’m only waiting for a reply from Amelle. I want to be certain she’s not on her bloody way here. Then I’ll go. Just… please. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Make _what_ harder?” he asked. He took a couple of halting steps toward her, but the line of her back remained unyielding and unwelcoming, so he stopped.

“We’re friends,” she whispered, reaching out to twitch the draperies open. “We’ll always be friends, Sebastian. But I need more time to be happy for you about this.”

He heard her words. He knew what each of them meant. Yet somehow put together in the sentences she spoke, he could not understand her.

“It’s not going to be that… wretched Lady Serie, is it?” Kiara visibly shuddered. Sebastian took another hesitant step toward her, but she recoiled. “I grant she’s very pretty, but she’s so… _stupid._ And her _mother_. Maker!Don’t you see? You’d be so unhappy with a stupid wife. You need someone who’ll stand _with_ you, who’ll _challenge_ you, who—Oh… _sod it_ , Sebastian. I can’t _do_ this.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. His throat felt tight, and swallowing brought no relief. “Why would you think—?”

“You must marry,” she interjected. “I… know that. Because you’re prince now, and a prince must have heirs. Of course. Of course. M-mother always tried to impress upon me the necessity for heirs, and w-we’re just a minor noble house. I-I know how much more important it is for you.”

He shook his head. “It’s… politics. But _why_ would you think—Serie?”

“I saw you,” she admitted. “You looked… intimate. Not that it matters. It’s none of my business.”

He remembered then, dancing with the pretty girl two nights earlier. He’d been calculating how many more dances he had to dance before it would be acceptable to ask Kiara again. At the end of the set Serie had risen to her toes and whispered in his ear—an invitation he had no desire to accept and no intention of following up with. He supposed from a distance it might have looked mildly suspect, but… and then Kiara was nowhere to be seen, and two days of silence and begging off and avoidance had followed. He’d thought it was entirely because he was so reluctant to let her wander the city alone. “Do you _want_ it to be your business?” he blurted.

She faced him, lips parted, eyes flashing. Her breath was too quick; he could see the rise and fall of her breast above the embroidered neckline of her gown. Tendrils of hair curled around her flushed cheeks. She looked infuriated and beautiful and… and an amused voice that sounded distressingly like Varric’s whispered, _She’s_ jealous _, you idiot._

Before his rational, thinking brain could catch up, he closed the distance between them and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips, still parted, were soft against his. She made an inarticulate, half-choked little sound deep in her throat as he trailed his fingertips down her spine to rest at the small of her back.

And then she bit him. Hard.

Eyes watering in sudden pain, he did not resist when she put her hands to his chest and pushed him backward. Only pride kept him from falling entirely. Kiara dashed the back of her hand over her own mouth and scowled as though expecting it to come away stained with blood, but her retaliation had stopped just short of drawing it.

“No,” she whispered, her voice ragged, breaking on the single syllable. He found himself wanting to hurt himself for causing her pain, for forcing her to sound so resigned and sad and disappointed. “No. You may be Prince of Starkhaven but you don’t get to do that. I’m not—I know what they’re whispering about me, people like Serie and Aileene, but they’re _wrong_. I may not be a princess, but I’m not a—it’s not who I _am_ —I _won’t_ —not even for you.”

“But I—”

Her voice rose. “Or is it like Morven said? Fine wine and fine women, the perks of being prince? I’m-I’m not a _perk_.”

“Of course you’re no—”

“How _dare_ you treat me like… like…”

“Kiara—”

She shouted over his protest, “You can’t just—”

“ _Maker’s bloody balls,_ let me _finish!_ ”

Eyes wide, she clapped her hands over her own mouth, as if to assure him of her silence. He put his own hand to his forehead, shaking his head slightly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have… presumed upon you.”

She made a distressed noise behind her hands.

“It was disrespectful. And does not reflect my… feelings for you. I am… heartily ashamed of myself, my lady.” And he was. His chest ached and his hands trembled and he could not bear to see the condemnation in her eyes. 

Just as he was about to turn and leave her, she lowered her hands slowly. After wordlessly opening and closing her mouth several times she finally managed weakly, “What… are they?”

“What are they?” he echoed.

“Your feelings. For me. What are they?”

She still stood near the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her pale eyes met his unflinchingly, but he could not read their emotion beyond knowing her question was a serious one. He thought of deflecting. He thought of saying nothing. He thought of falling back on friendship and respect and admiration.

He knew he would be lying to do any of those things. So he chose instead to speak the truth. “I love you.”

She closed her eyes and bent her neck, shoulders curling protectively forward. He saw her arms squeeze tighter. A thousand years passed as he stood waiting for her to speak. He watched her collect herself; her breathing slowed, her shoulders straightened. After another age, she opened her eyes again. “Well, if you’d told me that _before_ ,” she said, her voice still tremulous, “I wouldn’t have bitten you.”

His stomach turned over, and by the feel of things, decided to take the rest of his internal organs with it. “But then—so you—I didn’t think you could—”

“I never thought I could compete with bloody _Andraste_ , now did I?”

He swallowed around the knot of emotion caught at the base of his throat. “Maker strike me down for saying it, but you, Kiara Hawke, have been dearer to me than the Maker’s Bride for quite some time.”

When the Maker didn’t send an errant bolt of lightning or open the ground beneath his feet, he extended his hand to her. She curved her fingers around his tentatively. Staring at their joined hands, she said, “It’s not that I’m opposed to _sharing_ you with her. She seems reasonable.”

“Are you going to stop jesting any time soon?”

Gazing up at him through lashes still sticky with tears she shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t think so. You know I joke when I’m uncomfortable.”

“ _Are_ you uncomfortable?”

Her brow furrowed and her fingers tightened around his. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming. Tasia’s going to shake me awake any minute and I’m going to punch her.”

Running the back of his index finger over the curve of her cheek, he said, “Don’t hit the servants, Kiara. It’s not the done thing.”

Leaning into his touch, she nevertheless worried at her bottom lip. “You aren’t going to change your—”

“Kiara. Look at me.”

She did; he could see the fears hiding behind her eyes. He could not even deny they were valid ones, knowing what she knew. He had broken vows, sworn new ones, and broken those too. He had nearly betrayed her out of thoughtlessness and his desire for vengeance. She had seen the worst of him. And stayed.

“There have been times when I’ve given you every reason to doubt the steadiness of my character, but I—”

She began to protest and he pressed his fingertip to her lips. Blinking, she fell silent once again.

“If I have learned steadiness, it has been your doing. I told you once breaking my vows would make me unworthy of you. I—part of me still believes it. That part of me… may struggle, for a time. But I will strive to be worthy, even if it is the task of a lifetime. And I… I thank you for giving me the _chance._ ”

“Okay,” she said, a blush infusing her cheeks as she looked up at him. “You could, um. Kiss me again. If you wanted. I, uh, won’t bite. This time.”

Cupping her cheek in his hand, he bent his head. This time it was she who was not content with gentle, with chaste. Releasing his hand, she swept her arms around him, tangling the fingers of one hand in his hair, teasing his lips apart with the tip of her tongue. He groaned, pressing against her until her back was to the wall. She arched into him at the contact and he allowed his mouth to kiss a trail from her lips to her throat to the hollow of her collarbone. She shivered and he smiled against her, repeating the experiment. This time the shiver was accompanied by a breathy moan.

Before he could return for a third attempt, she raised one hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. “W-wait a second,” she said, her voice still quavering with… with _desire_ —and oh, how he wanted to—her pale throat beckoned; her lips were swollen and inviting and—but she shook her head and blinked and said a little more strongly, “I’m sorry. Y-you have to—I know you have to—and we just—Sebastian, d-did we just get _engaged_?”

He dropped a feather-light kiss to her forehead. “Not if you don’t like,” he said. “Though it would make Corwin very happy.”

She laughed nervously. “Well, if it would make _Corwin_ happy…”

“We needn’t decide anything now.” A second and third kiss followed, one to each blushing cheekbone. “However, _were_ we to be engaged, we would be allowed to dance with each other quite a lot more and with others a great deal _less._ ”

“Sold,” she said brightly, meeting his fourth kiss with one of her own.


	65. Chapter 65

It was raining.

No, Cullen amended as he dashed the water from his eyes with the back of one hand, saying it was _raining_ didn’t quite do the weather justice. It rained in Kirkwall. It rained in Ferelden. Cullen _knew_ rain. This, whatever this was? It wasn’t _rain_. It was cold and it was wet and he was pretty sure it was the unholy offspring of rain and snow.

A splatter of moisture hit his bent neck and trickled down his spine. Cullen shuddered and twisted, as though movement might somehow make the wet less wretched. It didn’t work.

The unholy offspring of rain, snow, and possibly some kind of demon. That sounded about right.

He also suspected a demon was behind the design of the… _thing_ he was holding that Amelle assured him was meant to be a tent. As far as he could tell it was a large, unwieldy piece of fabric with far too many corners and a bizarre assortment of pockets, none of which seemed to have any use, or made any sense no matter how he twisted and turned. The thing had a flap, and he was fairly certain the flap was _meant_ to be a door, but… that was the extent of his understanding.

And it was demonically raining. Hard.

Amelle stood opposite him, holding two slender poles of different lengths. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and—if possible—she looked even more miserable than he felt, which was miserable indeed. She frowned at the poles as though frowning might somehow induce them to start making sense.

“Where did you find this thing?” Cullen said, grimacing.

“Bodahn left it behind.”

Another raindrop, even colder than the last, followed the trail down his spine and Cullen dropped the corner of fabric he was holding to rub warmth back into the skin at his neck. “And you don’t have any idea how to set it up?”

She glowered. “If I knew what to do, I’d do it, Cullen. I didn’t think it would be this _hard._ ”

Cullen took one of the poles from the pile at his feet and tried threading it through one of the pockets, but the pocket was far too long and the pole far too short. With a huff of disgust, he dashed the pole to the ground again. “We could… crawl inside the fabric? It seems… weatherproof.”

“It’s a _tent_. Are you honestly saying between the two of us we can’t figure out how to set up a simple _tent_?”

Cullen tried to narrow his eyes at her, but his eyelashes were full of raindrops and he really only succeeded in half-blinding himself with water. “We haven’t managed it yet. So yes, I’m honestly saying we seem incapable of figuring it out.”

Amelle shook her head, undaunted, and lifted yet another pole of yet another incomprehensible length.

“Did it occur to you that perhaps Bodahn left it behind because it doesn’t _work_?”

He could tell by the way she went rigid that it hadn’t.

“It _has_ to work,” she muttered.  “It’s a _tent._   Tents just don’t _not work._ ”  An ominous pause followed.  “…Do they?”

Cullen wasn’t quite up to telling Amelle a piece of material and poles of varying lengths didn’t _have_ to do anything.  Honestly, it wouldn’t have been quite so unbearable if this — _sleet,_ he decided; it had to be _sleet_ — wasn’t blinding and freezing him at turns.  The sky had darkened with the storm, and as the day grew later, their light was fading.  He’d long since lost any hope of a campfire growing to anything beyond a sputtering smolder, which meant they were doomed to darkness, coldness, and dampness, all in one fell swoop.

_Light.  We need light and shelter if we’re going to put this together.  Heat wouldn’t go amiss, either._   He looked again at Amelle, her clothes soaked through, her teeth chattering — though she was keeping her head bowed, so Cullen suspected she didn’t want him noticing that particular detail.

“Amelle,” he said, giving the supposed tent a vigorous shake, sending droplets of water everywhere.

“What?” she asked, and he heard a strain in her voice, the slightest hitch, and he realized Amelle was keeping her head bowed and refusing to look him in the face for another reason.  

“Amelle?”  She turned away and looked harder at the poles, only the barest jerk of her shoulders indicating she’d heard him at all.  “Are you… crying?”

“ _No._ ”  She swiped angrily at her face, ostensibly wiping away rainwater.  Cullen chose not to vocalize his sigh. Given how miserable they were already, he saw no point in making the situation worse.  And Cullen knew beyond a shadow of a doubt things could _always_ get worse.  He drew in a breath and let it out again, slowly.

“Your… barrier spell.  Would it repel,” he gestured upward, “this?  At least long enough for us to make heads or bloody tails of this… _tent_?”  He injected incredulity and not a little bit of venom into the word — hopefully enough to make Amelle realize it was the object itself and not _her_ he was so displeased with.

“It might.”  

“Worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”  But she’d already dropped the blighted poles and was hefting up her staff.  With a shimmer, the air seemed to bend and glow around them.  Soon, Cullen realized it looked as if the air had warped because frozen rain was no longer falling down upon them, but rather trailing down the sides of the protective bubble Amelle had conjured.  Breathing out a sigh, he sat back on his heels and wiped the water away from his face again. This time, more didn’t immediately fall to replace it. Thank the Maker.

“I probably should have thought of that sooner,” she said, and before Cullen could even suggest it, Amelle held out her other hand, letting a ball of flame lick to life in her palm.  It gave off more light than warmth, but the situation was already improving.  He turned again to the impossible puzzle of canvas and sticks. 

“Are we _quite_ sure the map showed no caves?”

“The map shows _nothing_ ,” she complained. “Nothing but trees, more trees, and entirely too many mountains. No caves. No towns. No _civilization_.”

One of the horses snorted, echoing Cullen’s unvoiced derision. At least they were tethered under the trees, but even that was weak protection from the elements.

Amelle stepped closer, gazing down at the heap of fabric. “I think that’s the door,” she said.

He swallowed his terse reply, mostly because she didn’t deserve it, and partly because the very last thing they needed was to be at each other’s throats. Flexing his fingers to bring some warmth back, Cullen pushed his hands through his dripping hair and began sorting the sticks into piles.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If I hadn’t been in such a hurry…”

“Never mind that,” he replied. “You were in a hurry for a reason. I blame the tent. Clearly raising it is a feat equivalent to the building of a castle. You weren’t to know.”

When he glanced over his shoulder, he found her still troubled. The light from her fire cast shadows across her face, illuminating the shadows of worry under her eyes. He could see then she _had_ been crying; the evidence of her tears was clear enough in reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks. Instead of drawing attention to it, he only offered a smile he hoped looked bolstering.

“We’ve got an odd number of poles,” he said.

“Is that… bad?”

“I have no idea. Maybe they… fit together somehow?”

Amelle bit her bottom lip, scrutinizing the piles. “Do you suppose the tent makes a triangle?”

He snorted lightly. “It could be any shape in the world. All I know is it has a door.”

“And it’s waterproof.”

“We _think_ it’s waterproof.”

“If worse comes to worse, we could always… drape it over some bushes and sleep underneath it?”

“In the mud?”

She sighed so mournfully that, for a moment, he almost thought she was about to start weeping again. “Something tells me there’s going to be no avoiding the mud, no matter what we do.”

Cullen glanced down at the churned, wet muck at their feet and uttered his own sigh, just as mournful. “Maker’s breath, you’re right. We’re probably never going to be warm and dry again.”

“We could just…” Amelle paused, her face screwing up in distaste, “keep going.”

Cullen’s hands were well on the way to numb and he imagined handling the reins, then shook his head.  “I’m afraid we’d be doing ourselves no favors there,” he said, holding the material out and trying to envision what shape it could _possibly_ be, under the right circumstances.  “Especially if the ground is this loose all along the path.  Better not to risk injuring yourself or the horses.”

“Cullen,” Amelle said, and a ghost of her old tone seeped into her voice.  “Healer.”

He looked up and sent her a stern glower.  “A healer who ought to know better than to ignore her limits.  Better we stop.”

“And rest,” she supplied.  “In our tent.”

“How much longer do you think your barrier will hold?”

“Against the rain?  Roughly long enough for you to build a castle.  Not quite long enough to assemble that blighted thing.”  The flames licked higher in her palm and for a moment Cullen thought it looked a great deal like Amelle was imagining the mess of material and poles burning.  For a moment he imagined it too.  

“I think we have to take the draping option,” he said, frowning at one pole, which appeared to have some sort of notch at the end that made it seem as though it was meant to fit into another pole, but none of the others had a corresponding groove.  “Underneath the tree, perhaps. Marginally less mud, there.”

Amelle kept the barrier intact while Cullen carried the unwieldy would-be tent — heavier than it ought to have been, soaked through with water as it was, causing Cullen to have serious doubts about its impermeability — beneath the boughs of the tree.  Once there, he stuck four poles of similar height into the muck and draped the material over it.  

One of the poles began to shift in the mud and tilted, making the whole affair cant forlornly as water began to pool at the top then drip down one side.

Amelle let out a sigh.  “It’s just for one night, right?”

_Maker, I hope so._

Hope or no hope, there was no dry ground to be found, and no dry wood to burn. Amelle tried to light a log, but even her magical flame guttered and smoked and refused to catch. After half a dozen such attempts, and with both of them reduced to coughing by the acrid smoke, Amelle said, “I’m sorry. I think we’ll have to do without.”

Cullen had been willing to admit as much after the second or third failed attempt, but he only shook his head and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. Exhaustion made him feel even colder, and his head ached. After a moment, he heaved a rock aside, rolling it away to reveal a precious patch of dry ground beneath. A plethora of bugs and worms wriggled, burrowing away from the light. Cullen pretended not to see Amelle’s shudder.

Their bedrolls, unsurprisingly, were as wet as everything else. Still, he managed to find the driest of the damp blankets, spreading it across the almost-dry—and now mostly insect-free—patch of earth. He sat on one end, and patted the ground next to him. Amelle hesitated, but then the sinking pole sank a little further, and the canvas drooped even closer to her head. With a groan of dismay, she dropped next to him, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“Can I offer you something cold and likely damp for dinner?” he asked, aiming for humor and falling short.

“I’m too cold to be hungry,” she grumbled. “And too wet to sleep.”

“One does have a tendency to forget the caprice of climate, when one has a convenient roof to hide under.”

Turning her head slightly, she arched an eyebrow. “Are you laughing at me, Cullen?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Would I dare?”

Their makeshift roof was doing a reasonable job of keeping the rain off, but could do little to stop the wind from nipping at them. Amelle huddled closer. He hesitated a moment before putting an arm about her shoulders. She sighed again, but this time the sound was more relieved than frustrated. 

“I hate rain,” she muttered. “And I hate wind. And I hate _everything_.”

“Do you know what I hate?” Cullen asked. On her querying look he pointed up and replied, “This tent.”

“My feelings for the tent surpass mere hatred,” Amelle said. “Loathing might be more accurate.”

“Abhorrence, even?”

Her smile was weak, but it was there. “Good one.” She was just opening her mouth to say something else when they heard a faint sound absolutely not caused by wind or sleety-rain. Amelle stiffened at his side, and Cullen felt her gathering her magic. He inhaled sharply.

“Is it wild animals?” Amelle whispered. “Bears?”

Cullen shook his head, but allowed his hand to inch toward his blade. “I doubt it. Animals don’t usually sound… metallic.”

“Bandits?” Amelle’s eyes widened in the dark. “Slavers, maybe?” He saw her fingers curl tightly about her staff. “I know we haven’t had a lot of opportunity to work on technique, but if it comes to battle you’re probably familiar enough with the range of—”

“Amelle,” Cullen said softly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“You can’t take out an entire—”

“It’s not bandits,” he said, peering into the gloom. “It’s… Fenris.”

#

It had come as no surprise to Fenris when the weather turned.  The weather on the mountain passes was notoriously unpredictable.  It hadn’t even been a surprise when the rain turned into sleet.  It was unpleasant, but the animal Merrill had secured for him was a hardy beast, and though its steps slowed the heavier the sleet fell, it continued on, lowering its head against the elements, hooves moving doggedly through the thickening mud.  He typically had little use for horses, but this one seemed to sense his resolve and responded admirably.

When the scent of smoke met his nose, he nudged the animal onward.  Doubtless Amelle and the Knight-Commander had chosen to make camp for the night.  Fenris could almost imagine Amelle scowling at too-damp kindling, determined to make it light and scowling harder when all her efforts produced was smoke.  He nearly smiled, and then he remembered.  

She would have left without him.  She would have traveled to Starkhaven _alone_ , heedless of the dangers such a journey would invite.  He wanted to be thankful the Knight-Commander was traveling with her, but mainly he kept hearing the words from that hastily-scrawled note falling from Merrill’s lips.

_It says… it says, oh dear.  It says Hawke’s been poisoned and Amelle’s leaving for Starkhaven.  She nearly left on her own, but he’s — well, that’s something, at least.  He’s going with her.  Why do you suppose she’d do that, Fenris?  Leave without any of us like that?  Oh—there’s a map.  Well, that’s helpful.  He means for you to follow, I think.  His writing_ is _quite horrible.  You’d suppose a templar Knight-Commander would have better penmanship…_

Fenris tried to convince himself that, in her haste, Amelle thought she could travel faster alone, that in her worry and concern for her sister that she simply hadn’t _thought_ to bring anyone along.  His _own_ worry, nagging and pulling in his gut, told quite a different tale, however, and the thought of her endangering herself so foolishly made his temper spike.

Strangely, no light permeated the gloom, despite the fact Fenris could smell smoke indicative of some sort of attempt at a campfire.  _Attempted, then,_ he thought, _but not successful.  But they must have stopped nearby—_

The sounds of two other horses, whinnying their displeasure at the storm, carried on the wind, and he pushed at his horse’s sides with his heels, turning the beast in that direction, his eyes narrowed against the elements and encroaching darkness, trying to pick out the silhouette of their campsite.  He saw nothing.

Then the flick and flare of light illuminated the dusky gloom, and Fenris saw the Knight-Commander and Amelle, looking miserable beyond words.  Both were chilled and soaked to the bone, and Amelle, at least, had been crying.  He could see evidence of it in the light of the flame she held.  Whatever had induced her to tears earlier, he saw no sign of it in her face now.  Now he only saw shock in her widening eyes.  Shock, dismay, and, though the sight of it pulled uncomfortably at him, something very much like fear.  Without wanting to, Fenris recalled the way Amelle had flinched away from him.

This was worse than the scorn he’d been bracing himself to face.  Still, Fenris had no intention of letting her make this journey without him.

He saw her inhale, her brow furrowing, and as her lips parted—to send him away, not that he’d heed her—the pathetic structure keeping the rain off of them shuddered and collapsed, and whatever words Amelle had been about to speak were lost to a shriek of alarm.

With a muttered curse, Fenris leapt from the back of his horse, sending it a glare as he flipped the reins over a convenient tree branch. The horse met the glare placidly, and lowered its head, nosing the ground at its feet for anything worth grazing. Fenris strode across the uneven, mud-slick ground and heaved the wet canvas off of the struggling forms beneath.

“Fenris,” the Knight-Commander greeted. Fenris narrowed his eyes and inclined his head slightly.

Amelle staggered to her feet, bent to collect her staff, slipped in the mud, and landed hard once again on her tailbone. Without hesitation, Fenris reached down, grasped her forearm in a strong grip and pulled her bodily upright once again. Standing this close, he could see the flush under the tearstains. Amelle’s jaw worked silently, but instead of saying anything, she only pulled her hand away and curled it into a fist, pressed against her thigh.

Fenris let his own arm drop back to his side as he cast his gaze around the dismal little campsite. The tent—for tent he supposed it must be—lay in a crumpled heap where he’d thrown it aside, its poles scattered. The wet firepit still reeked of smoke, and all their belongings lay in a mound beside the horses.

“This is an ill-considered location for a camp,” Fenris said at last. “And why did you not assemble the tent?”

Amelle glowered down at the crumpled fabric, but the Knight-Commander was the one who answered, “Our map is… flawed.  And the tent more so. We thought to look for cover, but we were losing light and at least this spot had trees.”

“But no water source,” Fenris pointed out.

The Knight-Commander glanced skyward and raised both eyebrows. 

“Sleet is not a water source,” he pointed out.  “Gather your gear — I am familiar with a small system of caves not far from here.”

Amelle and the templar exchanged a look.  “The map shows nothing of the sort,”  he said, his words cautious as he gathered up the tent.  

“Then I suspect your map is… incomplete.”  He glanced at Amelle, busying herself with her pack and untethering one of the horses.  He turned his attention back to the Knight-Commander, adding, “I came through these very mountains on my journey to Kirkwall.  I know them well enough.”

Both accepted this without argument; the Knight-Commander seemed almost relieved at the news, but Amelle appeared strangely… subdued, which Fenris read as acceptance despite her displeasure at his arrival.  It stung when she refused to look at him, but he did not find himself surprised at her avoidance.  In any case, locating proper shelter was more important, and provided Fenris with a useful and effective distraction.  Mounting the horses again, Fenris led the way along the muddy path, farther up into the mountains.  Darkness and rain conspired to make the route impassable, but before Fenris could even think to ask, the glow of magic flared to life just to his right.  

“…Thank you,” he said, after far too long a pause.

“It… it’s getting dark,” Amelle replied, quietly.  “You needed light.”

The yawning mouth of the cave appeared just around a corner on the right; the entrance was large enough for them to enter one horse at a time, but once they were within, the space opened up, offering shelter enough for themselves and the horses.  It had been used before — the dead and blackened remnants of a firepit remained near the mouth of the cave — but not for some time.

Amelle lowered herself down from the saddle, grimacing when her boots squelched with water, and strode over to examine the fire site, frowning at it.  “We haven’t any wood,” she murmured to no one in particular, then looked around the cave.  “There might be some moss around, but nothing that will feed a fire properly.”

The Knight-Commander looked around them and shook his head.  “We may have to do withou—”

“To the Void with _that,_ ” she grumbled, turning a speculative eye on the horse she’d been riding.  It was still laden with supplies, and before Fenris could ask what she thought she was doing, she pulled free one of the several staffs strapped along the side of the horse, hidden underneath the stirrups and saddle flaps.  It was a plain, wooden affair — not one of her favorites, he knew, but dependable all the same — and before either of them could utter a word, she swung it hard against the wall of the cave.  A small shower of sparks — magic — startled the horses as the staff shattered and splintered, but in an instant it was a useless pile of wood.

No, not _useless_. Fenris found himself smiling at Amelle’s resourcefulness, turning and unloading the baggage as she busied herself with the fire and the Knight-Commander tended the horses.  It was immediately clear that whatever Amelle had planned for—if _planned_ could even be the right word—she had neglected to take weather into consideration. Their packs were only vaguely waterproof, and the torrential downpour had drenched everything within save the herbs and ingredients Amelle had—thankfully—packed in an oiled leather. After draping every wet thing on obliging rocks, Fenris turned to his own perfectly dry pack, and retrieved a dry set of clothing. Then he crossed the cave and settled the bundle next to Amelle, shivering in her still-wet clothes before her small fire.

“I’m fine,” she said in an undertone, looking down at his offering as a means to avoid looking at _him._  

“You are not,” he replied. “You are shivering.”

“I’m not shivering,” she lied, through teeth most definitely chattering.

“Amelle,” the Knight-Commander said softly. “Take the clothes. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Why don’t you take them instead?”

The templar’s laugh was so abrupt even _he_ looked startled by it. “While I don’t doubt watching me attempt to squeeze into Fenris’ clothing might be amusing for all, I think I’ll refrain. But you needn’t suffer.”

“I’m not suffering,” she argued, attempting to sound convincing and failing miserably.

A look Fenris recognized well shifted across the Knight-Commander’s face. He’d seen it often enough on Sebastian’s features. The templar was clearly praying for strength. Or patience. Or perhaps restraint. 

“You’ll catch your death,” he pointed out, reasonably.  “And, honestly, if I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be dry and comfortable, I know you have.  Take the clothes, Amelle.”

Having had every avenue of argument summarily removed, Amelle hesitated once more, then finally nodded and took the clothes up into her hands, mumbling her thanks.

“A-all right, so… now, both of you turn around.”

They did as Amelle bade.  More than once Fenris heard Amelle cursing under her breath as she tried to peel away her soaked-through and unwieldy clothing.  The fire crackled softly and Fenris spent a great deal of effort listening to the flames, and _not_ to the sounds of discarded clothing landing wetly on the cave floor.

“Okay.  I’m decent.”

When he turned again, Amelle was busily draping her wet clothes near the fire so they might dry.  His own simple black tunic and leggings seemed strange on her.  The cut of the tunic was too broad for her slender shoulders, and made her look smaller than she truly was.  The leggings fit better, but revealed the gentle swell of her hips, which was far more distracting than Fenris would have liked.  When he lifted his eyes to hers, he realized Amelle been watching him.  Setting his jaw, he turned away with a jerk and busied himself with his pack, needlessly checking his supplies.

“Well you certainly _look_ less like a drowned rat,” the Knight-Commander said, breaking the silence and, Fenris suspected, attempting to cut the tension.  “You’re remembering what warm and dry feels like now, I imagine?”

Amelle exhaled a soft snort and said, “It’s coming back to me.”  She rummaged through her own supplies a while longer, withdrawing a small metal kettle from its depths and filling it with a waterskin from one of her saddlebags.

She heated the water with a flare of magic, and in no time at all the three of them had metal cups of steaming hot tea in their hands.  In the meantime, the strained silence had returned, settling over them and thickening the air in such a way that no amount of small talk could disperse it.

Amelle sat and stared into the depths of her cup for some time before finally lifting her head and looking squarely at Fenris.  The expression in her eyes was a guarded, apprehensive one.

“How did you find us here?” she asked.

Fenris’ eyes went briefly to the Knight-Commander, who was looking wretchedly sheepish.  Amelle followed his gaze, and arched an eyebrow at the templar.

“I—it was a mistake to attempt this journey alone, Amelle.”

“I wasn’t alone, Cullen.  That was the whole point of you coming with me.”

He glared at her and shook his head.  “We’ve no idea what awaits us in Starkhaven. Whatever your reasons for—”  he stopped himself, but Fenris could tell what the other man wasn’t saying.  “I left Fenris a note telling him where we’d gone.”

“You left Fenris a note,” Amelle echoed, betrayal and, worst of all, hurt writ large on her features.  “After I said—”

The Knight-Commander let out a sigh and shook his head.  “You were upset and frightened for your sister.  I can hardly blame you, but—”

Here, Fenris set his cup down with a metallic _plink,_ the sound echoing in the small cave.  “I swore to your sister I would keep you from harm.  More than that, after all she has done for me, if Hawke is in any kind of danger, I am doubly obligated.  I… I will accompany you to her side and do whatever is within my power to assist her.”

He could see Amelle’s discomfiture, but rather than giving voice to her thoughts, she drank down the dregs of her tea. The tunic slipped slightly, revealing the soft curve of one shoulder. Amelle scowled, tugging at the fabric, only to have it drape to reveal more of the milky skin of her chest. This time when Fenris forced himself to look away, the Knight-Commander’s gaze caught him out. The templar’s expression was so carefully bland, Fenris knew he had to be drawing any number of conclusions.

“I’ll take first watch,” Fenris said abruptly.

“How does that make sense?” Amelle replied. “We had a head start. You must have been traveling hard. If anyone needs the rest, it’s you.”

It… made him feel strange, thinking she cared enough to consider his welfare. “I am accustomed to—”

“We _all_ need rest. You’ve been traveling the longest, if you’ve been catching up this whole while.  I’ll take first watch.”  She scowled, and though the expression didn’t last long, it was a welcome change from apprehension and fear.  When she spoke, her tone was as pert as it had ever been.  “Mostly because I’m fairly certain neither of you would wake me for a turn otherwise.”

Fenris and the Knight-Commander exchanged another look, but this time Amelle caught them at it and coughed to let them know _she_ knew what they were about. The templar’s cheeks went ruddy in the firelight, and he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck like a chastised child. Fenris only twitched an eyebrow and headed for his bedroll. The Knight-Commander retreated to the opposite side of the cave, and Amelle made herself another cup of tea.

#

Amelle’s head pounded.  She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples, rubbing slowly, letting a breath of healing magic into her head, but to no avail.  That told her only one thing:  she was doing this to _herself._   The ache couldn’t be healed or magicked away; it was, maddeningly enough, _in her head._ What she truly wanted to do was cry _._   She wanted to fling herself down upon her bedroll and sob until nothing remained of… of whatever _this_ was, lodged in her chest.  Her worry for Kiara, and the uncomfortable, prickling shame that overwhelmed her every time she looked Fenris in the eye.

And it was Cullen who’d requested he’d join them.  _Cullen._   She wanted to feel angry.  Betrayed, even, that he’d done such a thing without so much as telling her.  But, Maker help her, she was glad to see Fenris.  Even if he was scowling at her, even if he was angry all over again that she’d left him behind — he was still _there._   Her fingers went to the tunic’s neck, slowly running back and forth over the material.  The clean scent of soap and familiar cypress — something intrinsically _Fenris_ — clung to the garment, and Amelle breathed in deeply, despite herself.  

Then she remembered, and pulled her hand away with a start, drinking deeply from her cup, not caring when the hot liquid scalded her throat.

_You hurt him.  You saw the agony in his eyes —_ you _peeled back the layers, and_ you _showed him what Danarius had suppressed.  You had no business interfering, and until you can figure out how to mend this—_ if _it can be mended—the only thing to do is give him a wide berth._

He’d come to fulfill his obligation.  And, evidently, to loan her his clothes.  

Blowing out a soft breath, Amelle tilted her head and rubbed her cheek against the material at her shoulder, missing a man who slept barely an arm’s length away.

To prevent herself from caving to the temptation to reach out and brush the hair back from his brow—and oh, how she missed the feel of that hair between her fingers, so deceptively soft—Amelle rose to her feet and stalked to the entrance of the cave. The rain still fell and the wind still blew, but no other sound indicated danger. She sighed, leaning against the rough wall. The tunic slipped from her shoulder once again, but this time she let it stay; no one was awake to see, and every time she fussed with it she was all too aware that she wished someone else’s hand were the one doing the fussing.

_Amelle. Enough. You brought this on yourself._

She pinched the bridge of her nose sharply, as though pain might help clear her mind. All it did, though, was hurt. Behind her, one of the horses shifted, whinnying softly. They were still too far from Starkhaven, too far from Kiara, too far from anything. It would be a week at least, and that only if they could somehow make up the time lost to the weather. Not for the first time, she wished for some easier way. Some magical way.

“As if magic hasn’t caused enough grief,” she muttered quietly. The rain didn’t answer.

A moment later, however, she heard a slight cough, and she turned her head just enough to see Cullen standing a couple of paces behind her, hands clasped behind his back and head slightly bowed. The rain made his hair curl even more than usual, and it stuck up indiscriminately, giving him a vaguely startled appearance. If she’d been any less distracted, any less troubled, it would have been comical.

“At least you didn’t sleep-smite me tonight,” she offered weakly, the humor falling pitifully flat. Cullen only looked sad, and for some reason his sadness made her head ache more. And twisted her stomach into knots.

“I’ll take the second watch,” he said.

She frowned, shaking her head at him. “Mine wasn’t long enough.”

“Amelle…”

“I’m not tired, Cullen,” she lied. “Let me pull my own weight.”

“I never claimed you wouldn’t—or _couldn’t_ , for that matter. But I assure you, it is my turn to watch, and yours to rest. You’ve been awake longer than you think.” He stepped no closer, though she could see the desire to do so warring on his features. “Amelle, I—”

“I… don’t think I want to talk about it.”

On a sigh, Amelle turned to face him, and continued, “I think I know why you did it. I’m not—”  She stopped short, shaking her head.  “I think I understand. I oughtn’t to be surprised he followed; whatever happened between him and I, he’s still… he’s still Fenris.  He’s my sister’s best friend—if something’s wrong with her, he… it stands to reason he would want to assist her.”

The look Cullen gave her was so pitying that Amelle found, to her embarrassment, her eyes prickling with tears.

“You look wretched,” he said gently.  “Get some rest.”

“I’m fine. Not tir—” A sudden, wide yawn gripped her.  By the time she recovered from it, Cullen was shaking his head.  In his skeptical expression, a glimmer of fondness mingled with exasperation.

“I _told_ you.”

Amelle sighed. “Yes, you did.”

“Go on,” he said, nodding at her neat, empty bedroll situated between his mussed one, and Fenris’ occupied one.  “Things will look better in the morning.”

“Only if this bloody rain stops,” she replied glumly, dumping the last of her tea out onto the cave floor.

“It could be worse, you know.  We could be in Ferelden.  When it rains there—”

“It’s measured in weeks,” she supplied, trying a tiny smile strictly for Cullen’s benefit.  “I remember.  We’d smell wet dog for days after it rained in Lothering.”  She turned and faced her bedroll.  Perhaps sleep would help.  It certainly couldn’t hurt.

Then she felt Cullen’s hand on her shoulder and she turned to meet his eyes.  “Whatever it is, Amelle — and I dare not ask — you’ll get it sorted out.”  At her dry huff of laughter, Cullen shook his head stubbornly. “You will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you are not the type of person who gives up easily.  I’ve seen you give yourself too many nosebleeds to believe otherwise.” 

While she still didn’t agree, Amelle saw no point in arguing.  Instead, she gave him a weak shrug.  “Perhaps. We’ll see.”

Cullen’s attempt at a smile was small and hesitant, and not a little wry, but he gave her shoulder a squeeze all the same and nudged her forward.  “Now, go.  Get some rest.  Or I _will_ smite you.  On purpose this time.”

“You know,” she said mildly, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to joke about smiting.”

Cullen chuckled. “If smiting you into senselessness is the only way to make you see reason, who am I to dismiss it as a method? I _believe_ it’s a case of the ends justifying the means.”

Amelle gave him a sour look. “No wonder you get along with my sister. Maker’s balls, I’m glad _she_ doesn’t know how to smite.”

Cullen pressed a finger to his lips thoughtfully. “I could teach her.”

Amelle gaped. “You could _not_.”

He ignored her. “Under normal circumstances I don’t think I _could_ teach a rogue, but your sister’s hardly representative of the class. And Maker knows I’ve seen—nay, come face to face with—the force of her willpower. She’s got an overabundance of will.” He nodded, as if to himself. “I’m fairly certain I could teach her.”

“Cullen, I’m going to—”

He raised his eyebrows and interjected, “Fling a fireball at me? Strike me down with lightning?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrowed her eyes. “No. I’m going to poison your next cup of tea. And then refuse to heal you.”

He gave an exaggerated wince, and for a moment Amelle almost forgot the… the memory healing, and the letter, and the worry, and the rain. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm. His shirt was still faintly damp, and she was grateful—she’d never _admit it_ , but she was grateful—for the dry, borrowed, piney-scented tunic even now slipping once again from her shoulder. “Cullen,” she whispered, lowering her voice even though she was fairly certain Fenris was too far away—and too asleep—to overhear, “I’m… scared.”

“I know,” he replied, the moment of amusement fled. “I wish I could tell you it was unnecessary.”

“Are you… are you going to go back? To Kirkwall? Now that Fenris is here?”

He blinked. “Is that why you thought I left the note?”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I thought… I thought maybe you were passing the reins so you could return to… to the Order. To your duties. I know this all… came out of nowhere.”

“Amelle…”

Glancing back at Fenris, still curled within his blankets, she continued quickly, before she lost her nerve, “I wouldn’t blame you. I know how important it—”

“Amelle,” he repeated sternly, taking her chin between his fingers and forcing her to meet him gaze for gaze. “ _No._ I’m not going anywhere.”

Relief flooded her body as Amelle closed her eyes and nodded, shuddering a little as some of the tension ebbed from her limbs.  “All right,” she whispered.

“Then there’ll be no more talk of my leaving?”  When she gave him a tiny, tremulous shake of her head, Cullen let his hand fall and smiled at her.  “And no more talk of poisoning my tea?”

Amelle answered by flinging her arms around Cullen’s neck and hugging him hard.  He grunted at the force of the embrace and returned it, patting her back in a strange combination of awkwardness and affection before pulling away.  “I promise.”

“ _Now_ will you agree to get some sleep?”

“I will agree to _try._ ” Amelle’s lips curved in the first true smile she’d felt since the rain had first started to fall.  She took a step away from Cullen, sent another wave of magic over the fire until it crackled with a bit more life and warmth, and picked a path around the packs and bedrolls.  She glanced briefly at Fenris, peacefully asleep, unable to ignore the sharp pang she felt as she settled down and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

She would sleep.  The rain would stop.  And things would look better in the morning.  


	66. Chapter 66

Kiara hated mornings. She always had. Being _forced_ to leave the warm, cozy comfort of one’s bed in order to _deal with the real world_ was terribly cruel.And yet mornings still happened, day after day, sunrise after sunrise.

She especially hated mornings when someone—anyone, really, but Amelle was the _worst_ —had the gall to _wake_ her. This morning was no different. Ignoring the pleading voice, she jammed a pillow over her head and curled into a blanket-clad ball.

“Orana,” she growled, when the voice wouldn’t stop cajoling, “unless the world is ending or the house is burning down, let me _sleep_. I was up—” And then, of course, her reasons for being up so late came flooding back. Telling stories to the children. Fighting with Sebastian.

And then _not_ fighting with Sebastian. _Definitely_ not fighting with Sebastian. _Decidedly_ not fighting with Sebastian.

Kiara sat bolt upright, startling poor Tasia half to death. The pillow tumbled from its precarious perch atop Kiara’s head, and she was unable to keep the grin from overtaking her face. If Tasia’s expression was any indication, Kiara imagined she looked quite manic.

But sleep had certainly fled.

“My… lady?”

“Tell me I wasn’t dreaming.”

A faint, amused smile pulled at her maid’s lips. “Why, I wouldn’t _know_ , my lady. Was it something nice? Oh, or perhaps something adventurous? Did you dream you were the Hero, slaying an Archdemon, marrying a… king?” Tasia feigned nonchalance as she tugged the sheets back and picked up the fallen pillow. “I always tell the children to be careful with their bedtime stories. You never know how they’ll come back to haunt your dreams.”

Kiara wrinkled her nose. “I never remember my dreams. Bedtime stories or not.”

“So it wasn’t an Archdemon then?”

Kiara narrowed her eyes as she perched on the edge of the bed. The cold of the floor reached her toes even before she placed them on the stones. Cold floors were another thing to hate about mornings. Cold floors and exasperating maids. “Tasia.”

Dimpling, Tasia shrugged. “Prince Sebastian seemed… pleased when he left yesterday evening. I wonder why. He must have had reason.”

With a sound she would heartily deny being a giggle, even if _giggle_ was the most apt description, Kiara rose from the bed, cold floors be damned. “I should write my sister. Or… should I wait? I… everything happened so _suddenly_ and nothing was _decided_ and Sebastian might change his mind—”

Tasia snorted a laugh. “Oh aye, Prince Sebastian is certain to change his mind. Just as soon as grass is blue and the sky is green and the sun rises in the west.” On Kiara’s sour look, Tasia added, “My lady, _please_. Give me some credit. Give _him_ some credit. I’m only surprised it took so _long_. I’ve been _dying_ to put you in Starkhaven colors since the moment we met. Honestly, I’ve had the perfect dress steamed and pressed since the day of your little archery duel shenanigans.”

“I thought redheads weren’t supposed to wear white,” Kiara retorted, with enough attitude to be snide, though her not-giggle ruined the effect somewhat.

Tasia raised her eyebrows, giving Kiara an appraising look. “You _have_ been paying attention. There may be hope for you yet. Pure white is problematic, aye, but ivory will stand in just as well. And it will suit your coloring fine.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Tasia grinned. “Sartorially speaking? Aye. Aye, indeed.”

Kiara paused halfway to the bathing chamber and frowned over her shoulder. “Still, maybe—”

Tasia waved her hand delicately. “I _know_ , my lady. Time and place. Now, do be honest with me: do you intend to shoot today? Or will your time be spent indoors?”

Kiara’s frown turned into an impertinently stuck-out tongue. “I am planning on staying indoors, Tasia. No archery gown required.”

“You mock,” the maid replied, long-suffering, “but you don’t realize how it reflects on _me_ , my lady.”

“How my… not wearing an archery gown reflects on you?”

Tasia inclined her head slightly.

“So… what? The other maids talk about you behind your back?”

Tasia’s brow furrowed and she chewed on her lower lip before replying, “Careers rise and fall on gossip, my lady. Surely you understand this.”

“But I—” Kiara halted, turned to face Tasia again, and hung her head. “Forgive me, Tasia. I… ought to know better. Please… please don’t take my indifference to… to fashion as any affront to you. I couldn’t ask for a better maid. And I will happily spread _that_ gossip wherever you like.”

“And you’ll wear what I tell you is appropriate?”

Kiara raised an eyebrow. “I _do_ have a little sister, you know, Tasia. Are you trying to manipulate me into submission?”

Tasia laughed and shrugged. “It was worth a try, my lady.”

#

Corwin rose when Kiara knocked and entered Sebastian’s study. Sebastian looked up and smiled at her, and though a smile was hardly the same as a kiss, Kiara felt her heartbeat stutter and a flush spread across her cheeks. Not a dream, then. She was certain Sebastian had never smiled so… _intimately_ at her before. It might not have been the _same_ as a kiss, but it was certainly a smile promising _more_ kisses.

To distract herself, Kiara crossed the room and greeted the Steward with an embrace. Startled, Corwin froze for an instant before patting her gently on the back. “My lady,” he said. “I believe somewhat… restrained congratulations are in order.”

Kiara’s gaze flicked over to meet Sebastian’s, and the prince nodded slightly and lifted one shoulder in a _well-what-could-I-do_ shrug.

“Well,” Kiara replied, “I will accept those congratulations, even if they are to be kept low-key for the moment. Thank the Maker I won’t have to read another of those wretched ‘meet my daughter; she’d make a perfect princess’ missives. Please, let me burn them _all_ from now on.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the old man. “You had her reading _those_ , Corwin?”

The Steward feigned surprise. “Was I not meant to, Your Highness? She was reading everything else, after all.”

Kiara stepped away from the Steward, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, I see what you were doing. You _knew_ I’d be jealous. I’m just horrified I was so transparent.”

“Translucent, perhaps, my lady. Which, I might add,” he said, with a none too subtle glance at the prince, “is infinitely preferable to stubbornly and willfully blind.”

“I am sitting right here,” Sebastian muttered.

Corwin smiled a beatific, impervious smile. “I haven’t the slightest notion what you mean, my lord. I am certain I was speaking in generalities.”

Sebastian’s retort was silenced by the abrupt arrival of Captain Elias. The soldier saluted sharply and reported, “There are… there was an attempted burning, Your Highness, but some had heard your decree. It… worked. But we’ve a crowd at the gates, and they are demanding compensation.”

Kiara and Sebastian shared a look.

“Send for the Revered Mother, if you would, Captain.”

“Already done, Highness.”

Sebastian closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he opened them again he was composed, and his gaze was sharp. Kiara found herself standing straighter, holding her chin higher.

“Very well,” Sebastian said. “Let in as many as we can accommodate. Station your men in the Great Hall. I hope… _try_ not to kill anyone. We are aiming for a peaceful resolution to this crisis, after all. If you’ve anyone with twitchy fingers, have them sit this out.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Elias said, saluting again and departing as quickly as he’d come.

“And me?” Kiara asked, willing her voice not to sound as tentative as it felt echoing in her head.

“You should be there, of course,” Sebastian replied without an instant’s hesitation. She found herself absurdly grateful for his faith in her.

“But you should talk,” she said. “These rumors that I’m—that the Champion of Kirkwall is—here to… control the prince of Starkhaven—”

Sebastian smiled wearily. “Support is not control. I know it. They’ll learn it. But you are right. For today… this is delicate. There will time enough to win them over.”

She took his arm when he moved around the desk to offer it, and she was not oblivious to the way he tucked her hand even more securely against him. Bending his head so only she could hear his whisper, he said, “It will be well. And I would not have you anywhere but at my side, no matter what they say.”

Kiara couldn’t find words to reply, so she merely pressed her cheek to his arm and wondered how disappointed Tasia would be when she found out Kiara was attending a court function in a lowly morning gown.

#

Maker, but it had been a day of emotional extremes, and the little sleep he’d managed in between last evening’s declaration and this morning’s early awakening had not been quite rest enough to restore him to even footing. Even now, knowing very well the seriousness and importance of the task ahead of him, he could not help sending surreptitious glances down at the woman walking beside him.

The third or fourth time, she caught him looking, and she smirked. “Something on your mind, Your Highness?”

He wanted to kiss her. Even with the guards behind them, and the audience of servants going about their business, he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he smiled and shook his head. “Only the matters of the day, Lady Kiara.”

She huffed a laugh at the affected formality. The moment of levity was a brief one, however, and though she did not entirely pull away from him, she retreated until only her hand rested against his forearm. “What if it’s the genuine article?” she asked, her voice pitched low.

“It won’t be,” he replied. “The likelihood—”

“But what if—?”

“Kiara,” he said softly, “you said so yourself: in this climate any mage will be _safer_ within the walls of the Chantry. Starkhaven is not Kirkwall. Illona is not Meredith—or even Elthina.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He placed his other hand over hers and gave her fingers a brief squeeze. “It will be well.”

Her countenance said she did not entirely believe him.

To be fair, he wasn’t altogether certain he believed _himself_. They were spared further conversation—troubled or otherwise—by turning the corner and finding themselves at the door leading to the less formal antechamber entrance of the Great Hall. There would be no meandering through the crowd this time. Captain Elias greeted them, and nodded toward Sers Kinnon and Maisie, standing at attention behind him. “They’ve got good eyes, Your Highness,” Elias explained. “I’ll be with the archers. We’ve got men stationed throughout the hall, but Kinnon and Maisie’ll be on the dais with you.”

Beside him, Kiara frowned. “Is that necessary, Captain?”

Elias frowned, his heavy eyebrows lowering, giving his face an unnaturally dour cast. “My lady, I’d have you ringed in steel if I thought the prince would allow it.”

Sebastian began to protest, but Elias only inclined his head. “I know the importance of appearances, Highness, and I know you wish to appear… concerned and not antagonistic, but I cannot help thinking you invite trouble by allowing so many such free access to you.”

“Your concern is noted, Captain,” Sebastian replied.

Elias’ lips twisted in a slightly sour smile. “Noted and ignored, Your Highness?”

Sebastian’s own smile was rueful. “Noted and ignored, Captain.”

Kiara’s fingers tightened on his forearm momentarily. “Perhaps he’s right, Sebastian…”

Even her _concern_ made him want to kiss her. “We will be protected, Kiara.”

“With our lives, if necessary,” Ser Kinnon added. This earned the knight a smile from Kiara, though it did not entirely chase the shadows from her eyes. Sebastian resisted—only just—the urge to glower at the man. The bruise on the guard’s jaw had faded almost entirely; Sebastian wondered if another might be in order.

Instead, he gave his head a brief shake and said, “Has the Revered Mother arrived?”

“Not yet, Highness. She is on her way, however.”

Sebastian nodded. “Very well. We’ll wait within. Have someone send for us when she is arrived and settled, and we shall begin.” Elias saluted briskly, and Sebastian added, “Captain? She will have templars with her, certainly, but her protection in this situation is as important as mine. See that your guards know this.”

Elias saluted again, and Sebastian opened the door to the small room, Kiara’s hand still resting on his arm.

Waiting was always the worst part.

Once they four were alone in antechamber, an awkward sort of silence settled over the room.  Kinnon and Maisie stood perfectly at attention and were perfectly silent, save for the soft sounds of their armor every time one or the other of them shifted their weight.  

After nearly a full minute of this, Kiara gave his arm a gentle squeeze.  When he looked down at her, she lifted her brows at him in curious expectation.  He furrowed his own back at her and shook his head, rewarded with a look of charmingly familiar exasperation before she looked very pointedly at the two guards, then back at him.  With her other hand she gestured quickly between the two of them.

 _Ah._   Aye, if anyone was to be let in on their little… secret, the guards were a wise choice.  There was a difference between protecting the Champion of Kirkwall and the future Princess of Starkhaven.  When he sent Kiara a nod of what he _hoped_ was comprehension, she exhaled a little sigh and smiled.  And when he turned to address the knights, Sebastian found — to something that felt very akin to dismay — they were both watching with unabashed curiosity. 

_Aye, we might as well tell them.  They’ve probably guessed as much already._

“Ser Kinnon,” he began.  “You have been acting as Lady Kiara’s personal guard for a majority of her stay here, have you not?”

Kinnon gave a terse nod, and Sebastian saw his hand twitch, almost as though it was going to reach up and rub the still-bruised jaw. In the end, the hand remained stiffly at Kinnon’s side.  “Aye, Highness. The duty’s been one shared with Ser Maisie a few times.”

That made sense; from what he understood of the lists of personnel Elias had sent his way, Maisie and Kinnon were partners — they patrolled together and trained together.  They’d been the only ones brave enough to step forward and carry her poisoned body after the… _incident_ in the square.  Though Sebastian found himself wishing it was Maisie and not Kinnon who took the lion’s share of the solitary guarding.  “Then you are already quite aware her safety is of the highest importance.”

Confusion knit Kinnon’s brow, and he looked briefly at Maisie, whose expression betrayed nothing but patience.  “Of course, Your Highness.  There haven’t been…” his eyes went briefly to Kiara, then back to Sebastian, and he swallowed.  “There haven’t been complaints, have there?”

“Maker’s _blood,_ Sebastian,” sighed Kiara with reproach that still managed to sound affectionate.  “You’re going to give them both heart attacks _._   No, Ser Kinnon, no complaints.  Sebastian is merely prefacing… another matter.”  She slanted a look at him.  “Badly.”

On the contrary, he was inordinately pleased by how mortified Kinnon looked. Whether Kiara thought it badly handled or not, it was entirely worthwhile, just to see the young knight with the fear of the Maker in him. “I only mean to impress upon them—” _him_ “—the gravity of the task at hand.”

Somehow his words served to make Kinnon look even _more_ uncomfortable, and the knight shifted, nearly squirming. “Your Highness, forgive me. If this is about the other night—”

“Sweet Andraste’s flaming knickers,” Kiara muttered under her breath.

Sebastian glowered. “I trust you mean the evening Lady Kiara wandered alone in a potentially hostile city?”

“Wait just a minute, Sebastian,” Kiara said, with an unmistakable edge to her voice. “You and I both know that can’t be pinned on _Kinnon_.”

“I did see her safely to her chambers, Your Highness,” Kinnon explained. A little desperately. “And then Tasia insisted her ladyship wished to be left alone for the rest of the—”

“Truly, Kinnon?” Sebastian asked. “You’re blaming the maid?”

“No one’s blaming the maid. Or the knight who very dutifully stood outside my door until his prince _bullied his way in_ to ambush me,” Kiara retorted, arching a very annoyed eyebrow in his direction. “If anyone will be blamed for Lady Kiara jumping out her window and running wild in the night, it will be Lady Kiara. Are we understood?”

Kinnon’s cheeks were flushed, but he gave a reluctant nod. Sebastian felt a faint pang of having _perhaps_ gone too far, especially as the reference to the evening in question had brought a deep furrow of frustration to Kiara’s brow.

“This is not an occasion for reprimand, Ser Kinnon,” Sebastian said, relieved when his words made a hint of a smile return to Kiara’s face. “It is quite the opposite. You have served well in your position—” The knight grinned at this, and Sebastian managed, with no small amount of effort, to _not_ grind his teeth. “You both have. The truth of the matter is that there has been some change in Lady Kiara’s status—”

“Maker’s balls, I wish you’d quit it with the ‘Lady Kiara’ing, Sebastian,” she muttered. “They do _know_ who I am.” She rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her chest. It was a familiar gesture, certainly, but he didn’t think she had any idea how differently it went over in a low-cut dress compared to figure-masking armor. Kinnon’s blush spread from cheeks to temples to the tips of his ears before he glanced down, feigning interest in the floor beneath his feet. Ser Maisie’s lips twitched in a brief half-smile. Sebastian didn’t quite glare at the floor, but he was careful to keep his eyes at the level of Kiara’s face. She inhaled deeply, exasperated, and Sebastian forced his eyes higher still, to the pile of hair Tasia had intricately bound atop her head.

Kiara, evidently oblivious, continued, “What Sebastian is _trying_ to say is that we’re…” she drifted to silence mid-sentence, and raised her gaze to meet his. “Maker’s breath, it’s really _real_ , isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “I hope so. Otherwise—”

“Corwin will be very disappointed, yes. I know.” She tilted her head and her lips quirked into a sweet grin. He felt his own mouth pull into a smile in response.

“Lady Kiara has agreed to be my wife,” he said softly.

Maisie’s eyes were the wider. “Oh,” she said, the sound involuntarily pulled from her.

Kinnon only grinned, though the smile faded somewhat when Sebastian leveled a meaningful glare his way.

Continuing, Sebastian explained, “For now the engagement will remain… between us. The Steward knows of it. As does Tasia, I expect—” Kiara’s snort of laughter was answer enough to this. “And now you two.”

Kinnon’s grin faltered, turned confused. “But… why the secrecy, Your Highness, my lady? Lady Kiara’s a noblewoman. She’s—well, the guard likes her well-enough—”

It was Maisie who answered, her tone clipped as she scowled at her partner. “She’s a foreigner, Kin. There are those who will question her involvement. There are even those who might think she engineered our prince’s return for this very reason, to take power in Starkhaven through marriage. _Think_ about it.”

The look on Kinnon’s face made it quite clear he _hadn’t_ thought about it, and once he began to give it all due consideration, it likewise became clear he could now see the problems Maisie was alluding to.  “Blast.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Kiara said.  “We want to reveal it…” she sent a look Sebastian’s way and smiled — a secret little upturn of her lips — “when we’re ready to reveal it.”

“Kiara speaks true,” Sebastian said, gratified when Kiara nodded once, clearly approving of his choice to drop the _Lady_ , at least for the moment.  “It is far too soon, and—”

“And I would like to give _Starkhaven_ a chance to know me and, hopefully, _like_ me before Sebastian makes any sort of… formal announcement.”  She smiled again, unguarded and sweet, as she added, “And that isn’t the sort of thing I’m comfortable rushing.”

“Nor I,” Sebastian added firmly.  “But if you are to be guarding Lady Kiara—”  A soft _tch_ from the woman in question that he’d taken up her title again.  “If,” he said again, firmly, “you are to be her guards, then it would be remiss of us not to keep you both fully apprised of the… situation.”

Maisie watched Kiara, her brows drawing together.  “My lady, how… do you anticipate changing the opinions of so many?”

Kinnon shot her a look.  “We don’t know _how_ many, Maisie.  Don’t be an—”

“No, Maisie’s right,” Kiara broke in.  “I have to assume _most_ of Starkhaven won’t look favorably on me precisely _because_ I’m a foreigner.”  Her slender shoulders rose in a shrug.  “But it’s a job I’m willing to undertake.”

“By jumping out windows?” Sebastian asked her, unable to keep the archness out of his tone.

“Partially,” came Kiara’s pert reply. “I have my methods.”

Sebastian cleared his throat, giving Kiara a stern look even as she directed a sunny smile up at him.  “The point remains,” he said, turning his gaze once again to the pair of knights, “I am asking you to guard her as if she were already your princess.  Do you understand?”

Maisie and Kinnon snapped off identical, sharp salutes.

This time Kinnon’s wide smile was directed at his partner, but Maisie had once again retreated behind the mask of her professionalism. Doubtless she was considering all the things Kinnon was not—the very things that had kept Sebastian awake the night previous. His Eyes would have to know, because it was they who held back most of the hostility against her. Any woman he chose would have been under similar scrutiny—but he knew Kiara would be in an even worse position. She was an outsider, far more even than he. She was alone amongst the scavengers, without alliances or friendships to guard her. For all Kiara had not been forthright about the encounter, he knew the tenor of her altercation with Aileene Caddell, and for every such viper a dozen more waited for the moment to strike and ascend a few inches closer to the top. Behind the polite smiles and courtesies and pleasantries, every bloody noble in his court was jostling for position, and there was little he could do except deflect, and keep them busy amongst themselves.

He glanced slantwise down at her, his stomach twisting. It was a strange thing. He felt happy—happier than he’d ever felt, he thought—and terrified all at the same time. She had proven herself over and over again entirely capable of managing her own affairs and taking care of herself, and yet he wanted so _desperately_ to keep her safe from the cruelty and censure he knew she’d face. The court would not fight the way _she_ fought, and for the first time he wished she’d dipped her toes just a little more into the politics of Kirkwall, if only as preparation for this.

Tapping her foot impatiently, she glanced over her shoulder toward the door that led out into the Great Hall. “How much longer, do you suppose?”

He could hear the tremor deep in her tone, and only because he knew how to listen for it. He imagined to Maisie and Kinnon she sounded cool and collected and utterly in control. That ability, at least, would serve her well. “Not long, I imagine,” Sebastian replied. “It’s the Revered Mother we’ll have been waiting on.”

As if summoned by these words, a faint knock sounded on the inner door. Maisie drew her blade and crossed the room, opening the door a crack. He saw Kiara’s eyes widen, and her cheeks went pale; Sebastian could hardly blame her. Naked steel looked out of place in the little room with its warm tapestries and overstuffed furniture. After a low exchange, Maisie sheathed her sword and turned, nodding. “They are ready.”

She sounded grim. And Sebastian couldn’t help noticing how _loud_ the crowd seemed, even through the very small crack. Loud _and_ angry. He was forced to swallow his desire to have Kiara remain back, remain safe, remain out of the eye of a public willing to murder on the merest allegation of magic. She would not thank him for such a display, and would not heed him even if he ordered it. He knew _that_ much of her, certainly. Better to be unified.

“Well, then,” Kiara said on a sigh, “I guess we have to be ready, too.” Folding her hands neatly in front of her in a way that reminded him painfully of the meekness she’d been forced to adopt in Hercinia, she nodded toward the door with her chin.

“You don’t have to walk two steps behind me here,” he admonished.

Her lips twisted wryly. “But it’s such a _charming_ view. Go on. You and I both know this… experiment can’t be about me. Not today. Not when it’s so bloody important.”

 _Soon_ , he thought _, soon enough she will always be at my side. Where she belongs._

The noise Sebastian heard on the other side of the door fell the moment that door opened — it was not quite a hush _,_ but neither was it the angry hum from earlier.  The noise dropped further the moment he stepped out upon the carpet, walking with slow, measured steps, knowing Kiara was behind him for the walk to the dais upon which sat the Starkhaven throne.  As he walked, Sebastian kept his expression neutral and his eyes forward, but saw Elias and his archers clearly in his peripheral vision.  He felt the Eyes around him, though he couldn’t see them them, which was as it ought to have been, but even knowing they were there did not completely alleviate his concerns regarding Kiara’s safety. 

From another doorway off the Great Hall came Revered Mother Illona, flanked by templars, her expression calm.  Calm and, he saw, shrewd _._   They all of them were not certain the outcome of such an experiment _,_ as Kiara had called it, and if anyone misstepped at any point, the climate in Starkhaven ran a very real risk of worsening.  Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure how, if people were already burning their non-mage neighbors in a frenzy of fear and hate, but if experience had taught him anything, it was that things could _always_ get worse.

After what felt like too-long a walk down too-long a carpet, even though the route from the antechamber was far shorter than the entire length of the Great Hall he’d have had to walk otherwise, Sebastian stood before his throne and, acknowledging the gathered crowd with a nod he hoped conveyed serenity and confidence, he sat. A pair of chairs had been set up just behind and to the left of his throne. Revered Mother Illona took one, still flanked by templars in heavy plate, and Kiara took the other. Maisie and Kinnon stood behind her, their eyes watchful. Had their engagement been public, he’d have had her next to him, not keeping Illona company. In all honesty he wished her lost amongst the crowd and not so visible and obvious a target. He could _see_ how diligently she was attempting to make herself seem small, seem unimportant. Rumors of her sympathies were widespread, and he knew it was important the Champion of Kirkwall be seen to support _his_ plan to apprehend the apostates in Starkhaven.

It pained him somewhat to see her caught between worlds—not quite allowed to be who she had been in Kirkwall, and not yet allowed to take up the mantle of who she would become in Starkhaven—but as she sent him a brief, bolstering smile, he realized those were thoughts for later. _Later_ was not _now_ , and right now, Sebastian was perfectly aware that the order in which the three of them were sitting mattered very little to the townsfolk gathered.  It likely mattered more to the collected nobility, but only in terms of gossip and political speculation, neither of which were the object of this gathering.

In fact, said object was at that moment being — _escorted_ was too kind a word, and Sebastian felt his heart twist painfully in his chest as he saw the woman jerked along, hands bound behind her, her face pale beneath a profusion of bruises, and her eyes wide with fear.  She did not speak or scream or cry out, but he saw, even from such a distance, the way her lips trembled with all she would not give voice to. Her bottom lip was swollen and bleeding—evidently a fist had done its best to convince her silence was the expected behavior.  Amelle would have burned away the ropes and called upon a storm of flame before escaping in the chaos; Merrill would have broken her bindings with threads of lightning, encasing herself in stone; and Anders…

No.  Whoever this woman was, she was no mage.

By the time the woman’s captors reached the clear space before the dais, Sebastian was somewhat gratified to see they looked nearly as terrified as she. He wondered which had been the one to put his fist to her face. All told, nearly a hundred—he’d be much surprised if the number was less—townsfolk were gathered in his hall. The nobility arranged themselves as far from the unwashed masses as space would allow. Sebastian tried not to scowl. Derision and disgust were also for later.

 _Now_ belonged entirely to the woman even now being pushed roughly to her knees before him. She gazed up at him with a sort of hopeless pleading in blue eyes made all the bluer by the darkness of the bruises around them. It was only then, standing so close, he realized he _recognized_ her. It was the woman, Shira, whose letter had _brought_ him to Starkhaven, and who’d betrayed them that first wretched night. Sebastian saw at once she knew she’d been recognized, and her expression went slid from pleading to despair. He wondered if she thought him cruel enough to see her apprehended in payment for the wrongs she’d done against him, but he knew he could let no hint of mercy color his countenance.

In a case as delicate as this one, he knew he had to treat the ‘mage’ guilty until proven innocent, no matter how ill such a thing sat with him.

He heard the sound of fabric shifting behind him, and prayed Kiara would hold her tongue; he could not even chance a look at her lest the crowd believe she was the one calling the shots.

Hoping his expression gave nothing away, he looked to the man who seemed to be doing most of the pushing. “Your name, serah?”

The man glanced around, as if shiftily expecting to see someone else Sebastian might be speaking to. Then he raised his chin and said, with forced defiance, “Coby, Your Highness.” Then, without waiting for Sebastian to speak, he blurted, “I was the one heard you were giving coin for witches.” He had the temerity to look _proud_ of himself, and Sebastian recited several verses of the Chant pertaining to patience to keep himself from reacting. “I was the one stopped the fire. So here she is. I’ll have my gold.”

He did not have to look at Kiara to feel the _waves_ of displeasure radiating from her. He could tell by the prickling at his neck exactly where her eyes must be focused, and just how much irritation was living behind that gaze.

Sebastian inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and asked, “And the woman? Who is she?”

“A witch.”

_Maker, give me strength._

“And ‘Witch’ is the name she was born with?”

Coby blinked stupidly at him, but it was one of the other men who answered, “No, Highness. Her name’s Shira, m’lord.”

Sebastian nodded, as though this information was new to him. “What sorcery has she done?”

Shira bowed her head and whimpered, until Coby cuffed her. The blow was heavy enough to send her sprawling, and with no hands to break her fall, she landed on her already-injured face, crying out. Sebastian clenched his hands around the arms of his chair and said through gritted teeth, “I thank you to leave such measures to my guards, serah. They are better equipped to do so.” _And less like to hit without reason._ He nodded toward one of the guardsmen standing at the foot of the dais, and the knight stepped forward to help the woman upright. Tears streaked her face, and fresh blood flowed from her cut lip, but she did not speak, and her expression was still hopeless and confused and so terribly frightened it nearly broke his heart, no matter _what_ trouble she’d caused them.

“You don’t understand, m’lord,” Coby insisted. “If you let a mage talk, they can get in your head. Make you do things. Make you _think_ things. You gotta keep ‘em quiet all the time. I woulda gagged her, but she bit Jerik.”

“I understand,” he said evenly, without so much as a drop of the anger and derision he felt, “that I asked you a question, serah.  What act or acts of sorcery has this woman committed?”

“She started a fire,” he said.  After a moment he glanced around — somewhat shiftily, Sebastian thought — and added, “With her own bare hands!”  

Sebastian’s answering smile was benevolently amused, or so he hoped.  “A feat managed easily enough by any man, woman, or child in this room with flint and a bit of kindling.  Perhaps you’d be kind enough to… elaborate?”

Coby sent Sebastian a blank look.  He glanced briefly at both the Revered Mother and Kiara before settling his gaze back on Sebastian.  “Pardon, m’lord?”

“What did you see her set aflame?” he said, a bit slowly. Coby struck him as a greedy and cruel, yes, but also a bit slow. He did not want his words to be misunderstood. Not when so much rode on them.

“Oh.  Right.  Well, m’lord, it was a tree, m’lord.”

“You saw this woman set fire to a tree?”

Coby’s eyes went to the Revered Mother once more before darting again to Sebastian.  The man’s hesitation was enough to lead Sebastian to believe he was either lying, or about to lie.  He waited to hear the words that passed his lips.  “I didn’t… exactly _see_ her set fire to the tree, Highness.”

 _The truth, then_.  Sebastian nodded once, encouragingly.  “Go on.  Tell me what you did see.”

The man puffed up slightly, and it became instantly obvious Coby had told this tale before, which only served to leave an even worse taste in Sebastian’s mouth.  “Well, m’lord, I was mindin’ my own business, on my way to see the blacksmith about shoes for my horse when out of _nowhere_ , a flash of lightning shot down from the sky and hit that apple tree, just on the edge of Serah Perkins’ farm.  You… you know the tree, m’lord?”

“Aye,” Sebastian answered, “I do.”  Few men in all Thedas grew apples sweeter than Farmer Perkins.  Sebastian had climbed that tree more than once in his youth, and had eaten more than his share of under-ripe apples.

“I run up and this witch is already there, wavin’ her arms and screamin’ like a proper banshee.”  He rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs through his belt, as if he’d _won_ something.  Sebastian thought very hard about hitting him.  He took a moment to imagine the assault in vivid detail and it became near impossible not to smile, even a little.  

Coughing softly, he asked Coby, “And from this evidence you deduced this woman was responsible?”

“Aye, m’lord.  Don’t see how it could be otherwise.”

 _Because lightning doesn’t strike at random from the bloody sky now, does it?_   But he pushed his thoughts behind the calm, placid mask, smiling a little.  “Very well,” he said, turning his head slightly and addressing the templars.  “Sers?  If you would, evaluate the mage, please.”

But Coby took a step forward, brow lowering in a dark glower. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but you can’t trust them, neither. All the mages in Starkhaven’ve been hiding under the Chantry’s roof for Maker knows how long now.”

Sebastian did not sigh. He did not scrape a weary hand through his hair. He did not rise and level what would have been a _truly_ satisfying punch to Coby’s jutted chin. Instead, he explained patiently, “What mages there were in Starkhaven ran away long ago, serah. Most ended up in Kirkwall’s Circle. I have spoken with the Revered Mother and she assures me she has harbored no mages—”

“Well, she wouldn’t though, would she? Beggin’ yer pardon.”

“Are you?” Sebastian asked pointedly. When the man shuffled his feet and scratched at his stubbly chin, Sebastian clarified, “ _Are_ you begging my pardon? It seems to me, serah, _my_ pardon is the least of the apologies you ought to beg for. On no stronger evidence than an upset woman and a burning tree, you have beaten a person within an inch of her life. You have slandered the Revered Mother, and through her, Starkhaven’s Chantry and the Templar Order. You tread dangerously close to insulting me.”

“I—” Sebastian let the man flounder under the full weight of his gaze. “You said you’d pay coin for witches, m’lord.”

“I said nothing about witches, serah. Truthfully, I find the word coarse and inappropriate and I’ve a mind to punish the next person to use it. I am looking to apprehend apostate _mages._ Order must be maintained. In case you have forgotten, the _Chantry_ is entrusted with that duty, where mages are concerned.”

“M’lord—Your Highness—I—they were going to _burn her_ , m’lord. Burn her in the street. Like the others. But I… I _stopped_ them. I did. Not templars. Me.”

“ _They_ were, were they? And yet you claim you were the one who discovered the mage? And her… sorcerous attack on Farmer Perkins’ tree?”

The man’s mouth opened and closed several times. Sebastian raised his eyes, sweeping his gaze across the assembled crowd. “Is Farmer Perkins here?”

He saw the crowd begin to shift, and finally an elderly man emerged, leaning heavily on a cane. Still, he bowed as much as his stiff back would allow. “Young Vael,” he greeted. “It has been some time since last I caught you eating your fill on my lands.”

Sebastian did allow a brief smile at this. “I believe I owe you some coin, serah.”

Perkins waved a dismissive hand. “No matter, lad. Claiming I grew the young prince’s favorite fruit made me more coin than the few apples you ate cost me.”

Sebastian nearly heaved a sigh of relief. Here, at last, was someone approaching rational, he hoped. “Serah, it is gravely important you answer as truthfully as you are able—did you see this woman on your lands?”

Perkins scoffed, and Sebastian felt a brief sinking feeling in his gut. At least, until the man began to speak. “Of course I did, my young lord. Didn’t I ask her to come myself?” The old man tapped himself lightly on the side of the leg with his cane. “Believe it or not, lad, I’m not quite as spry as I used to be. I’ve got more fruit on my trees than I know what to do with. Saw Mistress Shira in the marketplace and invited her round.” The farmer turned a bushy-browed glower on Coby, who had the grace to look ever so slightly sheepish. “The storm came up suddenly, sure, but the weather’s always mighty changeable this time of year. ’Twas a strike of lightning took out my poor tree, m’lord, and if Mistress Shira was screaming, ’twas because she thought herself lucky not to have been caught in the blast.” He paused, coughing to clear his throat. “ _All_ of which I told young serah Coby, but he wouldn’t listen.”

_No surprise there._

Perkins sighed heavily. “Your Highness, I’ve lived in Starkhaven all my days, and I haven’t ever seen anything quite so ugly as these things I’ve seen this past while, save maybe the troubles what happened to _your_ family. But I’ll tell you this, m’lord, and I’ll tell it you for free: no one knows a mage but a templar. ’Tis the gift they’re given by the Maker Himself. Young Coby here can rant and rave ’til he’s blue in the face, but he can’t tell a mage.” The old man reached up and scraped one hand thoughtfully through his beard. “Seems to me no proper mage’d stand for being treated the way Mistress Shira’s been treated. If she could go and blow up my poor apple tree for no good reason, seems more likely she’d at least singe off Coby’s hair for what he done to her.”

Coby began to sputter a protest, but Perkins slammed the butt of his cane against the marble floor. Even Sebastian blinked as the resonating crack brought silence to the chamber. “No, lad,” he said, warning clear, “you let the templars do their business. Until you can smite a mage with the divine power of the Maker Himself instead of with that meaty fist of yours, maybe you do us all a favor and keep your bloody mouth shut.”

The silence that followed Perkins’ outburst was palpable.  Even Coby, the blood having drained almost entirely from his face, looked stunned and chastised and, though Sebastian would have thought it utterly impossible, ashamed _._

“Serah Perkins,” Sebastian said, keeping his voice even and not indulging the urge to smile.  “Am I to understand, then, that you disagree with Serah Coby’s charges against this woman?”

“Well, Your Highness, I think it’s for the templars to decide once and for all, but I do know this: my legs and back might not be as limber as they used to be, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, and I saw it clear as day — ’twas the Maker Himself sent down that bolt of lightning, not Mistress Shira.”

Sebastian nodded once and gestured briefly at the guardsman who’d helped Shira to her feet; he then brought her forward as two of the templars flanking Revered Mother Illona stepped away from the rest.  Their faces were grave, but Sebastian saw a brief look pass between them.  It lasted less than a second, but it was long enough to tell Sebastian if Shira was any sort of mage, then he was the bloody Queen of Antiva.

“Serah,” one of the templars intoned, “you have been accused of possessing magical ability and living beyond the Circle of Magi in direct opposition to the Chantry’s laws and the word of Andraste herself.  Do you understand this?”

Shira was close enough now that Sebastian saw the way she trembled from head to foot, her skirts quavering like the surface of an uneasy lake.  “Y-yes.”

“What have you to say for yourself?” the other templar said, his deep voice filling the hall, which had grown very silent.

Shira looked around her, as if she feared speaking out might earn her another blow to the face.  When she saw Coby was well out of arm’s reach, she blinked tears from her eyes and faced the templars again.  Her ragged breath was loud. “I am no mage, sers.”

“Do you submit to being tested?”

Shira was nodding even before the templar had finished asking the question.  “Yes.  I do.  Anything.  _Please,_ anything.  Just—yes.  I do.”

The templars nodded, and one of them stepped aside as the other approached.  He lifted his hands, closed his eyes, and soon a pale light emanated from his hands, surrounding Shira in a pearlescent mist.  Then, all at once the mist dissipated and Shira was left blinking at the comparative dimness.

The templar turned to face him.  “The woman is no mage, Highness.”

A helpless sob escaped her, and she bent her head, pressing her chin to her chest as she wept. Sebastian looked to his right, where Corwin stood, dutifully taking notes. He did not have to speak; the Steward took his meaning at once and gestured for a pair of servants to collect her. Shira gave a little cry and tried to scurry away from them as they approached, but her heavy skirts and bound hands hampered her. Sebastian raised a hand, and the servants stopped. Shira’s pitiful cries were the only sound in the entire hall.

Shaking his head, Sebastian rose, and turned to Kiara. “May I borrow your knife?”

She blinked at him, but immediately handed him the belt with its safely-sheathed jewel-hilted blade. He smiled his thanks, and was relieved to see understanding in her eyes. She didn’t quite smile—everything was too strained for smiles—but he knew she approved. Then he turned away, and descended the steps of the dais. The guards stood aside for him, though he noticed one broke off to stand directly at his elbow, and that guard’s hand was firmly on the pommel of his sword.

He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him. He’d done something unexpected, and he could feel the resultant tension; it made the hair rise on his forearms. He ignored it. He ignored them. For the moment, they were not his primary concern.

Sebastian kept the knife safely in its sheath, and held out one hand in a gesture of placation. “Mistress Shira,” he said softly.

She shied away even from him, her whole body trembling with the force of her terror. When her eyes darted up to meet his gaze, he saw she thought he would punish her now; he could see the whites all around her blue irises.

“I mean you no harm,” he soothed. “I want to cut you free of those bindings, if you’ll let me, and then you’ll be taken—”

Another terrified sob interrupted him, but he pressed on, gentle and insistent. “Only for a meal and a bath and a change of clothes, Mistress. You have done nothing wrong here. You have committed no crime. I know it. These templars have confirmed it. You are under my protection. Do you understand?”

“They were—they were going to—they were—”

“I know. They were wrong.” He pitched this for Coby’s ears, and was gratified to see the man flinch. “No one is going to hurt you.”

She sucked in a great, hitching breath and raised her eyes to his once again. “But I—you know what I—I don’t… I don’t deserve…”

Sebastian shook his head. “You are the victim here, today, Mistress Shira. Please, let me see to your comfort.” He gave her a wry smile. “I believe I owe you a bowl of stew, after all.”

She winced, but turned her shoulders so he could see to the bindings. The rope had left her wrists chafed and bleeding, and he felt the tremor of relief run through her as he carefully sliced through the fibers. When her hands were finally free again, they hung heavy at her sides. Sebastian glanced toward the waiting servants.

This time Shira went with them peaceably, though he noticed how careful she was to let no one touch her. She moved as if her ribs hurt, and he made a note to send the healers to see her. The same guard who’d helped her when she’d fallen fell in behind them, his hand at his blade. No one spoke. No one raised a hand against them. When they were gone, Sebastian ascended the dais once again. He returned Kiara’s blade and she gave him a brief nod. When he turned back to the assembled crowd, he did not sit. He stood before them with his chin raised, scanning the faces. He saw a great deal of mortification, and the few angry faces were heavily outnumbered.

“Are there other mages for these templars to test?” Sebastian asked coolly. When no one spoke, he nodded. “Very well. Now you have seen what will happen at these… trials. Expect nothing different. Think twice before bringing me stories without proof. I might _remind_ you Serah Perkins has the right of it: only templars are equipped to identify and contain mages. And there shall be penalties for those who dare lift their hands to innocent civilians.” He turned his gaze on Coby. “You owe Mistress Shira compensation, serah. I will not have you jailed, though this is a mercy. I would be well within my rights to see you imprisoned for your behavior. I will consider what is just, and you shall pay it, even if it means garnishing your wages for the next decade. Do I make myself understood?”

The man blinked and staggered back, as though the seriousness of the situation had only just then occurred to him. Sebastian was of half a mind to keep him in the dungeons for a week or two as punishment for being a bloody idiot and a bully. Instead, he faced the assembly. “The business with the mages for today is thus concluded. We will hold court here in the same manner each day for several hours after luncheon. Is there anything else any of you would care to speak to me about?” Here, he sat again, and at last allowed himself to smile. “Truly, you have my undivided attention. I would rather hear your troubles from your own lips, and do what I can to ease them.”

On the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw the Revered Mother echo his smile. And then a young woman tentatively began to speak of terrible potholes on the western road—so _wonderfully_ mundane a problem, with so simple a solution—and Sebastian turned his attention to the task at hand: making certain his subjects knew he was _their_ prince, that their troubles were his troubles, and above all, that they could _trust_ him.

He knew the latter was the most challenging, but it was also the crux upon which his entire reign would hinge. So he listened. And they spoke.


	67. Chapter 67

By morning the rain had cleared. Mostly. The ground was still more mud than solid earth, and the air was thick with clouds of mist cold enough to make her forget it was still only the _beginning_ of autumn in Kirkwall, but water no longer fell from the sky, and Amelle had to count that a victory. A small one, yes, but better than nothing.

The feeling of triumph didn’t last long.

Fenris barely met her gaze. Only briefly, when she handed him a cup of tea, and not at all when she—somewhat reluctantly—returned the clothing he’d loaned her. Not even when he asked to see their map. He scowled over the piece of parchment—miraculously still intact after its close encounter with the rain—for several long minutes before rolling it up tightly and handing it to her, all without once looking her in the eye.

“It is an inadequate representation,” he said. He gazed past her, toward Cullen. One eyebrow lowered a minute fraction, causing a faint line. She couldn’t quite decipher it. “Missing a number of landmarks. Still, the path appears to be the same I traveled.”

“So you… remember where to find shelter?” Amelle asked.

“I should think last night made that evident.” 

Cullen, at least, looked at her. But his expression was as confused as she felt. She raised one shoulder in a shrug, and Cullen gave his head a slight shake.

“Fenris,” he began.

Fenris cut Cullen off, a strange, strained timbre in his voice. “We should delay no longer. Let us go.”

The fresh air was a relief after the dank, distinctly horse-scented confines of the cave. The tense, uncomfortable interactions where once they’d been so at ease with each other made Amelle’s cheeks burn mercilessly, alleviated only slightly by the cooler morning air.  But every time she glanced toward Fenris, the blush started again. Even faced with only his back, she could tell he was uneasy; his shoulders too stiff and his neck unyielding. Without checking to see they followed, he set his mount northward.

If she hadn’t thought it possible for things to be more awkward than they’d been the night before, she found herself proven terribly wrong.  

 _Focus on Kiara,_ she told herself _.  She needs you.  Think about the journey and what you need to do to help your sister.  At least you know you and Fenris share that objective, even if you share nothing else anymore._

She drew in a breath and let it out again, hoping to ease the way her heart was twisting, to say nothing of the way her stomach burned and clenched itself into knots.  She hated this, hated the way this felt, and _hated_ knowing nothing she could do would make it stop.  No amount of healing magic could ease this wretched, wrung-out feeling.  She’d simply have to cease thinking about it until it all hurt a little less.  Otherwise it was going to be a very long trip.

They’d only traveled a few miles when Fenris reined his horse to a stop.  Amelle, yanked from her thoughts, pulled a hair too firmly on her own reins, and the horse gave a mighty shake of its head and stepped sharply to the side.  She patted its long, chestnut neck and murmured an apology even as her eyes went to the horizon.  Cullen came to a much smoother stop and frowned.

“Fenris?  What’s wrong?”

The elf only pointed at the sky; a thin ribbon of smoke curled and twisted upward.  Before either of them could wager a guess on the source, Fenris gave a light snap of the reins and nudged at the horse’s sides again, leaving Amelle and Cullen to follow, exchanging curious looks as they did.  

Whatever Amelle thought might have been the source of the smoke, she found herself entirely unprepared for the reality.

It was an inn.  If the sign above the door was anything to go by, it had vacant rooms available.

And if the smells issuing forth from that inn were anything to go by, they were still serving breakfast.

“This _definitely_ wasn’t on the map,” Cullen muttered.

“Nor was it here the last time I made this journey,” Fenris replied, staring at the little building.  

Amelle heard a swell of laughter from within. Flowerbeds flanked a white stone walkway.  It looked warm and dry and welcoming _,_ and when the scent of bacon reached her nose, her stomach gave a loud growl.

“You’re bloody _kidding_ me,” Amelle grumbled, even as she nudged her horse nearer the heavenly building with its even more heavenly scents. “This was _here_? The whole time? We could have slept in _beds_?”

Fenris turned his face enough to glower, but not enough to meet her gaze. Again she felt the wretched pang of loss, and again she pushed it down. She blinked the sting from her eyes, remembering how Fenris had looked at her after… after the memories. _Wounded_. “Surely you do not mean to call a halt so soon,” he said, incredulous. “There is no saying how long the weather will hold, and Starkhaven—”

“—Will wait until we’ve had a decent breakfast,” Cullen interjected firmly, just as Amelle was beginning to let herself doubt the necessity of a stop at all, bacon be damned.

 _Maker’s breath,_ bacon _. And toast. With honey. And_ tea _._

“Maybe Fenris is—”

Cullen shook his head. “Who knows when we’ll have another opportunity for a proper meal, and neither of us has eaten enough since we left Kirkwall. An hour is an hour.” 

Amelle blinked, startled by the authority in his tone. Cullen spoke as though he expected to be obeyed, instantly and without argument. Even Fenris’ posture shifted. It was a slight change, but she couldn’t help noticing it. For half a heartbeat Amelle amused herself imagining a full-fledged confrontation between her sister and Cullen, both in complete authoritarian mode. She honestly couldn’t say whom she’d lay her money on.

Then she remembered her sister might never _be_ the same sister she remembered, bossy or otherwise, and suddenly Fenris’ unwillingness to look at her was not the most painful thing the morning had brought.

After a moment the white head inclined, Fenris dismounted, and the decision was made.

Though the ride had been short, Amelle was already—or _still_ , rather—sore when she slid down the side of her own patient mount. If not for healing magic, she imagined the pain would have been unbearable. She glanced toward Cullen just in time to see him wince. She gave him a sympathetic smile and wiggled her fingers at him.

“Horses,” he muttered, before submitting to the healing magic she sent his way.

If Fenris felt any discomfort related to his long ride on his unfamiliar mount, he did not show it. She felt his gaze skim over them, but as she turned, ready to offer him healing, she _remembered,_ and with a jerk, she clumsily yanked her hands in close, pressing her palms against her stomach as if to hide them.  Fenris _did_ meet her gaze then, but for only a moment before turning and leading his horse to the small stable adjoining the inn. With a sigh, Amelle followed. The horses, at least, seemed pleased at the stop—even more so once they were settled, with far better fodder than they’d been able to forage at the muddy campsite.

The smell of breakfast urged Amelle on. She could hardly blame the horses for their enthusiasm when she felt very nearly as excited by the prospect of a plate piled high with hot, fresh food herself.

With Cullen and Fenris at her back, Amelle pushed open the door, already half-certain she could _taste_ the bacon, and there, holding court at the end of one of the long communal tables, regaling the few patrons with some tale that—if she heard correctly—involved both an avalanche _and_ rogue darkspawn, was none other than Varric Tethras.

“There we were, _trapped,_ snow to the left of us, snow to the right, and a whole _passel_ of darkspawn right ahead of us, when—”

Amelle burst into tears.

Varric glanced over at the interruption, and his tale ended abruptly as his eyes widened with shock.  His hands, which had been raised in a sweeping gesture, fell to the table with an impossibly loud thud.

“ _Firefly_?”

A dark head swiveled and Amelle spied Isabela sitting in a chair to Varric’s right, her booted feet propped up on the table as she leaned back in the chair, precariously balanced on its two rear legs.  When she caught sight of them, she swung her legs down and the chair hit the floor with a sharp thunk _._   Varric, already on his feet, bustled around the crowded table, waving a bit at his bemused audience.

“Uh, intermission time, guys.  Take five.  I’ve got this.”  And then he was in front of Amelle, staring, a million and one questions sketching rapidly over his expressive face before he decided on, “What in all the Void are you doing out _here_?”

“And why,” Isabela asked, sauntering up to join them, “are you encrusted in mud and reeking of _horse_?”  The look Varric sent her was slightly reproving, but Isabela only shrugged.  “What?  They do.”

Amelle swiped her tears away with both hands, and when she tried to speak, tried to explain, she was able to manage little more than a hoarse hiccup of a sob.  Frustrated, she shook her head and crouched down, hugging the dwarf fiercely about the neck.  Varric, being Varric, appeared utterly unsurprised, and returned the hug warmly, patting her back.

“Hey, kiddo — Firefly, it’s okay.  You just tell us what—”

“It’s Hawke,” Cullen interjected quietly.

Varric’s arms tensed and froze around her, and Amelle knew precisely which utterly wrong conclusion the dwarf had reached.  At least, Amelle desperately _hoped_ it was the wrong conclusion.

“Is she—”

“Evidently, she was poisoned,” Fenris supplied.

“That bloody _arrow,_ ” hissed Isabela.  “I _knew_ it.”

Before Varric could reply, Cullen went on to explain, “Amelle received a letter from the healer who tended Hawke.  She’s woken from the poison, but the healer fears there may be… lasting damage.”

Amelle pulled away, wiping at her face and sniffling miserably.  _You’ve got to pull yourself together_ , she told herself sternly, and stood up a little straighter, trying to inject a degree of steel into her spine.  “I need to get to Starkhaven,” she said, cringing a little at the nasal quality of her voice.  “The healer said—she said Kiara woke up _wrong_.  I have to—”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Varric said, stopping Amelle as he steered her gently into a nearby chair and pointed to it.  “Sit.”  She did.  “Now, start over.  Starkhaven?  Are you nuts?”

Setting her jaw and tilting her chin stubbornly, Amelle said, “I have to go to my sister, Varric.”

“What he means, kitten, is you are going to be even less welcome than _we_ were,” Isabela drawled as she dropped into a vacant chair next to Amelle.  “And that’s saying something.”  At Amelle’s querying look, she sighed and looked to Varric to explain.  His expression darkened a moment, then he blew out a sigh and shook his head.

“They burn mages there, Firefly.”

Amelle’s eyes widened, the tears startled completely away. “And Sebastian never thought to _mention_ that?”

Isabela snorted. “Oh, it’s a recent development. One our sweet Princess was none too pleased with. We were busy playing noble liberators when… well. When the wind was taken from our sails.”

“You mean they were captured,” Amelle said.

Behind her, Fenris snapped, “And you did nothing to aid them?”

“Hold it, Broody. We did exactly what Choir Boy told us to do. We ran.”

But Fenris was accepting none of it. “I’d expect Isabela to run, but I thought better of you, Varric.”

“Ouch,” Isabela murmured. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, sweetheart?”

Fenris’ voice lowered suddenly, bordering on a growl. “I am not your—”

Isabela raised her hands in mock surrender. “Noted.”

Varric frowned, leaning hard on one elbow and propping his chin on his fist. “We weren’t—” at Isabela’s snort, he amended, “—okay, _I_ wasn’t actually keen on leaving, but things were… look, Choir Boy told us to go and we went. Thought maybe we’d come back for you, Broody, and Aveline, and try a planned assault, but…” Varric’s brow furrowed as he met Amelle’s gaze. “You have to know Hawke wouldn’t want you within fifty miles of Starkhaven, Firefly. Poison or no poison.”

“And you have to know that’s not going to stop me.”

Varric sighed. Loudly. “Hawkes.”

Isabela groaned. “You’re not serious.”

The dwarf arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to let them walk in there blind, Rivaini?” On her scowl, his lips twitched briefly. “Yeah, thought so.”

Amelle closed her eyes, momentarily overcome by a flood of relief.

Isabela rolled her eyes and blew a wayward curl of hair out of her eyes. Then those eyes slipped past Amelle and narrowed. In a theatrical whisper, she said, “Amelle. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there seems to be a _templar_ behind you.”

Varric’s expression wasn’t nearly as amused. “Have to say I noticed the same thing, kid. There some reason you’re traveling with the enemy?”

“I’m not the enemy,” Cullen protested, at the same time Amelle exclaimed, “He’s not the enemy!”

They exchanged a look and a quick smile. Fenris, she could help noticing, was most definitely _not_ smiling. “Cullen’s not the enemy,” she repeated. “He didn’t want me to travel alone.”

With a curt gesture, Fenris said, “Hawke asked him to look in on her sister.”

“But I’m _here_ because of Amelle,” said Cullen firmly.

Varric’s eyes narrowed and traveled from Amelle, to Cullen, and then over to Fenris, before settling once more on Amelle.  “Well, Firefly, it would appear your persuasive skills have untold depths.”

“Now that mystery’s solved,” Isabela said, looking hard at Amelle, “ _I_ want to know why you’re smeared with mud and smell like horse.”

“It was… a difficult night,” Amelle admitted, and began covering the high points — or, rather, _low_ points — of the trip so far.  Isabela did a poor job of hiding her amusement, but Varric only listened and offered the occasional encouraging nod.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair after she’d finished, “lucky thing Broody here caught up with you, huh?”

Amelle glanced at Fenris, whose expression remained impassive.  She felt her cheeks heat and she looked away quickly.  “…Yes,” she answered, clearing her throat.  “We’d… certainly be a lot soggier if he hadn’t come along.”

The dwarf leaned back in his chair, gesturing grandly.  “Hey, the good news is this place has the best food from here to Starkhaven.  A chance to get a good meal, maybe a hot bath, and regroup.”

“Definitely a hot bath,” Isabela added pointedly.

Fenris made an annoyed, impatient sound in the back of his throat and stood.  “The storm has already impeded our progress.  Now you would have us—”

“People have to eat, Broody,” Varric said, cutting him off.  His tone was genial enough, but something in the way he looked at Fenris, maybe in the arch of his eyebrow, made the elf subside.

“Very well,” he muttered, turning for the door.  “I will tend the horses.”

Varric called out to his retreating back, “Want us to order something for—”

“I am not hungry.”  The door shut, and Varric and Isabela exchanged an inscrutable look that lasted several seconds.  Finally, the pirate shrugged and pushed herself out of the chair.

“Why don’t I see about those baths?” she asked, her chipper tone sounding somewhat forced.  “Should be ready by the time you’ve eaten something.”  

Amelle sighed.  “You’re unusually insistent upon the matter of hygiene, Isabela.”

“And _you’re_ unusually redolent of horse,” Isabela tossed back as she flounced out of the room.  Once she was gone, Varric shook his head, chuckling.

“Don’t mind her.  It’s been one Maker-forsaken thing after another since we left Starkhaven.”

“Yes,” Cullen replied, pulling up a chair for himself.  “I think we heard something about an avalanche and rogue darkspawn?”

“And that’s just for starters,” muttered Varric, rolling his eyes.  “Listen, don’t let me bring you down.  You both look like shit, and the grub here is—”

Amelle resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands.  “If you say it’s every bit as good as The Hanged Man, Varric…”

 “No way, Firefly.  The bacon alone—” At Amelle’s hungry groan, Varric let out a laugh and stood, mussing her hair.  “I’ve got a tab running and it was a good night for cards last night.  Order as much as you want.  Then we’ll figure out the rest.  I’m all for heading back to Starkhaven as long as it doesn’t involve a bloody, sodding _boat_.”  He paused thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.  “I wouldn’t mind avoiding the avalanches, either.”

“What about the darkspawn?” Amelle asked, grinning up at him.

Varric let out a derisive snort.  “Them we can handle. For now, though, I’ve got to see a man about a horse.”

#

Horse gave Fenris a baleful look when he interrupted its eating. He thought it had another name, but he couldn’t be bothered remembering it, so Horse it was. Fenris needlessly checked again for burrs or stones or _anything_ that might make it imperative for him to remain out in the stable, but to no avail. The animal had been brushed and groomed to within an inch of its life. The stableboy shot him a look almost as baleful as Horse’s, as if Fenris’ presence cast some doubt on his own abilities.

Still, it felt good to do _something_ , to give himself some occupation. The moment he was left to his own thoughts, Fenris couldn’t help remembering the evening before. He had no doubt Amelle and the Knight-Commander had thought him sleeping, but he was a light sleeper. He’d woken when he heard them speaking. Woken, and then, to his shame, _pretended_ to sleep, listening to their easy camaraderie and jesting, until the conversation turned to Hawke. And just when he’d been about to rise and join them, their voices had dropped and he’d seen… whatever he’d seen. Amelle’s hand on the Knight-Commander’s arm. The way he’d taken her chin between his fingers. Their… embrace.

Amelle had _assured_ him nothing but friendship existed between them, but… still, he found himself jealous.  Jealous it was the Knight-Commander who had her trust now, who had her confidence.  It was his own fault, of course, but that did not lessen the sting.  _You’re the one who ran away. Who hurt her.  You have no right to—_ Fenris swore under his breath, frightening a squeak of dismay from the stableboy, before turning back to Horse and his unnecessary tasks.

Fenris was checking his saddle for wear—of course there wasn’t any—for a third time when he heard the unsubtle cough behind him. When he turned, the stableboy was nowhere to be seen, and Varric leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Seems to me we need to have a talk,” Varric said, as calmly as he might discuss the weather. Only Fenris doubted very much the likelihood of rain was foremost in Varric’s thoughts.

So he arched an eyebrow and said nothing at all.

Varric was undeterred. “You want to tell me what in the name of Andraste’s saggy tits that was in there, Fenris?”

The use of his name startled him enough to bring him around, fully facing the dwarf. In all the time he’d known Varric if it wasn’t _elf_ it was _Broody_ , but it was _never_ simply _Fenris._ “It is none of your concern.”

Varric huffed a breath drenched with skepticism. “Give me a break. I haven’t seen you wound this tight since just before we knocked off that son-of-a-bitch Danarius. Rivaini had it right. What exactly _is_ it that’s got your knickers in a twist? Because we’ve got to get them _untwisted_ and quick. There are bigger things at stake here, whether you know it or not.”

“I am _not_ —” Fenris closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. Behind him, Horse snorted in a way that sounded concerned. Or frightened. Fenris was not fluent in horse. He repeated, “It is none of your concern.”

“Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t, but since when have you known me to butt out simply because something wasn’t my business?”

Fenris had to admit Varric had a point.  “It is… nothing I am inclined to discuss.”

“Now _that_ I believe.  My question to you is whether you think I’m actually _going_ to back off because whatever’s got you rankled is something you don’t want to talk about that isn’t any of my business anyway.”

Scowling, he turned back to the horse, but the animal’s head was deep in a feed bucket and it was chewing rhythmically.  Nothing else remained to occupy him.

Nothing else, it seemed, but a conversation with Varric.

“As forthcoming as usual, then,” the dwarf sighed.  “Listen, if the attitude is because Amelle took off without you, I get that.  But you’re going to have to get over it.  It’s a long way to Starkhaven, and you’d better believe I’m not blowing smoke when I tell you things are going to get worse once we get there.”  Without waiting for a reply, he heaved a sigh and pushed himself away from the wall, taking a step closer, his expression grave. “Look, Fenris, you and I both know she’s not going to be dissuaded. She’s going to Starkhaven no matter what I say, no matter how cranky you are, and no matter how dangerous it is.  Trust me, no matter what the situation with Hawke? Starkhaven’s going to be no picnic for any of us. But especially not for her. The ugliness there made me _wish_ for the good old days of templars versus mages in Kirkwall. You got that?”

Perhaps Varric was inclined toward exaggeration, but Fenris understood at once the dwarf now spoke nothing but the plainest truth.  The set of his mouth was too firm, the look in his eyes too hard.  After a moment, Fenris drew in a breath and let it out again.  “I… understand.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure you do.  They’re not only burning mages in Starkhaven, they’re burning people they _think_ are mages.  _Last_ thing I want to do is let an _actual_ mage within spitting distance of the place, so we’re going to have to come up with a plan to keep that from happening.  We’re gonna get Hawke and Choir Boy out of there with as little muss and fuss as possible.”

Varric’s words washed over Fenris, and then their meaning sank in.  “They are burning… innocents, then?”  

Too late he realized what he’d said, and he was glad Amelle was nowhere in the vicinity to have overheard it.

Varric’s eyebrow rose sharply.  “You think it’d be better if they were burning _actual_ mages?”

Fenris shook his head, as much to disagree with Varric as to rid his imagination of the images it conjured of Amelle amid choking smoke and blistering flame.  “No, I… no. Of course not.  Amelle… knows how to be discreet with her magic,” he said, keeping his voice low.  “She will… be careful.”

“Funny how I really don’t want to take that risk, and I’m pretty sure Hawke wouldn’t want to, either.  And unless I miss my guess, it’s not a risk _you’d_ be too keen on taking, either.”  Before Fenris could reply — or deny — Varric added, “You know, jealousy really doesn’t suit you.”

“I am _not_ —”

But Varric only waved a dismissive hand at him.  “Oh, pull the other one, would you?  And try to remember who you’re talking to here.  Seven years, Fenris.  Give me a little credit, would you?  Seven years, and there’s not a damn thing wrong with my eyesight.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Fenris insisted, checking the rest of the tack, but the leather was clean and supple, still smelling strongly of oil and once again he was robbed of a distraction and he swore under his breath.  Of all the times for the dwarf to be _perceptive._

“Oh, it’s here _and_ there.  The only thing you’re missing’s a big sign above your head.”

Again Fenris’ hands curled into fists, the muscles in his forearms tensing and bunching a long moment before he replied, “Very well.  If you must know, the… matter is no longer in my hands.”  He checked the horse’s tack one more time before admitting, finally, “I do not wish to make things more difficult for Amelle.” Perhaps Varric did not know the details—did not _need_ to know the details, in Fenris’ opinion—but the truth remained as it was. He’d hurt her enough. He would do his best not to add to that pain now.

“Good to know.”  Varric inclined his head and dropped his hands, clasping them loosely behind his back. His expression, however, remained uneasy. Fenris shifted slightly, waiting for the inevitable question. When it came, however, it was not the one he’d expected.

“Look, Broody—” Fenris had never been quite so glad to hear the nickname, because somehow it meant the world was settling back into the patterns he understood _,_ “—all your repressed feelings aside, can we trust him?”

Fenris blinked, shoulders stiffening. “Trust… the templar?”

“Well, I’m not actually concerned about the horse, so yeah. Can we trust the templar?”

Fenris inhaled slowly, deliberately. “Hawke did. Enough to seek his aid.”

“Hawke’s not here. I’m asking you. You’ve got to admit, our history with the Order doesn’t exactly favor the interaction. He could go lyrium-mad on us. Or just… preachy. Or we could get to Starkhaven and he might start thinking they’ve got the right idea. I need to know.”

Swallowing, he realized Varric would go so far as to speak against the Knight-Commander’s presence if Fenris recommended it. With Varric and Isabela added to the party, Amelle could hardly be concerned; she would not have to be alone with _him_ , after all. The Knight-Commander could return to his duties. Varric would ensure it, or do his best. All based on a word from him.

Fenris remembered the look on the templar’s face after the healing at the spring, his desperate sadness when he’d thought Amelle broken beyond saving. He remembered how many risks the Knight-Commander had taken for them—for her. In spite of everything, it was no small thing—indeed, it was a _vast_ thing—the templar had undertaken by giving everything up to keep Amelle from going to Starkhaven on her own. Fenris might be jealous, might be wounded, but he wasn’t petty, and he wasn’t going to lie. Not about something as important as this, even if it would make some aspects of his life… easier to bear.

“He’s trustworthy,” Fenris said.

“You’re sure?”

“A great deal happened in Kirkwall during your absence.  I am satisfied the Knight-Commander is trustworthy.”

Much as it pained him to admit it.

Varric looked at him for a long moment before he shrugged, once again affable.  “And if you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied, Broody.”

#

In Amelle’s estimation, absolutely nothing in the _world_ could possibly be better than a hot bath.  _Especially_ after a long night spent sleeping poorly (or not at all) upon a damp bedroll.  The hot water sank into Amelle’s bones and she sighed happily as she moved the soapy cloth across her skin, wiping away the mud and grime from the night before.  The tunic and breeches she’d been wearing were beyond filthy (and indeed stank of horse; she could hardly blame Isabela for her disgust) and now a fresh change of clothes hung before the fire in the room, the last lingering bit of moisture drying out.

Then the door clicked, opening with a creak, and Amelle ducked down into the bathwater with a splash and an outraged squeal.

“It’s only me,” Isabela said with a chuckle as she closed the door again.  “Maker, but you’re jumpy.”

Amelle kept herself — as much as she _could_ , anyway — beneath the surface of the bathwater.  The suds, which had seemed positively luxurious only five minutes before now felt too thin and too transparent by half.

Evidently sensing her discomfiture, and not caring very much either way, Isabela dragged a chair to the Amelle’s side and dropped into it.  Amelle continued to watch the pirate warily over the edge of the tub until Isabela leaned back in the chair, stretching her long legs out and crossing them at the ankle, then chuckled, waving a hand at Amelle.

“Well, aren’t you just too adorable and demure?  Please, Amelle, you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before in my own mirror.  No need to be shy.”

Amelle furrowed her brows at this and then peered down at her own body’s blurry outline beneath the soapy water.  Objects reflected in Isabela’s mirror were probably larger, too.  After a moment, when it became clear the pirate wasn’t going anywhere, Amelle huffed and slouched back down until her knees poked above the surface, keeping what remained of her modesty more or less intact.

“Something I can help you with, Isabela?” Amelle asked, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

“I just thought I’d pay you a little visit.  Give us a little opportunity to… catch up.”

Amelle arched a skeptical eyebrow at the pirate queen.  “In the _bath?_ ”

“What better place to catch up and _not_ be interrupted?”

“Lucky me.”

“ _So._ ”  An unholy light gleamed in Isabela’s eyes, rivaled only by the unholiness of the grin she wore.  “Tell me _everything._   Don’t leave anything out.  I’ll _know_ if you do.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“You, alone in a cave with the ruggedly handsome templar and one lean, lanky, muscularly _taut_ elf?”

Amelle found she could do little more than blink owlishly at Isabela as she processed what the other woman was implying.  Actually, _implying_ seemed a bit too subtle for what Isabela was doing. Entirely too subtle.  “I… wait.  _What_?”

Isabela sighed happily and folded her hands casually across her stomach, gazing up at the ceiling. Amelle took the moment of distraction to shift, pulling as many of the bubbles up toward her torso as possible. If Isabela noticed, she didn’t draw attention to it. Rather, her voice took on a strange, _okay downright terrifying_ , dreamy quality as she continued, “I couldn’t have _imagined_ a more perfect setup, even if I tried. It was probably _freezing_ in the cave, wasn’t it? And everyone’s clothes were _drenched_. Can’t sit around in wet clothes, can you? That’s a good way to catch a cold. So—”

Here, Amelle interrupted, reminding Isabela pointedly, “Healer. It’s been a long time since a mere cold could defeat me.”

Wrinkling her nose as though Amelle had said something distasteful, Isabela continued, “Handsome seems like a bit of a shy one, but I bet once the gloves come off—”

“Isabela!”

Isabela blinked, an annoyed frown line appearing between her dark brows. “ _Well_ , kitten? If _you’re_ not going to tell me all about it, I’ll be _forced_ to fill in the blanks myself.” She chuckled. Amelle blushed. Even Isabela’s _chuckle_ was salacious. “Mmm. Fill in the blanks.”

“You’re disgusting, you know. There’s nothing to tell. We slept.”

“All curled up together? For warmth, of course?”

“Separately. In damp bedrolls.”

Isabela’s eyebrow twitched. “I’ll just _bet_ they were damp.”

Amelle’s eyes widened, but she couldn’t help the tickle of laughter that escaped her. “I have no idea what kinds of stories you’re concocting in that head of yours, but I assure you—”

“Oh, by all means, sweetheart, let me enlighten you. They’re _divine_.”

“That’s quite all right, thank you.” The bubbles in her bath were dissipating at an alarming rate, and Amelle pulled her knees up close, wrapping her arms around them. Isabela only laughed.

Then, on a wildly exaggerated pout, the pirate said, “Do you have _any_ idea how much people love a good mage and templar tale?”

Amelle glowered. And then found it was no simple thing to come up with a convincing glower when one was naked and wet and hiding under a rapidly disappearing blanket of bubbles. “I do have some idea, yes, but I’m afraid you’re only going to be disappointed. Cullen’s my friend. _Just_ my friend.”

Isabela’s scowl was much more convincing than Amelle’s pathetic attempt at a glower. “You’re a spoilsport, Amelle Hawke. In _my_ head—”

“Yes, yes,” Amelle said. “It was an epic orgy in the world’s least comfortable cave, with the horses looking on.”

“Ew,” Isabela declared, her nose wrinkling more genuinely. “No one has to mention the horses.”

Amelle sighed.  “Nothing happened, Isabela.  Cullen and I were having a miserable time putting the tent together in the rain, and then Fenris showed up and knew of a cave we could take shelter in, so we did.  End of story.”  

Then Amelle remembered the feel of Fenris’ tunic against her skin, the maddening way it kept sliding down her shoulder, the way she breathed in the scent on the fabric like some lovesick schoolgirl.

“I don’t think it’s the end of the story at _all_ , kitten,” Isabela replied, smirking as she waggled her eyebrows at Amelle.  “Not if _that_ blush is anything to go by.”

She sighed and accidentally blew away a particularly strategic cluster of bubbles.  Amelle gathered them back to herself and glared.  “Fenris loaned me some dry clothes.  Satisfied?”

“Only if he helped you change into them.”

“Isa _bela._ ”  But the pirate was not to be deterred, now that she’d been given a scrap of information her imagination could contort and twist into something sordid.

“I bet he did.  I bet he acted all _put upon_ while he helped peel all that wet clothing off—”

It didn’t help at all that Amelle rather wished the pirate _hadn’t_ been making up the details.  She shook her head and sank farther beneath the water.  “Nope, sorry.  It was quite boring, really.”

“So you’re telling me that nothing _at all_ happened while you were on your own, sweetheart?”  Isabela cocked an eyebrow at her, and Amelle couldn’t tell if it was done in disbelief or disappointment.  “Two utterly desirable bodyguards, and you _behaved_ yourself the whole while?  Andraste’s _tits,_ you’re a better woman than I. Or a worse one. I think it depends on one’s definition.”

 _That_ was enough to make Amelle squirm.  She swallowed hard, remembering Fenris’ hands on her as he pressed her against her bedchamber door, the heat of his mouth against hers, the low growl of his voice murmuring in her ear.  She gritted her teeth hard and scrubbed the cloth against her knee, scouring away an invisible speck of dirt.

“ _Something_ happened,” Isabela murmured quietly in a sing-song tone, sounding every bit as pleased as if she’d stumbled across treasure buried in the most mundane place.  Which, of course, she _had._

Amelle swallowed hard.  “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come now.  Tell me something delicious.  Was it Handsome or Broody?”

She covered her face, hiding the burning at her cheeks.  _She’ll combust if I say “both.”_

Too late. Whatever Isabela saw—or thought she saw, or _imagined_ she saw—made her crow her delight and actually _clap_ her hands together in excitement. “By the Maker’s blessed ball-sac! _Amelle Hawke_! To think I always thought you a bit of an innocent. All of a sudden I’m beginning to understand why the tension down there was thick enough to cut with a knife! Go on. Tell Auntie Bela everything.”

Amelle peeked through her fingers. “That’s disturbing, Isabela. _You’re_ disturbing.”

“You love it. Plus it’ll feel better to get it all off your chest.” Once again Isabela waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Amelle groaned.

“It’s not what you think.”

Isabela laughed. “Too bad. For both of us. And them.”

“I mean it. One very brief, very _chaste_ kiss was all it took for Cullen and I to realize we were happier with a friendship.”

Isabela looked disappointed. So disappointed Amelle _almost_ felt sorry she didn’t have a better story to tell. “But… but _mages_. And _templars_.”

“Perhaps overrated, sorry.”

Isabela’s face fell further. “But he has such nice _shoulders_. And those _forearms_. Amelle, please tell me you’ve _noted_ the forearms.” Isabela looked off dreamily again. “Mmm, and his hands. Rogues may have nimble fingers, but a warrior’s hands? And Handsome? Yes, please. I bet he’s got all _sorts_ of interesting calluses.”

Amelle completely ignored all discussion of Cullen’s various and sundry body parts. _Completely._ She didn’t want to think about shoulders or forearms or hands — intricately tattooed hands winding through her hair—so instead she said lightly, “He’ll hate it if you call him that.”  

Isabela grinned. “Of course he will. He’ll probably _blush_. I love it when they blush. You know him better than I do. What do you think? Is he the type to lower his eyes and get all flustered?”

“He might just glower at you,” Amelle remarked, knowing very well Cullen was _precisely_ the type to lower his eyes and get all flustered. Poor Cullen. He might never survive Isabela in full-flirtation mode.

Isabela snorted, clearly amused. “Now you’re getting them mixed up, kitten. You and I both know Broody’s cornered the market on glowering.” Leaning forward, suddenly all attention, Isabela focused entirely too closely on Amelle. “Speaking of Broody cornering things…?”

“We weren’t speaking of that.”

“We are now.”

“We are _not_.”

“That bad, then?” Isabela tilted her head. “Ooh, or that _good_?”

But Amelle only shook her head stubbornly and glared into the middle distance.  “I told you—”

“If you _don’t_ tell me, I’ll just make the details up myself, kitten.  You know I will.”  She leaned back in the chair and propped her feet up on the tub’s rim.  “Let’s _see._   Something _obviously_ happened, else Fenris wouldn’t have been so _irritated._ ”

Amelle snorted and groped for the soap.  “Right, because he’s never irritated,” she replied, trying to sound disinterested and not half as wretched as she felt.

“Oh, he can be, I’ll grant you.  But there was _something_ _else_ afoot downstairs.  So, you and the broody elf, hmm?”  In an instant, her boots disappeared and Isabela was resting her forearms against the rim of the tub, grinning wickedly into Amelle’s face.  “Did you bed him?”

Amelle’s head came up with a jerk.  “Absolutely _not!_ ”

Surprisingly, Isabela didn’t look annoyed or disappointed. She looked irritatingly thoughtful.  “Well, _that_ would make _anyone_ grumpy,” she replied reasonably.  Amelle slunk down beneath the water and avoided the pirate’s gaze, but Isabela took no notice.  “So _something_ happened between you and Fenris, but not _sex_ — and that, Amelle, is utterly _criminal_ — but however it went you don’t want to talk about it.  So you left Kirkwall with Handsome and _without_ Broody, but he caught up anyway—”

“Cullen left him a note,” Amelle supplied, wishing Isabela would lean _back_ again. “Now would you _please_ —”

“And he found you and Handsome cold and wet and cuddling for warmth—”

“Ugh. I wish you’d stop with the nicknames. _Cullen_ and I were _not_ —”

 _“Well._ ”  And now Isabela _did_ lean back, crossing her arms over her chest.  “That makes perfect sense.”

“Good.  Great.  _Excellent_ ,” Amelle grumbled, sending a flash of magic into the water, which had started to grow tepid.  “Now that your curiosity is sated, I hope you won’t mind closing the door behind you when you leave.”

“He’s jealous.”

“Oh, for the Maker’s _sake,_ Isabela.”  And now Amelle sat up, barely remembering to cover her breasts with her forearm.  “Fenris ended… it. Whatever it was. Whatever it was… going to be. I don’t know.”

The pirate’s shoulders slumped and her brow furrowed. “But _that_ doesn’t make any sense at _all_ ,” she opined. “You’ve got to be wrong.”

“Do I?” Amelle retorted, words laced with acid, momentarily angry enough she almost forgot to keep herself covered. Sinking back into the warmed water with an irritated sigh, she wished she knew a spell to conjure bubbles. The last of her camouflage was popping even now. “I was there, Isabela. I’m pretty sure I know what happened.”

“Was it because you _didn’t_ bed him?”

“No.”

“Because you—”

“Isabela, I love you. I do. But I swear I will drop a fireball on your head if you keep pushing about this. There’s no story. It’s not… it’s not your _friend-fiction_. It was what it was, and then it ended badly, mostly because of something stupid I did, and that’s all. Cullen’s here as a friend. Fenris is here because he thinks he owes it to Kiara. Trust me, if he had his way—if he were any less loyal—he would be in Kirkwall, drinking wine and glad to be well shot of me. Okay? _Now_ can we stop talking about this? _Please?_ ”

The only thing worse than Isabela’s lasciviousness was Isabela’s pity, Amelle realized as the pirate turned the latter her way. Amelle closed her eyes, telling herself if she didn’t have to _see_ it, it couldn’t hurt her. Her eyes felt hot, and she blamed the newly-heated water. _Too much._ After a too-long, too-silent moment, Isabela’s fingertips brushed the top of Amelle’s head. “Sorry, kitten.” She didn’t expound on the nature of her apology. “You want me to do your back?”

Amelle felt a weak smile pull at her lips. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Sure?”

Amelle nodded. Eyes still tightly shut, she heard Isabela get to her feet and head toward the door. “Take all the time you need,” the pirate said lightly. “I’ll hold the wolves at bay.”

Before Amelle could remark on Isabela’s word choice, the door closed with a firm snick. Scrubbing at her face, Amelle allowed herself to linger until a knock at the door— _knocking, how novel_ —drove her from the bath. It was a serving girl with a steaming pot of tea and yet another plate of eggs and bacon and perfectly crisp toast. “Um, downstairs? She said you might like this, messere,” the girl said, bobbing into a slight curtsey. “Shall I leave it?”

Amelle gestured toward the table, already determined to think of something kind she could do for Isabela in return.

#

A hot bath and a hot meal had done far more to improve Amelle’s outlook than a rotten night’s sleep on a damp bedroll.  She’d not quite reached “optimistic” yet, but neither did she feel as if she were on the verge of dissolving into tears, which was a definite step up.  And now she had dry clothes and a dry pack, which she was strapping to her horse’s saddle while Isabela and Varric arranged their own travel.

“Amelle.”

Though the sound of Fenris’ voice did not _quite_ cause her calm to vanish, it still twisted into something unpleasant, but not unbearable.  Steeling herself, she turned to face him, hating the way her hands went cold, heart skipping and breath catching at the sight of him standing close, but not as close as he’d once stood.  “Yes?”

It was… strangely gratifying to see that he seemed to be struggling with what to say as well; at least she wasn’t alone in that regard.  She wasn’t sure what to say to him, either.

_I’m sorry.  Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.  I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for that to happen.  Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.  Anything.  If you can only forgive me._

But those words seemed… inadequate, and so she didn’t speak them.

“I do not wish to make this journey more difficult than it must be,” he told her, meeting her eyes, but intermittently and with effort.  “We are all concerned for Hawke’s well-being.  It is for the best if our focus remains on her safe return.”

Amelle felt herself nodding slowly.  “I’ve…” she fiddled with the end of one billet strap, tucking it firmly against the girth.  “Yes,” she said finally.  I agree.  I… I’ve been worried about her.”

“I know.”  Lifting a hand to her horse’s bridle, Fenris checked the bit.  “Perhaps we ought to have left when you first broached the subject.”  From the bit, which needed no adjusting, he checked the noseband.  “It appears now that would have been the wiser course.”

“There’s nothing to be done for that now.”

“Indeed, there is not.”  No part of her tack required adjustment, and Fenris took one step backward, hands laced behind his back.  “In any event, you have my blade, Amelle.  I will do my utmost to assist in recovering your sister.”  He hesitated, but briefly.  “As to the rest…”

“We needn’t… dip our toes in anymore.”  But just saying the words made her remember the bench under the yew tree, speckles of heat and shade as the sun filtered through the leaves above, casting patterns in his hair and down his arms.  Fenris’ fingers carding through her hair, touching her face, her shoulder, her hand, his mouth against hers, tasting of tea and cinnamon and _himself._ But more important things required their attention now, and if Fenris was willing to put aside what had happened in order to offer her his help, Amelle was grateful for it.

Fenris opened his mouth, then closed it again and nodded once.  “Very well.  I… yes.  That is… probably for the best.”

Amelle inclined her head, and when she lifted again, Fenris was gone, already hoisting himself into his saddle. “Probably for the best,” she whispered under her breath, not believing the words at all.


	68. Chapter 68

Expecting Tasia, Kiara didn’t look up when the knock preceded the door opening. “Thank the Maker,” she said lightly. “I am _dying_ for a bath.”

“ _Are_ you?” Sebastian asked, chuckling. “And am I to take that as an invitation or a command to provide?”

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth and she felt the heat of a truly ferocious blush rise from toe-tip to hairline.

“Not that I object to your choice of evening entertainment,” he continued in the low, teasing tone that did precisely _nothing_ to stop her blush. “But I did have something else in mind.”

“Something else in mind?” she echoed weakly.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. The smirk was very nearly as distracting as the tone of voice, frankly, and she squirmed a little under its weight. “I don’t know, Kiara. Now I find myself somewhat intrigued…”

She grimaced, rolling her eyes. “I thought you were Tasia.”

Adopting an expression of mock hurt, he said, “Oh, it’s Tasia, is it? I see how it is.”

The grimace became a grin. “You really are just like every man in the world, for all your airs and prayers, aren’t you? What is it about the thought of two women anyway?”

“Breasts,” he replied immediately. “So many _curves_. Impossible to resist.”

Caught by his frankness, Kiara laughed nervously. Her own breasts tingled rather, and the feeling only grew more intense as he met her gaze and crossed the room. With the back of one index finger, he traced the curve from the shell of her ear down the side of her neck and over the exposed skin of her shoulder.

“Curves,” he whispered again.

“T-too bad there’s only one of me then,” she stuttered.

“Ahh, no,” he replied. “I wouldn’t want to share you.” As if to prove his sincerity, he slid his hand behind her neck and brought his mouth down to hers.

Every time Sebastian kissed her, she found herself thinking _this, this, it cannot possibly get better than this_ and then the next time, it was somehow better. It seemed impossible she’d gone so long seeing him daily and _not_ kissing him. And though she sometimes feared—even now, even after all his assurances—he would one day wake and turn away again, she found herself willing to accept the possibility so long as she kept these moments and these kisses.

He sighed as he pulled away. “I see I’m sharing you even now, though, am I not? Are you troubled?”

“When am I not troubled?” she retorted. “And you’re not sharing me. I was just…”

“Thinking too much?”

“Something like that.”

A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Well, then, now seems the appropriate moment to tell you I have something for you.”

“Ooh,” she said, with exaggerated delight. “Is it a pony?”

He huffed a laugh. “Do you want a pony?”

“Not particularly. It’s wretched enough cleaning up after a dog. I imagine ponies are even messier.”

“Good,” he said. “Because it’s not a pony. It’s better.”

“Weaponry?”

“Closer. There. Look on the end of your bed.”

She did. “My _armor_ ,” she cried, genuinely delighted this time, no exaggeration necessary. “ _Maker_ , where did you find it? And look how nice and clean and mended and _polished_ it is!” Kiara darted across to the bed and raised the leather jerkin to her nose. It smelled of home, and she felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes.

“Well, I can’t take credit for the cleaning,” he said. “That was Tasia’s doing. I did, however, convince her you needed it back.”

Still embracing her leather, Kiara smiled up at him. “How? Did you tell her we were soon to be under attack? She’d probably just force me to wear one of her so-called archery gowns, come Blight or Exalted March.”

“Even Tasia was forced to admit she didn’t have a gown appropriate for skulking on rooftops and through shadows. At least, not one appropriate for _you_. I told her I’d be very displeased if I learned you’d taken a tumble from someone’s roof because your feet got tangled in your plethora of skirts.”

As his words sank in, giddiness made her grin. “So you’ve changed your mind? You’ll let me… wander? Without going all scary prince on me again?”

“Scary prince,” he scoffed. “You haven’t seen scary prince. I… you are who you are, Kiara. I would not want you different. Not for me. Not even for Starkhaven. So wander. It’s not about me… letting you. I know you’d go anyway, but you have my blessing.”

“But? I can hear that unspoken _but_ loud and clear, Sebastian.”

“Take guards.”

“Don’t you think the clanking of their armor may detract somewhat from the effectiveness of my skulking? Can you imagine Ser Kinnon trying to be _quiet_?”

“Not Kinnon.” Sebastian grimaced. “I’d send you with an entire patrol if I thought you’d not just attempt to lose them after ten minutes. No, a pair of the Eyes will follow you—and they won’t interfere. You can give them a signal. I daresay they can skulk with the best of them.”

“With _me_ , you mean,” she teased.

He smiled a little sadly. “I still hate to see you go without me, but…”

“The prince of Starkhaven ought to limit his skulking.”

“For the time being, aye.” Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to her knuckles, and then held it close to his breast. “Please, Kiara, I beg of you. No unnecessary risks.”

“Who me? Never.”

He shook his head and kissed her hand again before releasing it. “I was afraid you’d say that. In exactly that tone.” Then his fingers drifted to the buttons at her back and she jumped.

“I, uh—what? Are you doing?”

“Would you prefer I send for Tasia? I do know how to work buttons, you know. I think you’ll recall I’ve played lady’s maid for you before. Or were you planning on just ripping your way out of this monstrosity? Maker knows you’re not going to rest until you’re safe in your own clothes again; I can tell by the look you’re giving that jerkin. Really, you’re making me jealous. I almost regret giving it back to you.”

#

Kiara blushed again and looked down at the ground. The carpet was very pretty, woven in shades of red and gold in the shapes of autumn leaves. Scuffing her toes against one of them, almost expecting to hear it crunch beneath her feet, she said, “It’s—not that I—”

Coming to face her again, Sebastian raised her chin with the pressure of his fingertips. “It was innocently meant, Kiara. I… wasn’t going to take advantage. You know I would never—”

Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. “It’s _not_ that,” she said, muffled. “It’s just—of _course_ you know your way around women’s gowns. You’ve never hidden your past. But I—”

“Don’t know your way around women’s gowns?” he teased gently. “Aye, Tasia does go on about it. And there was that thing with the ruffles on the ship, wasn’t there? Maker, but that was an ugly dress.”

“ _Sebastian_ ,” she muttered, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m _serious_.”

Taking her hand, he pulled her to the hearth and the two armchairs angled before it. He settled her in one and took the other, pulling it close enough that their knees touched. Still not quite able to bring herself to meet his piercing, concerned gaze, she focused on the empty palms in her lap. “There was a boy, once,” she said without looking up at him. “When I was eighteen. It… lasted a season. It ended badly.”

“He was your first?”

She winced. “He was the _only_ , Sebastian. It’s just… after that, it didn’t seem important enough to risk it.”

He was silent so long she finally had to look up. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t what she saw. Sebastian was pale with rage, his eyes flashing, his hands curled around the ends of the armchair with force enough to whiten his knuckles. She tilted her head, confused. “Sebastian?”

“Did he—” Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled, exhaled loudly and continued, “Did he _hurt_ you?”

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening. “No. I mean… not the way you think. Oh, no, Sebastian. It wasn’t that. I’m not… opposed to the activity. I simply haven’t any _experience_ with it.”

He raked his hands through his hair and then leaned forward, resting his elbows heavily on his knees. “But, I—you were so _admired_ in Kirkwall.”

Against all odds she found herself smiling. “Maybe,” she said. “And Maker knows Mother was desperate to see me wed. There was only one little problem.”

“This… former lover of yours?” he asked, accent still rough with anger.

“Maker, no. I had all these pesky feelings for someone I thought would never return them. I had rather resigned myself to my single life, I’m afraid.”

He sat back, clearly undone by sudden understanding. “But, I… had… no _idea_.”

“I wasn’t exactly shouting my feelings from the rooftops.”

He shook his head, paused, shook his head again. “You _told_ me to stay in the Chantry.”

She swallowed and glanced to the fire just as a particularly large log crumbled in pieces, sending a gout of flame up the flue. “I cared about you enough to… desire your happiness above all else. I didn’t _want_ you to know my feelings. I thought you would consider them… objectionable. I was afraid my unrequited affection would cost me your friendship, if you knew. I would never have admitted it.”

“Kiara…”

“I wasn’t miserable,” she insisted. “I just wasn’t looking for anyone _else_.” She huffed a brief, uncomfortable laugh. “I know you are prince now, but—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I know what you’re thinking. No. I _am_ prince now. And… even if the option were open to me, I could no longer return to the Chantry. Having taken it on at last, I couldn’t forswear my duty to Starkhaven. And I do not _want_ to. I… wouldn’t be able to retake those vows in good conscience.” Taking her hand in his, he ran his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. Even this gentle touch made her shiver. “Kiara, I turned to Andraste and to the Maker in a time of… I was weak, and I was looking for strength. I was disgusted with myself, and I thought the Chantry would give me the opportunity to atone.”

“And you no longer feel that way?”

“The Maker sent me to _you_. Who am I to argue with Him?”

“Seems you’ve done plenty of that over the years,” she remarked, aiming for mild and still sounding too close to troubled.

“I’m wiser now.”

“Admit it,” she said, gazing up at him through the fringe of her eyelashes. “You just want to see me naked.”

Startled, Sebastian laughed. It was a deep, resonant belly laugh and it made her laugh, too. Soon the both of them were bent over, tears running down their faces, gasping with merriment. At last Sebastian dashed the backs of his hands over his cheeks and then reached across to gently brush her own tears away. “Aye, my love,” he said, and her breath caught at the term of endearment. “But not now. We are in no hurry, for any of that.”

After a moment she said, “So you’re not going to help me with my dress, then?”

Rising, he brought her to her feet and pressed his forehead gently to hers. “I will help you with your dress.”

“…This doesn’t mean you aren’t going to kiss me anymore, does it? You know I’m not nervous in the slightest about _kissing_.”

He smiled even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then followed that with another to her lips. “I will gladly kiss you, if you’ll permit it.”

“Good,” she returned lightly. “Then let it be known all kissing falls under good regulation.”

The sweet smirk returned as Sebastian turned her and began deftly undoing the thousands of buttons of her gown. “He must have been dreadful,” Sebastian remarked.

“Who must have been what?”

“This young lover of yours. Must have been dreadful.”

“…Because?”

Sebastian kissed the nape of her neck, and then the inches of bare skin revealed by the undone buttons. “Because,” he said, “if he’d known what he was doing, you’d have some idea of what _all kissing_ being under good regulation might entail.”

She blushed. Again. “Oh. Yes, I… suppose you might be right.”

He laughed again, and finished the buttons. “The rest you can manage on your own, I’m sure. I’ll send for the Eyes. I know you will be impatient.”

She called out before he reached the door, and when he turned, eyebrows raised, she said softly, “Thank you, Sebastian. I—thank you.”

“Come back safely to me, love. That’s all I ask.”

She hadn’t been thanking him for the permission to skulk, but she didn’t bother correcting him.

#

After several evenings spent ghosting through Starkhaven’s streets, The Spotted Pig was Kiara’s new favorite tavern. The bartender didn’t water his ale, a minstrel strummed a mixture of tunes bawdy and sentimental in one corner, and the patrons hardly looked at her. Her bow garnered some little attention, but there were other weapons in the room, though no one seemed inclined to draw them. She liked that, too. 

Her pair of Eyes sat on the opposite side of the crowded taproom, pretending to drink, and pretending to converse. She knew they missed nothing. The first night, someone had spoken a little too roughly to her—and the Eyes had stepped in at once, escorting the man away and giving Kiara time to depart with grace. Tonight she sat alone, listening, but most of the conversations she overheard were about crops and weather and speculation about the prince’s coronation.

She hadn’t heard the word _mage_ once. To say it was something of a relief would have been a colossal understatement.

Just as she was preparing to leave, a man approached her. His steps were tentative and he paused several feet shy of anything anyone might consider personal space. “Ahh, my la—messere, I wonder if I might… bend your ear a moment?”

She did not miss the almost-spoken honorific, and her brow furrowed. The man appeared to carry no weapon. His clothing was well-made, but not fine; she would wager he had a wife with a deft hand for sewing. He had farmer’s hands, and his wide blue eyes gave him a perpetually startled mien.

One of the Eyes was watching. Kiara raised her now-empty tankard to the signal she was fine before waving the man into the seat opposite her. He startled, and inclined his head in something that could have been acknowledgement, but could also have been a bow before accepting her invitation.

“I take it you know me, serah, but you have me at a disadvantage,” she said lightly, signaling the bartender for another two pints.

The man’s eyes widened even further. “I didn’t believe the rumors myself, my la—messere. But no one… it’s been years since the, uh, since _your folk_ mingled with mine. The two worlds don’t meet up much.” He nervously scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and added, “Sorry, messere. I-I’m Joff.”

“Hello, Joff. I’m Kiara. Pleased to meet you.”

He blinked at her even as the barkeep settled the ale on the table before them. Kiara slipped the man a coin and leaned forward, regarding the stranger intently. “You’re not, uh, what I expected, messere,” he said weakly. “I thought—I don’t know, with what they say—”

“What _do_ they say?” Kiara asked. “I gather my reputation precedes me. And I gather not much about my reputation is flattering.”

Joff glanced around and drank of his own pint deeply before replying, “Starkhaven’s had some Champions in its day, messere. I’d say… the opinion is mixed. What happened with the Chantry there—”

“I understand,” Kiara said. “I lost friends to that tragedy, serah. Is that why you wished to speak with me?”

Joff pondered the ale in his glass for several moments before replying, “No, messere. I—we—hear if one goes up to the,” he lowered his voice, “palace, the prince’ll listen. But I have my business to run and my wife’s got the little ones and… it’s not the _trouble_ we’re presently concerned with.”

 _Trouble_ , Kiara understood, meant _mages_ , so she nodded. “But there’s something you would have him know?”

Again the man drank deeply before replying. “I run a little stall in the vegetable market, messere. Of late, there’ve been some… we’re being asked to pay for protection, but we’re all small stalls. We hardly make enough to survive ourselves, without having to give half of it away.”

She almost smiled. This, at least, she _understood._ Prejudice and rumors might be hard to fight, but common criminals she knew what to do with. “You know who’s running this racketeering scheme? Is it a thieves guild? Some branch of the Carta or the Coterie like in Kirkwall?”

“Nothing so grand, messere. Man everyone calls Tiny.”

“Let me guess, he’s a giant.”

Joff nodded uncomfortably. “We—some of us at the market—were going to stand up to him, not give him anything anymore, but he… threatened my wife, messere. Near broke her arm, scared her half to death. And all in front of the children.”

Kiara did smile at this, but it was the smile she reserved for people about to regret crossing her. “You know where to find him?”

“Aye, messere. If you could just… maybe the guards could…”

Kiara pushed her half-full pint away and rose, slinging her bow over her back. “No need to bother the guards. Come on, Joff.”

But the man did not rise. He did not even move. He stared at her the way she knew she’d stared the first time she saw an ogre or a dragon. “What?” she asked, “You think I carry this around for show? It’d be a terribly awkward fashion accessory.”

Joff shook his head slowly, incredulously. “No, my lady,” he said, slipping at last. “I—can’t. Not this. I just wanted someone to _know_. I can’t be responsible for—”

“Ahh, friend, I make my own decisions and usually those decisions boil down to _stop bullies from bullying_. Now, you can _tell_ me where Tiny lives, or I can start asking other people questions. I’d rather you tell me, though. I don’t know Starkhaven all that well yet, and I don’t want to land myself in hot water by asking the _wrong_ people the _wrong_ questions.”

Joff put his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have said anything… Andraste’s flaming _sword_ , I shouldn’t have said anything. The prince’ll kill me. My _wife_ ’ll kill me.”

Kiara clapped the man on the shoulder bracingly and nodded to her incognito companions. They rose and left separately. “You don’t know me yet, Joff, but suffice to say? This is pretty much _what I do_.”

#

Tiny wasn’t just a giant. Tiny was a _giant_ giant. If he was less than seven and half feet tall, she’d eat her own shoes. But he was no Arishok. Peering through the window of his house, Kiara shook her head and gestured for Joff to stay down. The poor man trembled in his boots and looked ready to soil himself at any moment. Kiara almost felt sorry for him, but Tiny—giant or none—was not going to break any arms or steal any more hard-earned wages; that she was certain of.

Holding tight to the edge of the roof, on the count of three she swung herself down and kicked in the shutters. Though they did not precisely _approve_ of her actions, the Eyes followed, dropping down behind her as she rolled to her feet and drew her bow.

Tiny, caught completely unawares, turned away from the hearth and threw a pot at her. She dodged the wave of scorching soup, aimed, and caught the man square in the left foot with her arrow, effectively pinning him, unless he wanted to do more damage to his foot than would easily heal.

“Hello,” she said as he shouted epithets—some very creative, she had to grant—at her. When he bent to attempt to remove the arrow, she nocked another, drew and cooed, “Uh-uh. I would think twice about that, friend.”

“Andraste’s fucking tits, who are you? Breaking into my bloody house! I’ll call the fucking guard, you bitch, you—”

She grinned, aiming the point of his arrow for his other foot. “Will you? I wonder what they’ll have to say about a sweet man like you threatening law-abiding citizens and nearly breaking the arms of clearly monstrous women? In front of her devilish children, no less.”

“What the—?”

She spoke over him, “I’m Kiara. I hear they call you Tiny. Can’t imagine why, unless it’s a nickname for some part of your anatomy I’m not presently familiar with. Like your… knees.”

“Bitch, I’m going to—”

Her second arrow thunked into the floorboards an inch from his foot. “Speak to me calmly and respectfully?” she asked. “Because I really think you ought to start now. Before I get annoyed. And before I think too hard about what I like to do to men who get off on breaking arms instead of using words. Or, you know, following the _law_.”

“I didn’t break any—”

A third arrow whizzed by his left cheek to land, quivering, in the wood of his mantel.

“I dislike liars even more than I dislike bullies, Tiny, and when you put the two together? I get terribly put out. Now, here’s the thing: you’ve a mighty fine house here. And that looks to have been some mighty fine soup filled with mighty fine vegetables. Maybe you start paying market price for those vegetables, and we don’t have to have a repetition of this conversation. And it stays between us.”

“I’m supposed to be scared of you? Supposed to think you have some _power_? Some foreign bitch with a fancy bow? You looking to muscle in on my territory?” He tried to move and winced as his foot caught on the arrow. Then he gave her a half-leering sort of smile and added, “I’ll give you the bloody vegetable market if you want it.”

“Oh, Tiny. My fancy bow and I dislike you _so_ very much.” Glancing back over her shoulder just slightly, she added, “Can you arrest him?”

Tiny lunged forward with a scream of rage, pulling the arrow straight through the flesh of his foot. He made it three steps before Kiara felled him with an arrow through one knee. He stumbled, tried to rise, and fell flat on his face, screaming. Crouching beside him, she spat, “I was missing you on purpose, you idiot.” Then, to the Eyes, she said, “Arrest him. If he resists, kill him. I’ll answer to Sebastian for it.”

Tiny glared up at her through pain-bleary eyes. “S-sebastian? _You_? _You’re_ the prince’s foreign whor—”

Kiara punched him, feeling the deliciously satisfying crack of his nose shattering beneath her blow.

“Now arrest him,” she said calmly. “If you happened to break _his_ arm in the process, I wouldn’t be sad.”

Outside, Kiara shook the lingering pain from her fist as Joff looked on, amazed. “He won’t bother you anymore,” Kiara said, grimacing.

Joff blinked. “You’ve, uh, got… blood. On your face.”

“Do I?” she replied, dashing her hand over her cheeks and frowning when they came away smeared with red. Glancing down at herself, she swore in pure annoyance. “Damn, my armor was _so clean_.”

He bent in an awkward, too-deep bow. “My lady, if there’s anything… _anything_ me or mine can ever do for you, you have only to ask.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a wry half-smile. “There is one thing you can do for me, Joff.”

“Anything, my lady.”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Quit it with the ‘my lady’s and the ‘messere’s. I introduced myself as Kiara; that’s what I’d like you to call me. And invite me for dinner sometime. I’d like to meet the wife that stood up to that sodding shit-for-brains.”

“Aye. Uh. Kiara.”

“Good man. Now, I don’t suppose you want to walk a lady home? My friends have their hands full.”

Joff nodded, mouth still slightly agape, and offered his arm.


	69. Chapter 69

It seemed, to be perfectly honest, a strange place for a trader to set up shop.  Or, at least, it had seemed so until Varric and Isabela strolled up to the dwarven merchant, greeting him by name, Varric chatting up the trader until he’d offered them all a discount on his goods.  Something about a cousin they had in common on the Merchant’s Guild, she thought.  The trader, Kaldrec, had seemed less than convinced until Varric flashed his signet ring.  Amelle was fairly certain she’d never seen so sudden a change in attitude _before_ any money had changed hands.  Within minutes, Varric Tethras had negotiated enough winter gear to outfit their entire party and Isabela had mysteriously vanished.

“Are you quite certain this is going to be necessary?” Amelle asked Varric as she dug through the coin in her purse and handed over several pieces of gold and silver to the trader who watched them all with beady, greedy eyes. 

Varric snorted as he pressed a fur-lined cloak and gloves into her arms.  “Trust me, Firefly.  Doesn’t matter how much fire you can make fall out of the sky, you’re gonna want to be bundled up for this.”

“If there’s one thing I hate more than bloody _horses,”_ announced Isabela as she came around a rocky outcropping, “it’s bloody _snow._ ”

Fastening her own cloak and pulling up the hood — the fur tickled her cheeks — Amelle stared and then _gaped_ at the glowering pirate, who likewise had donned a fur-lined cloak and heavy gloves.  “Isabela—”

“Don’t even say it, kitten.”

“Isabela, are you wearing _pants_?”

From behind her, Varric chuckled.  “Rivaini learned her lesson the first time through.”

Cullen sputtered, dropping one glove.  “You traveled through the mountains dressed like—dressed like _that?_ ”

Isabela’s glare slid into a smirk as she sauntered closer to the templar.  Amelle had to admit the addition of pants did absolutely nothing to detract from Isabela’s saunter, and she felt a flare of envy when she realized the pirate could have been decked head to foot in burlap and it wouldn’t have made a bloody bit of difference.  

“It was _terrible_ , too,” Isabela pouted.  Cullen’s flush was instantaneous, coloring all the way up to the tips of his ears, the pink turning pinker when Isabela leaned closer and looked up at him through her lashes.  “And I didn’t even have someone like _you_ , Handsome, to help keep me warm.”

“Yeah,” Varric said, his voice flat.  “Real pity, that.”

Isabela threw a wink over her shoulder, but Varric’s expression remained patently unamused. Then again, little in the day and a half since they’d departed the inn had seemed to amuse Varric. He was almost uncharacteristically solemn, which unnerved Amelle a great deal more than the vague threats of what lay ahead of them. Almost as if to spite him, Isabela remained relentlessly lighthearted.

Bending from the waist in a way that made the curve of her bottom distractingly evident, Isabela retrieved Cullen’s fallen glove. He blinked. Amelle didn’t think it was the _glove_ he was concerned with. Behind her, she heard Fenris make a brief sound of displeasure—probably at how much time they were wasting.

Isabela admired the glove a moment before pressing it into Cullen’s hand. “You’re _tall_ ,” she purred.

Cullen shot Amelle a terrified look. She almost laughed. It was the kind of expression a drowning man might wear. If they’d turned a corner and found an entire horde of darkspawn, she thought Cullen might have been less distressed.

It was Fenris who spoke, his voice sharp and cool. “You are acting even more foolish than usual, Isabela. We have no time for this.”

The pirate grinned, stepping away from a still-pink Cullen, clasping her hands loosely before her. “ _Jealous_ , are we?”

Fenris glowered. “You know I am not.”

Amelle didn’t think she imagined the all-too-knowing glance Isabela shot her way, but she ignored it entirely, fussing instead with the fit of her own glove. The pirate sighed, loudly and with gusto. “If you lot knew _half_ of what we went through getting here, you’d none of you be quite so eager to set off.”

“Avalanches,” Fenris said dryly. “And darkspawn.”

“To say nothing of the bandits, the rain, the snow, the broken crossbow—”

“She’s fixed now,” Varric interjected, giving Bianca a fond pat.

“—The pickpocket who stole most of our coin, the lame horse, and the _people burning mages alive in Starkhaven_ ,” Isabela finished. Her cheeks were pink, and Amelle had to admit it was the closest she’d ever seen the pirate to genuinely distressed. “So no, I’m not keen on a repeat performance.”

“We are well-armed, and as well-prepared as might be,” Fenris said, but his calm only made Isabela stamp her foot in anger.

“Tell that to the mountain just before it shrugs its shoulders and dumps a load of rock and ice and Maker knows what else on our heads,” she retorted.

“Isabela,” Amelle said, as soothingly as she possibly could, “Fenris does have a point.  You were alone before.”  She gestured at Fenris and Cullen, their own cold-weather wear doing nothing to hide their weaponry.  “This time, you’ve two extra swords handy in the event of darkspawn or bandits, and, for no extra charge, ice-and-snow melting fireballs, protective barriers, _and_ for a limited time only,” here, Amelle spun her staff loosely in her hand, “paralysis glyphs guaranteed to stop even the peskiest pickpockets.”

Isabela sighed, folding her arms over her bosom.  “You’re leaving out the part where an entire _city_ would come out to watch you roast like a suckling pig, kitten.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said placatingly.  “I promise.  Besides — _healer._ ”

“And it’s bloody _cold_ ,” Isabela added.

“Fireballs,” whispered Amelle, grinning and wiggling gloved fingers at her.

Finally, Isabela’s distressed expression wavered, and for all that Amelle believed completely that Isabela had no desire whatsoever to return to Starkhaven at all — much _less_ tromping through ice and snow to do so — she could see the other woman’s resolve weakening slightly.

“Well,” Isabela began, slightly mollified, “I suppose there is _something_ to be said for adequate preparation.”

“Exactly.”

But then Isabela’s lips twitched and one eyebrow arched gracefully.  “So tell me, kitten.”

Amelle had a bad feeling.  “Yes?”

“Does handling all that fire make your hands… hot?”

Amelle felt her own cheeks grow warm and she took a wary step back.  “Um.”  But Isabela only sauntered closer.  And this time when she looked to Varric for help, she saw the dwarf looking less somber than he had been.  Varric looked, in fact, on the verge of being _amused._

“Because if that’s the case, kitten,” she murmured, moving indecently close and invading every ounce of Amelle’s personal space, “maybe I won’t be looking to Handsome to keep me warm on those cold, _cold_ nights.”

“Isabela,” Fenris snapped, “if you are quite through playing games, might we finally depart?”

She shot him a long, unreadable look, then pulled away with a flourish and _winked_ at Amelle before going back to Varric’s side.  “By all means, Broody,” she retorted pertly.  “Just remember:  I tried to warn you.” She sighed.  “The sooner we start, the sooner we can kick the arse of whatever it is that wants to kill us horribly.”

“That’s the optimistic spirit, Rivaini,” Varric replied, and the two rogues started up the path toward the clearing where they’d tethered the horses.

“Yeah.  I’m really growing as a person, aren’t I?”

“It’s the pants,” Varric remarked.

Without pause, Fenris stalked after them. They’d been giving each other a wide berth since leaving the inn. Except for the briefest of moments—mistakes, she was certain—Fenris still kept his distance. They’d been on cooking duty together the night before, and Amelle could not help but marvel at how the two of them had managed to prepare a meal together exchanging no more than a dozen words through the whole process.  Difficult, but not impossible.

If anything, it reminded Amelle of the old days, and she could almost fool herself into forgetting anything _had_ ever been different between them.  This Fenris was a _familiar_ Fenris, taciturn and aloof as ever—and it wasn’t even that his silence was _cruel,_ because it wasn’t.  If anything, it was protective, and she wasn’t about to begrudge him that.

Cullen tugged on the offending glove as he fell in beside her, and his presence was enough to halt the downward spiral of her thoughts. In a low voice, he said, “She’s not… why does she _call_ me that?”

“What?” Amelle asked. “Handsome?”

Cullen ducked his head, embarrassed, and Amelle felt improbable laughter at her lips. “Honestly, Cullen? The Chantry doesn’t let you have mirrors?”

The persistent pink tinge darkened. “But she’s not serious.”

Amelle punched him lightly on the arm. “Probably not. I think she likes to make you blush.”

“I’m not—”

“Cullen, _please_.”

He grimaced. “I’m not… I’m not precisely _accustomed_ to…”

“Flirtation?” Amelle offered. “Brazenness? _Isabela?_ You’ll get used to her. The rest of us have.”

Ahead of them the others had disappeared around a corner, but Cullen slowed and paused, thoughtful. “I thought perhaps she and the dwarf—”

Amelle _did_ laugh aloud at this, startling them both. “ _Maker_ , Cullen. No. They’re just _like_ that. I think because they’ve been sharing the roof of The Hanged Man for years. Breeds a certain conviviality. But _no._ ”

Cullen’s brow lowered. “If you’re certain…”

“Oh, I’m certain.” She smirked at him. “Why? Are you interested? I could put in a good word…”

Cullen stumbled, his eyes widening. “You’re mad. The lot of you.”

Amelle huffed another brief laugh. “That’s not the worst that’s been said of us. It’s not too late for you to turn back.”

“Amelle…”

She raised a hand, waving away her own comment. “Joke, Cullen.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Isabela will be glad to hear it.”

He raised a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That has nothing to do with it.”

She smiled as she nudged him with her shoulder. “The more you react, the more she’ll push. And the more you blush, the more flagrant her attentions will be.”

He gaped at her. “How can I _not_ react? Did you see her—”

“Pants?” Amelle interjected. “Yes, I did. Shocking.”

Whatever response Cullen might have made, however, was stolen by the shrill cry of a horse, followed by the unmistakable crash of metal on metal. Amelle swore under her breath and broke into a run, taking a breath and funneling her mana into the staff she gripped.  She heard Cullen running alongside her, his long-legged strides pushing him around the corner faster than Amelle by at least three paces.

The horses were rearing wildly, whinnying and stomping the ground — entirely unsurprising given the animals were surrounded by bandits attempting to make off with them.

“I told you so!” Isabela yelled out over the din.  She was in the thick of it, her dual blades flashing in the sunlight.  Varric hung back, Bianca settled in his hands, shooting off bolt after bolt, as Fenris rushed up behind Isabela, drawing his blade on a bandit attempting to sneak up behind her.  His markings flared bright as he swung his blade and cleaved the man in half.  Pulling free both sword and shield, Cullen likewise ran into the fray, situating himself so he and Fenris flanked Isabela, and the three worked outward, separating the bandits and cutting them down.

Amelle remained with Varric, casting barriers and glyphs to protect Fenris, Isabela, and Cullen — not so much from the bandits, but rather from the terrified horses, some of which were rearing up on their hind legs while others spooked, bucking and kicking anything in their path.

“Can you do something about those sodding beasts, Firefly?” Varric grumbled after one of his bolts grazed a horse unlucky enough to race past; the injury only sent the animal further into a furor and it bucked suddenly, missing Fenris by mere inches.  

Amelle hissed a colorful curse and slammed the staff hard into the ground, breathing and focusing her mana until the animals were caught in the glowing green light of several paralysis glyphs.  Their screams and snorts still filled the air, and Amelle let the power within her shift slightly as she exhaled a mild sleep spell.

A strange tremor filled the air, and Amelle whirled, seeking it out. Sure enough, half-hidden behind a rocky outcropping, a mage was casting. She caught the glint of sun on his blond hair even before she realized his hands held a staff, and she felt her stomach clench hard. Then she looked closer—looked harder. The mage was thin and bedraggled and blond, yes, but she did not recognize him. For half a heartbeat Amelle was simply glad it wasn’t _Anders_. Then she moved to add the man to her net of sleep—and found she couldn’t. The paralysis glyph he’d thrown her way was neither particularly strong nor particularly gifted, but it had caught her unawares.

Across the battlefield, Isabela was making short work of another bandit. Fenris was flanked by a pair of dual-wielding rogues, but neither posed him much of a threat. Cullen met her eyes, and she could see his confusion— _he must sense the magic_ —but she was still frozen and could not point the other mage out. She saw him shout something before he abandoned Fenris and Isabela to the ebbing battle. His eyes scanned the area where she was still looking—where she was _forced_ to still look—and then he went oddly still.

It was so very strange to see a templar prepare to smite. She had so little experience with it. Even now, a twisting fear in her belly bade her _run, run, run, rabbit, hide_ but she silenced it. Her fingers twitched around her staff just slightly. _Another minute_ , she thought, already focusing on the string of spells she wanted at the ready.

Cullen’s eerie stillness ended with a shattering pillar of white light. Amelle was glad to be on the other side of the clearing; the force of Cullen’s smite pulled at her senses even from twenty feet away. The mage fell backward with a scream, but was still foolish enough to futilely swing his staff at the templar as he drew near.

The mage died as the last of his paralysis glyph faded away, but by the time Amelle turned back to the fray, she found it ended. New winter clothing was blood-spattered, the horses swayed on their feet, and blades were surreptitiously wiped clean on the clothing of dead men.

And Fenris met her eyes for the first time in days. 

Her breath caught as her pulse gave a hard thump, and for the space of several seconds, her lips parted and she struggled to say _something,_ but no words came.  Finally, Fenris gave her only the briefest nod and turned away again.  She swore silently and turned away as well.

“Is anyone hurt?” she asked, taking a moment to heal the accidental wound Varric had inflicted on one of the horses.  

The animal’s flesh knitted together neatly, for all it seemed entirely unnerved by her magic, stomping at the ground in agitation.  She realized it was Fenris’ horse she’d just healed.  It turned its dark head to glare at her and snort, hot breath steaming the air.  Amelle just sighed and shook her head, patting its flank.

“You’ve something in common with your rider,” she murmured under her breath before turning to the other animals and her companions.  Another of the horses had a deep gash along the shoulder, which healed up neatly enough as well, but this had been an altercation with thankfully few injuries.

“Blast it,” Isabela muttered.  “I broke a _nail._ ”  She looked at Amelle. “Can you heal that?”

“Only if your finger came off in the process, I’m afraid.”

Isabela made a face and then began checking the dead men’s pockets for anything worth taking.  Cullen looked mildly horrified by this, but Amelle only shrugged.

“It’s not as if they’ll be making use of whatever she finds,” she said mildly, checking her horse’s saddlebag.  Nothing had been taken, though she knew — other than healing potions and stamina droughts — she hadn’t left behind much a bandit would have been interested in stealing, other than the horse.  

“But isn’t it…” Cullen trailed off, his brow wrinkling.

“Disrespectful?” Amelle supplied, her own smile turning vaguely wry.  “I suppose.  And yet…”

“Maker’s _balls._ ” Isabela’s voice cut through the silence in the clearing as she crouched over the fallen body of one of the bandits.  “What _is_ it with people these days?”  They all looked over to find Isabela, her expression dark with fury, a scrap of something red clutched in her hand.  “That _bastard,”_ she pointed down at the dead man, “tried to steal my _underpants._ ”

Beside her, Cullen went still again—but not the stillness preceding a smite, mercifully. Amelle was close enough to hear him swallow. Hard. On her other side, Varric was checking over Bianca, paying extra attention to her trigger. Without looking up, he drawled, “You want I should kill him again for you, Rivaini?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Isabela shot back archly. “Looks like Broody got this one. Getting split in half is too easy a death by far. He probably didn’t even feel it.”

“At least the underwear made it through unscathed?”

Isabela huffed and held it aloft. Even Amelle found herself flushing slightly. And wondering, just a little, where something so pretty might be procured. If one was so inclined.

Cullen shook his head slightly, looking anywhere but at the pirate and her… booty. “Looting. And… jesting.”

“Stick around for the drinking and the orgies,” Varric replied. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait, scrap that. You’re not invited.”

“Ooh,” Isabela said, eyes widening theatrically, “yes, please.”

“You two are incorrigible,” Amelle groused.

“Only if that word means what I think it means,” Isabela remarked.

“It doesn’t,” Varric replied.

“Clever and tantalizing and devilish in bed?”

Varric snorted. “Yeah. That’s it exactly.”

Isabela beamed at him and pocketed the nearly-pilfered scrap of lace. “Unless you want to hold onto it for me, Handsome?” she offered, raising one eyebrow.

“Not this again,” Fenris growled.

Cullen said nothing, but Isabela only laughed, reaching up to pat him gently on one blushing cheek.

For all of her dislike of horses, Isabela was a more than competent rider.  All Varric had to say about the stocky, hardy horse acquired for him was that it was better than “any sodding _boat_ ,” which Isabela took particular offense to, but Amelle had to agree wholeheartedly.  They picked their way through the mountain pass, and it wasn’t long before Amelle was exceptionally thankful for the cloak and winter gloves, for the higher they got, the stronger and more bitter the winds became, sharp gusts carrying the sting of snow and ice.

Once darkness began to descend, it became nearly impossible to see, and the wind blew harder, making Amelle’s eyes water as she squinted and strained her eyes to follow the trail before them.

Suddenly, Fenris’ voice came from beside her — she’d been pouring so much concentration into peering along the dark, uneven path, she hadn’t even realized his horse now walked steadily alongside hers.

“We’ve lost too much light.  We must stop.”

Amelle looked over sharply.  “I can light—”

“Oh, thank the _Maker_ ,” Isabela announced, reining her horse to a stop and dismounting, heedless of anyone else following behind her.  “My _back_ ,” she complained, pressing both hands to the small of her back and stretching and then grimacing.  “And _ow,_ my _arse._ ”

Varric swung himself off his mount with far more grace than she’d have expected the dwarf to possess.  “Talk to me when you’re puking up your shoes, Rivaini.”  He looked up at Amelle, Cullen, and Fenris, all still seated firmly in their saddles.  “Good call, elf.  We’re gonna need plenty of daylight to get through what’s ahead.  There’s a cave not too far ahead—”

“You remember all this?” Amelle said, impressed.  Varric shrugged.

“Once you see what’s farther on down the line, you’ll see what makes this little route…memorable.”  And from the tone in his voice, Amelle could tell they weren’t especially _pleasant_ memories.  “Anyway.  There’s a cave not too far ahead.  Firefly, how about you and Broody set up camp, and me, Rivaini, and the Turnip will see what we can do about some firewood?”

From behind her and just to the right, Cullen sputtered. “I—I _beg_ your pardon?  _Turnip?_ ”

“Smite or no smite, kid, I’ve never seen anyone just _stop_ in the middle of a fight like that.”  He paused.  “You went still as a turnip.  So: Turnip.”

“It takes a great deal of concentration and focus to—”

“C’mon, Turnip.  We’ve got wood to gather.”

Still looking scandalized, Cullen slid from the back of his horse and handed his reins off to Amelle. She gave him a sympathetic look. “It could be worse?”

“I fail to see _how_ ,” he retorted.

“Potato?” she offered.

“Don’t give him ideas.”

But he was smiling when he turned to follow Varric and Isabela’s tracks. Just as Amelle was turning to lead the horses up the slope to the cave, Fenris appeared from within and held out his hand. “I will see to the animals,” he said. “There is a pool within.”

Amelle blinked at him. “And?”

Fenris’ eyebrow twitched as he reached for the reins she held. She tried not to react when his fingers brushed hers, but the quiver of longing was stronger than her willpower and she glanced down at the ground to keep him from seeing the blush at her cheeks.

“You might… bathe, if you wish,” Fenris explained. “While you have privacy.”

At this her chin jerked up and her eyes widened. Fenris’ expression remained inscrutable. She very nearly told him as long as Isabela was in the vicinity, _privacy_ was not a concept she’d count on, but instead she said, “Somehow I don’t think that’s what Varric meant when he said _set up camp_.”

“It is a cave,” Fenris said, as if this explained everything. On her baffled look he added, “There is little _to_ set up. Wood is required before we can have a fire, or do the cooking. Varric knows your proclivities, and he knew the cave would have a bathing pool. Make use of it.”

“Cleanliness is a proclivity now?”

“Your fondness for baths is well-known.”

_It is?_

“As is your distaste for being filthy any more—or any longer—than you must.”

Amelle blinked at him. “I should… I should help with the horses.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed so slightly she would have missed it altogether if she’d not been looking right at him. Then he shook his head once, and said, “It is a task I prefer to complete on my own. Have your bath now, or I imagine you will have to share with Isabela later.”

A furrow creased her brow. Fenris’ expression gave nothing away, but she wondered if perhaps Isabela hadn’t been telling tales— _exaggerated tales_ —of shared bathtime. Finally, sighing, Amelle loosened her saddlebags, swung the straps over her shoulder, and walked toward the cave. When she’d almost reached it, she turned her head slightly and called out, “Fenris?”

He was already unsaddling the horses, but he glanced her way when she spoke.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded, running a hand down the horse’s flank.

For a moment Amelle felt distressingly _jealous_ of the beast. Then she shook her head firmly and headed for the mouth of the cave.

#

On one hand, Fenris was glad to have run across Varric and Isabela on their travels.  They added — ironically enough — a degree of normalcy to the group dynamic, and kept conversation from sliding into awkward silence.  Fenris did not _mind_ silence, but Varric and Isabela made no demands that he contribute, and were just as happy to talk amongst themselves.  Truly, there were moments when this journey felt no different from any of their other adventures and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Hawke and Sebastian far, far ahead of the group, scouting the path.

On the other hand, however, Fenris was beginning to grow weary of what he strongly suspected were… _machinations_ designed to place him and Amelle within close proximity to each other.  In… _theory_ he was annoyed to find he did not _mind_ it, precisely.  It was still difficult to look at her, for he knew if he met her eyes it wouldn’t take long for him to see the disgust in her gaze — the same disgust with himself that burned hatefully in his gut.

But he would not fool himself, would not indulge in illusion and fantasy, and so he kept his distance as much as Varric and Isabela’s interferences would allow.

But even now, as brilliant morning sunlight streamed down upon the clearing, and Fenris placed the saddle upon Horse’s back, he remembered all too clearly the gentle splashing sounds coming from the cave as Amelle bathed.  He remembered thinking it a brilliant plan to provide a measure of comfortable distance between them while the others were occupied.  What he hadn’t counted on, however, was the cave’s acoustics… _amplifying_ those sounds.  And so he busied himself with the horses, not daring to leave Amelle so… exposed and _discoverable_ , and not daring to move any closer to the cave.

Dinner had been a reasonably pleasant affair — during their search for firewood, Varric, Isabela, and the templar had happened upon a buck.  A well-aimed bolt from Bianca had pierced the animal’s heart and the three returned not only with wood for a fire, but meat to cook upon it.  

Everything had been fine — pleasant, even — until it was time to retire.  Amelle had claimed first watch, and Varric had suggested with somewhat less than his usual subtlety that Fenris take the second.  He’d relieved her with as little interaction as possible, but she still smiled a hesitant sort of thanks at him as she relinquished her post for the night and crawled into her bedroll.  And when Isabela relieved Fenris and he returned to the cluster of bedrolls by the fire, he’d found someone had moved his, situating it neatly next to the slumbering Amelle’s own bedding.

 _If I do not react, they will lose interest in this game soon enough,_ he thought with a scowl, tightening the horse’s girth and checking the billet straps, looking up in time to spy Amelle hoisting herself up onto her own beast’s back.  He looked down again, checking the girth a third and — Fenris dearly _hoped_ — final time.

 _They had_ better _lose interest._

“Good sleep?” Isabela asked as she walked her horse past him. “Comfortable? Warm enough?”

Fenris said nothing, vaulting onto Horse’s back so suddenly the animal sidestepped and startled, gazing back at him with huge, betrayed eyes. He gave the horse an absentminded pat to the neck, and ignored Isabela entirely. Her laugh, however, gave every indication that _if_ she planned on giving up the game, it certainly wasn’t going to be any time soon.

They were on the path less only a short time before they turned a corner and came across a wall of snow and ice and fallen rock. Varric, at the head of the procession, turned and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Isabela shuddered visibly. Amelle simply gaped.

“You… that… Maker’s _breath_ , Varric!” Amelle cried. “If anything you were playing it _down_.”

“You make sure to tell your sister that,” he shot back, grinning. “She believes I’m incapable of it.”

The mention of Hawke brought a swift shadow across Amelle’s face, but even as he watched, she fought it off. If her smile was a little brittle, or her tone a little dispirited, no one called attention to it. “That’s only because she’s horrified at the way you inflate her breasts in your stories. She says if she was _that_ top-heavy she’d never be able to pull a bow properly.”

“Know your audience,” he said wisely.

The Knight-Commander frowned, and Fenris felt some sympathy for the man. He’d had _years_ to grow accustomed to the strange blend of humor and insouciance and impertinence in the face of horror beyond reason, but the templar was new to it, and seemed constantly taken aback by the incongruous jests and amusement. “And how are we to pass this?” he demanded. “We ought to have taken a different route, if you knew this was here.”

“Different route would have added a week to the journey,” Varric said, as if this explained everything. “What’s a little snow and ice when we’ve got Firefly?”

Fenris opened his mouth to protest, but once again the Knight-Commander beat him to it. “You expect Amelle to clear _this_?”

“A little fire goes a long way,” Amelle offered. Fenris could see the calculation on her face as she slid from her horse’s back and began pacing the breadth of the pass. “We’ll have to be careful about it, though. Don’t want to make it worse. Or cause a second slide.”

There was—for a change—nothing feigned about the horror on Isabela’s face. Her cheeks were pale and he could clearly see the whites of her eyes. Even her mount seemed disconcerted by it; the mare skipped sideways and tossed her head with a dismayed whinny. “ _Very_ careful,” she breathed. “ _Very._ ”

The Knight-Commander was not dissuaded. “A week would be a small price to pay if it means Amelle’s health—”

Amelle glared at him. “I’m _fine_ , Cullen.”

“Amelle, look at what—”

“Yes,” she shot back, and Fenris could hear her patience fraying, “I _see_ it.  And I am going to find a way through it.  _Very carefully.”_

The Knight-Commander clenched his jaw and glared at her, then looked to Fenris, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _Aren’t you going to say anything?_

Fenris sighed and shook his head.  “Amelle.”

She stiffened and turned her head, only barely acknowledging him, as if she knew what he was going to say, as if she were preparing to battle _him_ if need be.

“Yes?” came her reply, in as measured and calm a tone as he’d ever heard from her.  But Fenris didn’t believe it for a moment.

“I would advise you to consider the demands you’ve placed upon your powers recently and whether or not clearing this… impediment is particularly wise.”

She turned to look at him, meeting his eyes without hesitation.  He held her gaze, but his fingers tightened around the reins he held.  “I’ve said I’m going to be careful, and I will,” she replied calmly.  “But I am not adding another week to this journey, Fenris.”  She then looked again at the templar, lifting her chin in the same gesture of defiance Fenris had seen her sister wear more than once.  “And you’re going to have to smite me to the Void to stop me.”

A peculiar expression slid across the man’s face, long-suffering tinged with something almost like amusement.

“And I _really_ wouldn’t recommend doing that, Turnip,” drawled Varric, casting a cold eye on the templar.  “Firefly knows her limits, and whatever else you might think of us, we take care of our own.”  

Fenris suppressed the urge to sigh.  “The Knight-Commander’s concerns are… valid,” he said evenly.  “Amelle… overtaxed her abilities to deal with a certain… incident in Kirkwall.”

Varric arched an eyebrow and looked down at Amelle.  “That true?”

“It is true, but _I’m fine._   Maker’s _blood_ , it was _ages_ ago, anyway.  I’ve had ample time to recover, and I’m _fine._ ”

Fenris noted she didn’t look at him when she said that.  Scowling, he slid easily from Horse’s back and strode across the packed snow to Amelle’s side.  Her eyes widened as he drew closer, and her mouth tightened in a tense line.

“…Something to add?” she asked, forcing her tone to lightness, but there was a tremor beneath.

Fenris pitched his voice low, keeping his words for Amelle’s ears only.  “Are you certain?”  

Several seconds ticked past before Amelle closed her eyes and nodded.  She was resolute, that much was clear, but she _was_ certain.

“Very well,” he said, turning back to the horses.  “Proceed.”

“Fenris, I…”  He turned in time to see whatever words Amelle was going to speak die on her lips.  “I’ll be careful.”

“That is all we ask of you.”

Fenris stood by Horse’s side while Amelle paced. He saw her counting steps. She squinted at the wall of debris and measured with her arms. Then she turned and regarded the Knight-Commander, still sitting on his horse. “You _are_ tall,” she muttered. Without explaining herself, she moved to stand near him, gauging his height on horseback by holding her staff aloft. Then she moved back to the snow-wall.

“Okay,” she said at last. “I have an idea.”

“Go home, drink booze, profit?” Isabela asked hopefully.

While Fenris fought down the urge to shake the pirate, Amelle gave the woman a fond smile. “Tunnel,” she said. 

“Through _that_?” Isabela cried. “Did this mysterious _something_ that happened in Kirkwall addle your wits, kitten?”

Amelle gave a low chuckle. “A little bit, yes. But this plan’s sound, I think. We’ll have to work slowly. And yes, carefully.”

“You’re not going to drop fireballs from the sky, then?” Varric remarked.

Amelle lifted an eyebrow. “And risk a flood of ice carrying us all back down the mountain? Hardly. I think if I use controlled heat in small sections—with you lot clearing out the inflammable rocks and debris as I go—and then _freeze_ the surrounding snow into hard ice, we can make a sturdy passageway.”

The Knight-Commander was not so easily swayed by her hopeful optimism. Fenris found himself almost _approving_ of the man, if only for that. “That sounds like an awful lot of very precise, very tricky power, Amelle.”

“I won’t rush. But losing a day to this is still better than losing a week.”

The templar’s expression remained unconvinced, but he slid off the back of his horse, tethering the animal nearby. “All jesting aside, Amelle, at the first sign of a nosebleed, I _will_ smite you. If not to the Void, at least until you see reason.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Isabela breathed. “I _do_ love a man who’s not afraid to be firm. What do I need to do before you’ll smite _me_ , Handsome?”

“Be a mage, for starters,” Varric said.

Isabela looked unconvinced.

“Smiting’s a whole lot less fun than it sounds, Isabela,” Amelle murmured, tugging off her gloves and going to the horse’s side and slowly examining each staff she’d brought until she loosened the tethers fastening them and pulled one stave free from the lot.  “Generally it leaves you feeling hung over without the benefit of getting to be drunk first.”

Isabela wrinkled her nose.  “ _Maker_.  Why would anyone want _that_ done to them?”

“We generally don’t.” Amelle propped the staff up against the barrier, and cracked her knuckles before placing both hands against the wall of snow.  Amelle closed her eyes, and soon a warm orange glow slid forth.  It wasn’t quite _flame_ , Fenris realized, but heat all the same.  It wasn’t long before the heat issuing forth from Amelle’s hands began to melt the snow.  Steam curled upwards and water trickled down, forming a dent in the wall.

“So what’s this about nosebleeds, Turnip?” Varric asked, keeping one eye on Amelle as she worked.

“There was… an illness.  Curing it strained the limits of Amelle’s healing powers.”

The dwarf raised one eloquent eyebrow.  “That can happen?”

Fenris frowned.  “Frequently.”

“Well, the kid’s done some pretty intense battlefield healing.  So what was it about this that messed her up so—”

“You _do_ realize I’m standing right here?” Amelle called back over her shoulder.

Fenris’ brows lowered.  “In which case you are near to hand in the event either of us misrepresent what happened.”  He turned back to Varric.  “Residue from the idol infected—”

“Wait, wait — which idol?” asked Varric, his voice heavy with dread.  “No. On second thought, don’t tell me.”

“I have a bad feeling you already know the answer to that, Fuzzy,” Isabela said, frowning.  “Didn’t we _deal_ with that already?”

“If by _deal with_ you mean watch as Meredith’s sword shattered into dust,” Amelle added, carefully sculpting an outline for the tunnel, “then yes.  We did.  We just did a somewhat pisspoor job of it.”

“The infected water,” Fenris explained, “made people ill.”

“And of course they went to Firefly,” Varric said, nodding.  “And I’m guessing all this talk about ignoring your limits and getting nosebleeds is because someone did exactly that.”

“And then there was smiting?” Isabela asked.

Another look of long-suffering settled on the Knight-Commander’s face as he shook his head.  “Though I did come close a number of times.”

From behind them all, Amelle snorted.  “You did more than come _close,_ Cullen.”

The templar went rigid, his eyes going wide with something that looked akin to embarrassment.  “Oh— oh, come now Amelle, t-that hardly counts!”

When Fenris looked, he saw Amelle smirking as she said, primly, “A smite’s a smite, Knight-Commander, ser.”

Fenris turned and leveled a glare at Cullen. Anger, however, dried up the moment he caught sight of the templar’s face. The man had gone pale—certainly too pale for mere embarrassment to be the cause—and Fenris was familiar enough with distress to realize the Knight-Commander was caught up in something far beyond an inappropriate jest. His haunted gaze was fixed on something in the middle distance, and whatever he was seeing, it was certainly not a snowy hillside or a pile of debris or even an impertinent mage. 

_Her pert nose was still sunburned, and the freckles still stood out against the skin. Her lips were parted, and blood stained her teeth — a tiny splash of red showed at the corner of her mouth._

With a grimace, Fenris pushed his own thoughts away. Whatever the Knight-Commander saw, it wasn’t _that_ , either.

_He was the reason she was dead in his arms now, her skin growing slowly colder.  The sunburn across her nose was fading._

When the templar didn’t react right away—doubtless Amelle was expecting him to return her teasing in kind—she turned. Her magic flared hot, and the few feet of tunnel she’d managed to carve out caved in abruptly. Cursing under her breath, she said, “Cullen, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t mean—”

“Leave him be,” Fenris snapped, stepping between her and the templar. “You have done damage enough already.”

Amelle recoiled, bringing one hand up to cover her mouth even as her own cheeks drained of color and her eyes widened. Fenris felt a pang of dismay at having caused her pain, but it was nothing to the expression the Knight-Commander yet wore.

Varric sighed. “And I think we can safely file this one under _taking things too far_. Rivaini, you want to see to maybe getting some tea going?”

It was some measure of the seriousness of the situation that Isabela acceded to the demand without protesting. Or jesting. Or protesting jestingly. Varric stepped close to Amelle and said lightly, “Come on, Firefly. Let’s you and I go for a stroll. Get some fresh air.”

They were, of course, surrounded by fresh air. Amelle cast a last mournful look at the Knight-Commander before letting Varric take her arm and lead her away.

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest and waited. After another minute or two—Fenris could hear Isabela swearing as she attempted to start a fire, so it couldn’t have been _that_ long—the templar blinked and shuddered. “It was an accident,” he whispered. “A nightmare.”

Though it was not his nature to be comforting, Fenris attempted to temper his usual brusqueness when he replied, “She should not have made light of it.”

Though he still looked quite stricken, the Knight-Commander managed to send him a somewhat wry look.  “She was making light of it right after I’d _done_ it.”

Fenris sighed and rubbed hard at his forehead.  “Still.  She should not have spoken so thoughtlessly.”

“I… do not believe she intended any harm.”

“Such is the consequence of speaking thoughtlessly.”  _And if Amelle’s reaction was any indication, she regretted the words the moment she’d spoken them._   The Knight-Commander looked for a moment as though he were going to argue the point, but shook his head and sighed.

“It was an accident,” he said again, lowering himself to sit upon a large rock, resting his elbows upon his knees and raking both hands through his hair.  

Fenris shifted his weight, but said nothing.  If the Knight-Commander wished to fill the silence, he would.  Otherwise, he would receive enough peace to collect himself once again.  But he would not pry.  He was certain there would be no thanks if he did.

The templar sat in silence for several minutes, during which time his color slowly returned.  He took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly.  “I knew an Amell once,” he said quietly, and for a moment Fenris wasn’t certain the man was speaking to him at all.  But he looked up and addressed Fenris directly.  “Cousin to the Hawke sisters.  They… they don’t know.”  His gaze lowered to the middle distance again.  “She was a mage in the Ferelden Circle.  Solona Amell.”

Fenris gave a slow nod.  “That is… where you were stationed before Kirkwall.”

“Yes.  Seems a lifetime ago, but yes.  Amelle reminds me of her a little, sometimes.  And sometimes… not at all.”  He tried a laugh, but it sounded broken, discordant.  

“There is no need for explanation, templar,” said Fenris, turning to busy himself with Horse, checking the bridle and the reins, tethered to a low tree.  “It was, as you said, an incident beyond your control.”

The Knight-Commander scrubbed one hand across his face again.  “The dream.  I… I couldn’t tell them apart.  Solona and Amelle.  They were too… too _similar,_ but—but they were _wrong._   Wrong versions of themselves.“ He clenched his eyes shut, the next words coming out no louder than a breath: “No good can come from granting mages leniency.”

 _That_ caught Fenris’ attention, and he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.  “If that is truly what you believe, why have you come this far?”  He remembered the templar’s words at the inn:  _I am here for Amelle._

He shrugged and shook his head.  “Because she is… my friend.”  After a moment the Knight-Commander gave himself a shake.  “Her cousin died at the hands of a blood mage — a man she’d trusted, one she’d called a friend — and I wasn’t there to stop it.  I wasn’t there to help.  I… I want to be a better friend than that to Amelle.”  A mirthless smile twisted his lips.  “For all that my training may… _disagree_ with my inclinations.”

“You would not be the first to stand with Hawke—or with Amelle, for that matter—in spite of… beliefs at variance with those you once held.”

The templar looked at him then, genuinely _looked_ at him, and Fenris forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. After a pause, the Knight-Commander said, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

Fenris inclined his head slightly. “This dream. Do you think it will be repeated?”

“Maker, I hope not,” the templar said with a visible shudder. “I think it was… largely induced by stress. We left Kirkwall so suddenly, and I had such a short time to prepare…” For a moment the man’s expression bordered on the sympathetic, which felt _wrong_ to Fenris.

“I… must thank you. For the message.”

The Knight-Commander scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray. “I went to your house, but you weren’t there. I’m glad you _got_ the note, honestly. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“It would have troubled me to find her gone. I suppose the maid might have known, but the note was better. With both Hawkes gone, the elf might simply have hidden from me. I believe I… unnerve her.”

Again the templar met him gaze for gaze, and again those eyes held something too close to pity for Fenris’ comfort. He found himself scowling in response. “I felt sure it was what… what _Hawke_ would have wanted.”

“Yes,” Fenris replied. “Hawke.”

The Knight-Commander sighed. “You heard what Varric and Isabela said. Starkhaven’s not going to be safe.”

“And that will not deter her.”

They exchanged looks of exasperation, and Fenris almost smiled. “At least we outnumber her?” the templar offered, with just a hint of desperation.

Again Fenris’ eyebrow twitched. “I would rather not resort to your powers, templar.”

“Neither would I.” Resolve hardened his features, and he pushed himself once again to his feet, dropping a hand to Fenris’ shoulder. “But I’ll do it if it means her life.”

“Then we are agreed. She will not… put herself unnecessarily in harm’s way.”

“If we can help it.”

Fenris blew a dismayed breath. “That is the challenge, yes.”

“Fenris?” the templar added. On Fenris’ brief nod, he said, “It’s… not really ‘Knight-Commander’ or even ‘templar.’ It’s just Cullen.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris replied.

For want of anything else to do, Fenris and the Knight-Commander worked together clearing away some of the debris already worked loose through Amelle’s efforts.  A short while later, they were interrupted by the crunching of footsteps against snow, and Fenris could tell one set crunched far more heavily than the other.  When he turned his head and watched through the fall of his hair, he saw Amelle and Varric, the former approaching far more reluctantly than the latter.  In fact, it almost looked as if Varric was nudging Amelle along.

“See, Firefly?  I told you — Turnip’s still here,” he said, thumping his hand against her back.  Varric shot both men a grin.  “She was convinced you’d be halfway back to Kirkwall by now.”

The Knight-Commander turned, eyebrows lifting.  “You thought I’d have left?  Over that?”

Amelle wrapped her arms around herself, looking not only miserable, but _ashamed._   She scuffed her booted foot against the snow and took a deep breath, preparatory to saying _something,_ but it took no fewer than three attempts for Amelle to find the words. 

“Well… I.  I thought—” she stopped and grimaced.  “No, I guess I _didn’t_ think.  That… that was part of the problem.  I—I’m just—I’m _sorry,_ Cullen.  I spoke without thinking and—”

“And it hadn’t bothered you that I’d done it, so why ought it to bother me?” he asked, lightly and evenly, but Amelle winced, all the same.

“Something like that.  I didn’t— I didn’t mean…”

The templar sighed and crossed the distance to where Amelle still stood.  “You spoke without thinking.”  When she nodded miserably, he reached up and gave her shoulder a squeeze.  “An accident.”

Again, she nodded, hesitating when she met his eyes.  Her gaze slid over to Fenris, but snapped away almost immediately.  “I _am_ sorry,” she said.  “It was… stupid.”

Varric looked between them, rocking back on his heels.  “Firefly here thought that maybe if she offered to let you take a freebie shot at her, it might even the scales.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” he replied, letting his hand drop from her shoulder.  “I fear doing _that_ will only delay us further.”  The templar then nodded at the progress he and Fenris had made in their absence.  “Better to lose a day than a week, right?”

When Amelle saw the debris and rocks they’d cleared away, she turned and sent a smile up to the templar, and for the barest sliver of time, Fenris felt the faintest prick of jealousy — but then he saw the quality of Amelle’s smile:  crooked and rueful, and maybe the tiniest bit sheepish, and jealousy’s sting melted away.  

“Thank you.”  She sent a cautious look Fenris’ way and hesitated a moment before adding, “Both of you.”  Amelle drew in a deep breath and pulled off her gloves again.  “Right.  Back to work, then?”

The templar nudged her nearer the wall of snow and ice.  “I should say you’re just in time.  We’ve run out of rocks.”  

From around the corner, Isabela’s voice carried:  “Now that I’ve given you all time to have your moving heart-to-hearts please tell me no one _actually_ wants tea.”

“All that time and you didn’t even make the tea, Rivaini?” Varric asked, chuckling.  

The pirate sauntered back into view, arms folded.  “Oh, I made it.  I’m just not sure it’s _drinkable,_ you see.”

Varric blinked at her.  “What’d you do to the tea, Rivaini?”

“I’m not sure exactly.  Is the spoon _supposed_ to stand up straight in it?”

“So I’m thinking we can do _without_ the comfort beverage this time.”

“I’ve got a bottle of rum?” Isabela offered.


	70. Chapter 70

It didn’t get easier for her, sitting on the dais next to Sebastian wearing a stony expression and pretending she’d jump at the chance to capture a mage if she could. She wished instead to be back amongst the crowd, but Sebastian wanted her visible. Even if their engagement was not yet public, he wanted his people accustomed to seeing her. It still felt strange, though, and perhaps a little wrong to sit where she sat. 

She wondered how many people had guessed. In a Court like Starkhaven’s, she doubted their glances and smiles—no matter how discreet—went unremarked upon. She wondered how many Aileene Caddells spoke behind their backs, whispering poison.

As if sensing the tenor of her thoughts, Sebastian sent a swift glance her way and arched one brow.

Fine. They had to get used to her sometime.

And she supposed she had to get used to them, too.

After that first day, the bounty trials had become a daily occurrence. Instead of allowing the townsfolk to dictate the terms, to come and go as they wished, Sebastian let it be known they would be allowed entrance daily for three hours after luncheon. 

She had to hand it to him—the imposed timeframe seemed to work. The news from the city was increasingly positive: the markets were open again and functioning almost at capacity, and the Revered Mother sent a message indicating her pews were filling for services once more. The only threatened burning had been halted not by guards or templars, but the townsfolk themselves.

When person after person was proven innocent, and their accusers sent home with no coin to show for their wasted day, Kiara couldn’t help noticing the crowds beginning to thin. On the first day, the mob had been a hundred strong. Four days later, perhaps fifty stood before their prince, shuffling their feet and looking, for the most part, ashamed of themselves.

Sebastian handled it all with grace. Instead of condemning their stupidity—as Kiara did vociferously within the safe confines of her own skull—he was patient as he explained their wrongheadedness, their prejudice, the extent of their fear. And always, at the end of each interview, he asked, “Is there anything you would ask of me?” 

Some said nothing. Some were too embarrassed to do more than shake their heads. But others revealed their troubles, the unhappiness, their fears—founded and unfounded. And Sebastian listened. Whether it was fear of heavy rains—which he could do nothing about—or concerns about bandits—which he could—he listened. She remembered him saying once he’d been permitted to hear confessions in the Chantry, and it was this these sessions reminded her of: he gave his people the opportunity to speak their minds without judgement from him.

When he could, he offered aid: soldiers to help with the bandits, promises to see to rumors of slavers, repairs to decrepit city works and buildings. Even when the fear was beyond his control, he did not belittle the one revealing it.

Looking down upon their faces, Kiara realized his people were beginning to trust him—to love him, even. And she let herself hope, just a little, he could do half the things he promised, and that one day not too long in the future, she’d no longer have to see terrified innocents dragged before her, and she’d no longer need to wear the mask that pretended to distrust magic as much as they did.

For her part, Kiara attempted to blend in. As much as one _could_ blend in whilst sitting next to a prince. Even with the goodwill she knew she was slowly building in the city, the people still looked at her warily, distrustfully, and when they brought forth their accused mages, it was always she they looked at first, and defiantly, daring her to raise her voice in misguided defense.

Nor did she enjoy watching the templars work, though she knew their presence was necessary. Even aware their victims were likely innocent, the templars could not go too easily on them, could not be accused of showing mercy, for fear of repercussions from the mob. So they threw all they had at the poor terrified farmers and merchants and shopkeepers and folk who’d, for some reason or other, been accused.

It made Kiara feel marginally better knowing it was these falsely accused mages going home a few sovereigns richer for their ordeal.

On this particular day, there had been several accused mages, but just as many petitioners came because they’d been told the prince would hear them if they spoke. Her legs were growing numb from sitting so long in one attitude, which was how she knew the session was nearly ended. Just behind and to the left of her, she heard Ser Kinnon shift, his armor creaking lightly.

Sebastian rose, holding his hand aloft for silence.

Today, silence did not come. Near the back of the gathered crowd a knot of activity refused to quiet.

Even knowing how futile a weapon it would be in the face of any real trouble, Kiara had her jeweled knife in hand and was at Sebastian’s side in an instant. Ser Kinnon startled behind her, armor clanking, and she heard him draw his blade.

“The prince!” someone cried. “She’s going for the prince.”

“Maker’s balls,” she growled, raising her hands in surrender. “Sebastian, get down—there’s something not right.”

“I see it,” he said. “The guard—”

She cast her gaze about the chamber, skimming over unthreatening faces, ignoring even the unruly knot that seemed to be all noise but no peril.

“The Kirkwall bitch is going for the prince!”

“My lady,” whispered Ser Kinnon, “perhaps you’d best drop the knife.”

“Oh, for the love of Andraste, you don’t honestly think—”

“Of course not. But the crowd will see what it wants.”

She dropped the knife in a clatter, still looking for the source of the trouble. The hairs on the back of her neck rose; she _knew_ something was wrong. She’d been in bad situations often enough to recognize the peculiar tension in the air, the feel of something awful about to happen. People were milling, confused—those not calling for her arrest or death—and—

—She saw the archer half a heartbeat before he loosed the arrow. He was standing in the shadows, far from the original knot of trouble. Their eyes met and he whirled away, but the arrow was already aloft. She reached for Sebastian’s sleeve but the slippery silk slid between her fingers. “Arrow!” she shrieked, but it was too near.

Ser Kinnon dropped his blade, raised both hands, and shoved her with all his strength into Sebastian. They went down in an awkward tangle of limbs and fabric, Sebastian rolling atop her, protecting her. All she could think of was the unprotected expanse of his back, exposed to the hostile room, but all the breath had been knocked from her lungs and she could not find the voice to warn him, no matter how she wished to.

 A moment later, Kinnon grunted and fell to his knees, a black-feathered arrow sprouting from his shoulder.

Trapped beneath Sebastian, she couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear voices raised, “The prince! To the prince! Archers!” and above them all, Captain Elias calmly issuing orders.

The entire debacle had taken only moments, and only a few heartbeats later a wall of armored bodies surrounded them, a living shield standing between them and any other archers or determined bladesmen. 

“Are you hit?” he asked, his gaze frantically scanning her face and what he could see of her body beneath him.

She shook her head, tried for her breath again, and found enough to gasp, “You?”

“No. Kinnon is.”

“Is he—?”

“I don’t know.”

As they began to extricate themselves—no small task considering how little room the guards had left them—Elias pushed his way through a narrow gap in his men and said, “Your Highness. My lady.”

“We’re fine,” Sebastian said, before the man could ask. “Ser Kinnon?”

“It’s a flesh wound. He will have a new scar, and may now boast he saved the lives of the prince and his lady, but he’ll survive.”

“Bastard,” Sebastian muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll have to _like_ him now.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows, surprised, and gripped Sebastian’s forearm to haul herself upright. “Did you not before?”

Sebastian and Elias exchanged an inscrutable glance. 

On the other side of the dais, Kiara heard Kinnon chuckle and knew the knight would be fine, but still her heart raced. Too close. Too close by half.

“I saw him,” she told Elias. “He was near the entrance. Didn’t recognize him, but he was professional. I know that much. He didn’t so much as flinch when I spotted him. I was only trying to warn—”

“The people will come to understand,” Sebastian said. “They will feel bad for blaming you, later.”

Kiara shook her head, rubbing a sore spot on her hip that was bound to end up a purple bruise. “If you say so,” she muttered.

“I do,” he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently while they waited for the room to clear, surrounded by their cocoon of guards.

#

The knock at the door brought her head up, and she called out a greeting.

“My lady?”

Ser Maisie stood on the other side. The woman was unfailingly polite, unfailingly proper. She always knocked before entering, rarely spoke unless spoken to, and certainly indulged in none of the light conversation and joking asides of her partner.

“Ahh, Maisie. How fares your poor heroic comrade?”

Maisie smiled fondly. “Kinnon’s in the infirmary complaining mightily and letting the healers fawn all over him. Which means he ought to be right as rain by tomorrow. Takes more than a stray arrow to fell a Royal Guardsman for long.”

“I don’t doubt it.” When the woman said nothing straight away, Kiara asked, “Do you have need of me? Does Sebastian want me for something?”

The woman ducked her head. “Not the prince, my lady. I am… forgive me for bothering you on what may be a fool’s errand, but a fellow came to the gates claiming some acquaintance with you. Says his name’s Joff? He said you would know him.”

Kiara’s eyebrows rose. “I do know him. Did he state his business?”

“No, my lady. He was adamant he would speak it to no ears but yours. But after today…”

“Yes, I understand. One can’t be too careful.” Rising from her seat, Kiara marked her place in her book and set the volume on the table. Her unfinished pot of tea she gazed at with melancholy desire. No matter. Time enough for tea later. She debated her bow for a moment before deciding archery gown or not, after one assassination attempt in a day she preferred to be armed. The guard nodded approvingly as Kiara swung the weapon up and over her shoulder.

Joff jumped up the moment he saw her, and the two guards standing near him drew their weapons. He raised his hands and Kiara said, “Stand down. He’s a friend.”

She didn’t quite miss the look the guards shared—evidently news of her nocturnal city adventures was slow to spread. She was almost glad of it. In one respect, it meant she was going about it in the right way.

“My—Kiara,” Joff said, earning even stranger glances from his guards. “It does my heart glad to see you unharmed. When I… when news came, I feared it was repercussions for my request of you.”

Kiara smiled and waved the man back into his seat. She’d have dismissed the guards if she thought they’d listen, but after today… instead she gestured for them to stand a little apart, and then she sat opposite Joff and drew her own chair near, keeping her bow nearby. “I am unharmed. As is the prince. And I don’t think the archer was an acquaintance of… our _large_ friend. Too professional. If he’d had someone like that in his pay, he’d not have been bothering you for coin.”

Joff did not look surprised. In fact, he only looked more concerned. “That’s why I’m here, m—Kiara. We heard rumors right away, and none of them good.”

“Bad enough for you to run up here to me?”

“Bad enough I was afraid—” he lowered his voice, “I’d meet with resistance trying to get to you.”

Kiara shot a glance toward the guards, but neither of them had so much as twitched. “So you believe—”

Joff shook his head briefly but emphatically, his own eyes darting toward the guards. He said, “No, my lady. I’m only here because my wife wanted me to thank you personally. She said there are always cheats in the marketplace, right under her nose; sometimes they wear the faces of friends. One can’t be too careful.”

“No,” Kiara said, “I suppose one can’t. Thank you, Joff. And… thank your wife. Do be sure to tell her I’ll be careful when I go to market. Now, can I send for refreshments for you? Anything? I’ve been a dreadful hostess, I’m afraid.”

“No, thank you. I only came to pass on my wife’s respects.”

“And you’ll be—”

“Perfectly.”

Kiara did not quite believe the sureness of the man’s claim—if what he indicated was true, safety might not be assured for anyone suspected of speaking with her. She rose, and the guards stood to attention. Joff stood also, and she clasped hands with him. When he met her gaze, she saw the faint distress flit through his eyes. “Ser Maisie, would you escort serah Joff home? And then report to Prince Sebastian. You’ll find me there.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave a brief, tight nod and gestured for Joff to precede her. Joff frowned, but Kiara refused to retract the order. Instead, she sent a silent prayer to Andraste, interceding for the man’s safety. He’d taken no small risk to warn her; she hoped he would not pay for it.

She did not bother to swing her bow over her back; she kept it in hand as she strode through the halls toward Sebastian’s office. A few of the ladies she passed tittered behind their hands or made a great show of watching her with wide eyes, but Kiara paid them no heed. When one had to doubt _everyone_ and _everything_ it was better to face it armed; she’d learned that much, certainly, over the years. Let the delicate flowers tremble and giggle; Kiara would have none of it.

Guards stood outside the prince’s study, but they did not attempt to stop her from knocking or entering when Sebastian called out. Two more guards stood within the doors, their sharp, keen gazes scanning the chamber even though it was only Sebastian within, reading missives at his desk. He glanced up when she entered, and smiled, though the smile faded somewhat when he noticed the bow.

“Kiara,” he greeted. “I had not thought—”

She didn’t give him a chance to finish; it took only a few strides to cross the room, and she dropped into the deepest, most gratuitous curtsey she could manage, her skirts a pool around her. He blinked, startled, but he knew her well enough to know _something_ was up. Which, of course, was exactly her intention. _He’d_ know her behavior was out of character, but she hoped the guards wouldn’t notice anything amiss in it.

When he reached out to take her hand and lift her from her obeisance, she used the nearness to whisper, “Send them away. We have to talk.”

Sebastian’s nod was so small even she almost missed it. She winced when he gripped the hand she’d used to punch Tiny a little too tightly; her knuckles were still tender. He frowned at the bruises and raised an eyebrow.

“Broke a man’s face,” she said.

Sebastian sighed. “Which is your idea of not taking unnecessary risks?”

Kiara grimaced. “It was entirely necessary, I promise you.”

She didn’t miss his slight smirk as he lifted her hand and kissed the bruised knuckles in a completely innocent, completely courtly gesture. Then, with a bland expression, he looked up at his guards. “Sers? If you… wouldn’t mind?”

The guards shifted slightly, and shared a look. “Are you… certain, Your Highness?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. He merely fixed them with the look she was coming to recognize as his _are you really going to argue with your sovereign?_ expression. A moment later, they departed. One cast a glance backward over his shoulder. Kiara made a note to ask Elias about him, and then regretted her lack of trust.

But if distrust would save Sebastian from days like today, she’d doubt every damned soul in Starkhaven.

As soon as the door finished closing behind the guards, Sebastian pulled her into a brief embrace and dropped a kiss to her furrowed brow. “What is it?” he whispered. “You look prepared to murder someone.”

“Don’t I always?”

His smile was fond, but his eyes missed nothing; they were sharp and wanted answers. Kiara sighed. “I made a friend last night. I helped him out. Today he returned the favor.”

“He broke someone’s face for you?”

“Not exactly. He… he said there are troubling rumors. That the archer today was _allowed_ into the palace by a faction opposed to you.”

His arm squeezed her lightly. “Aye. He is… not the only one to suspect such a thing, I’m afraid. But it is more troubling if these rumors are already being heard in the city.”

Kiara stepped out of the circle of his arms, pacing several strides before turning back to face him. “You know what Varric says. If rumors are coming from more than one direction, they’re much less likely to be unfounded.”

“I have the Eyes—”

“And you can trust them? Every one of them? Absolutely?”

He shook his head, sinking back into his seat behind his desk. “I trust no one absolutely, Kiara, save you. But I trust them… more than I trust anyone else. If my elimination were their goal, I would be dead already. Elias is… restructuring the guard, pairing those he trusts more with those he… trusts less.” He waved toward the doorway. “I’m not sure if _more_ guards is the way to best protect ourselves, but for now Elias will have his way.”

Kiara frowned. “I don’t… you’re doing _good_ for the city. Don’t they see that?”

“Like Kirkwall saw the good _you_ did for _it_?” Sebastian leaned forward, resting his head on one hand. His tone held no accusation; if anything, his expression commiserated with her. “Politics and logic do not often go hand in hand.”

“Someone shot an arrow at you in public today. Please tell me you’re not joking about how serious this is.”

“Of course I’m not joking, but what would you have me do? Interrogate everyone in Starkhaven? We have seen firsthand what happens when paranoia is allowed free rein. We must be vigilant, but I will not descend to Meredith’s level. Even if it costs my life.”

Kiara blew out a heavy exhale. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It makes you sound so noble. And doomed.”

Sebastian’s answering smile was weary, but genuine. “I have any number of things to live for, Kiara. I intend to avoid trouble if I can.” He glanced down at her hand again. “Do we need to discuss your death wish?”

“I brought the Eyes,” she retorted, with a hint of sullen pride. “It’s not like I went alone.”

“Thank the Maker for your having that much good sense,” he replied.

“You’re teasing me.”

“Of course I am.”

She threw herself into a chair opposite his desk and shook her head. “You think I’m overreacting?”

“Not at all. But I hope you trust me enough to believe me when I say I am absolutely taking the threat seriously, but there is no cause—yet—for losing our minds to worry and worst case scenarios.”

She almost laughed. “You’re infuriating when you’re reasonable.”

“And you are infuriating when you’re overprotective.” He winked, smirking slightly. “I find myself sympathizing with your sister more and more.”

Whatever mirth she’d been on the cusp of feeling dissipated at this; unless her courier had met with serious trouble, Kiara knew she ought to be hearing from Amelle at any moment. Sebastian noted the frown and said, “Soon, Kiara. I am certain it will come soon.”

“There you go being reasonable again.”

“We must play to our strengths.” He glanced down at the paperwork scattered across his desk. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in any of this?”

“Curtains?”

He chuckled. “Hardly. Those go in the trash. But I have some troublesome disputes to mediate and a coronation to plan and a w—and celebrations to prepare. Amongst other things.”

Reaching across the desk with her unbruised hand she took his fingers in hers and squeezed them. “Tell you what,” she said, “order me the largest pot of tea the kitchen can find and I’m yours for the afternoon.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“And ever after, of course, but paperwork only gets an afternoon.”

“Tea I can do.”

“Excellent,” she replied. “Let me at those troublesome disputes.”

#

Sometimes Sebastian was afraid it was all a dream.

Every morning when he woke, he lay with his eyes closed, trying to prepare himself, just in case. He wrestled with panic, with the sense that some Fade demon was merely tormenting him with everything he’d always wanted and everything he’d never thought he’d have. And then every morning, when he turned a corner or walked into his office or his manservant opened the door to reveal Kiara, smiling a certain secret smile meant only and entirely for him, it was proven all over again. No dream.

It was probably an abysmal lack of faith, but he couldn’t help expecting something to go wrong, to go awry. Oh, there were assassination attempts and obnoxious nobles and the bounty courts hadn’t instantly made Starkhaven’s mage—or, rather, not-mage—troubles disappear, but he was Prince. He was Prince, and Kiara Hawke would be his princess, and for all that it was still a secret, it wasn’t a dream.

It had been nearly a week since he’d stood before her and spoken honest words he’d only ever dreamt he would hear spoken in return. The secrecy of it chafed at him, when all he wished to do was shout his happiness from the rooftops—or at least declare it openly in front of his court—but Kiara had the right of it when she only shook her head and said, “Not yet. Not with the… things still happening in the city. They know who I am. They think they know what I represent. Not yet.”

What she meant was _not until they trust me_. He knew that. He simply wanted everything to move more quickly.

Then again, patience was a virtue the importance of which the Maker had been trying to impress upon him for quite some time.

Flanked by a pair of guards—he disliked the necessity, though he understood it, especially given the attack the day before—Sebastian made his way to the practice yard. Sunny days were increasingly fewer and farther between at this time of year, and it was all but guaranteed he’d find Kiara enjoying outside enjoying the current one.

He heard her laugh even before he saw her. She was many things, Kiara Hawke, but demure and retiring and aware of how her voice carried were none of them. 

It was so rare to catch her unawares, and Sebastian paused on the threshold to watch a moment before she noticed him. He wondered if others noticed the same things he did: the way she always turned toward anyone speaking to her, her body language so _open_ , inviting trust; the way her whole demeanor shifted when she smiled; the way her hands fluttered and danced and gestured almost constantly when she spoke. Even from across the yard, he knew by following her hands alone she was explaining a complicated point about fletching.

It had taken him years to truly figure out the language of Kiara Hawke, and now he found himself learning new phrases, adding new entries to the dictionary of her: shyness without affectation, when stolen kisses became stolen caresses, accompanied by an entire vocabulary of gasps and cries and breaths he wanted to hear again and again; the secret way she glanced at him, carrying echoes of things he almost recognized now—she’d been looking at him for years, and he’d never noticed how much _emotion_ those looks had contained; resolve and humility and greatness, all dancing in and out and around each other, somehow perfect, somehow fitting together to make the _Kiaraness_ of Kiara Hawke. 

Maker, but he loved her.

Kiara was wearing one of the gowns Tasia insisted on (the maid had reluctantly come around to the necessity of armor for evening adventures, aye, but Sebastian had only convinced Tasia to give it back with a promise her mistress wouldn’t start wandering the halls in it day in and day out; it was a hard-won compromise) and she was patiently correcting young Lord Garreth Grayden’s stance. The lad seemed more interested in watching Kiara than following her direction, but Sebastian could hardly fault him that. She glowed in the sunlight, and the ease and fluidity of her movements—the subtle, elegant grace of her—was intoxicating. Especially when she lifted her own bow and effortlessly shot an arrow into a distant practice butt. Whatever she then said made Garreth laugh and ruefully shake his head. Sebastian imagined it went something along the lines of _See? Anyone can do it. Just like that._  

Sebastian found himself glad of the budding friendship. Garreth was young, certainly, but his holdings were not small ones, and the Graydens had long-reaching connections. If there were better friends to make in Starkhaven, Sebastian did not know them. A Grayden’s commendation was worth far more than a Caddell’s censure, that much was certain. Given that Sebastian was relatively sure it had _been_ a Caddell who’d maneuvered the seating plans throwing Kiara and Garreth together in the first place, Sebastian found it amusingly ironic. 

With Kinnon having earned a hard-won day off for his heroics, Ser Maisie was their lone guard, and Sebastian was relieved to note the knight’s gaze tirelessly sweeping the practice yard. He saw her notice him, but he waved her to silence. For another quarter of an hour, he watched Kiara and her young charge. Finally, Kiara glanced up and saw him, smiling _that smile_. She clapped Garreth lightly on the shoulder and set him to practicing once again before meeting Sebastian halfway across the yard. Sebastian’s guards were not privy to their arrangement, so smiles had to stand in for kisses.

“Beautiful day,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, wanting to kiss those lovely, smirking lips, “lovely weather we’re having.”

She snorted. “For a change, yes. I assume this is a social call, since I don’t suppose you’d have stood in the doorway watching me for twenty minutes if something important had come up.”

He felt the faintest warmth staining his cheeks, and knew it couldn’t entirely be blamed on the sun. Grinning at him, she nudged him playfully with one elbow. “You didn’t know I knew, did you?”

“I didn’t.”

Her answering giggle was infectious, and he laughed with her. “Not a real rogue. Ha.”

The recollection of Varric and Isabela sobered her somewhat, however, and he was sad to see the shadow cross her face, because he already knew what her question would be, and he already knew he did not have the answer she wished. “Soon, Kiara,” he soothed. “I’ve heard nothing at all out of Kirkwall. And with Kirkwall’s… reputation—”

“We’re going with the ‘no news is good news’ school of thought?” She sighed. “I suppose it does have certain merits over the ‘mindless insane worry without substance or proof’ alternative.”

“Why, Kiara Hawke, I do believe that’s _growth_. Amelle will be so proud.”

Her answering smile was too small and too strained. “You don’t suppose…”

“No,” he replied firmly, “I most certainly do not suppose what you’re supposing.”

“It’s been… it’s been a month— _more_ than a month—since we fought. I can’t… when I think of the things I said, it’s like I’m hearing someone else’s voice, but I _see_ my lips speaking. What if this is her way of… of cutting me off? Permanently?”

She bowed her head, but Sebastian would have none of it. Crooking his finger, he used it to tilt her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “When has your sister ever _withheld_ her opinion, Kiara? You do her a disservice. She is neither spiteful nor unfair, and I am certain you will hear from her soon.”

For a moment she looked so genuinely distressed he wanted nothing more than to press his lips to her forehead, if only to smooth the lines of anxiety there. He saw her decide to be cheerful, the clouds clearing from her face with a deep inhale and long, slow exhale. The smile that replaced her frown wasn’t a false one, but neither was it quite so carefree as the ones he’d seen earlier. “Okay,” she said, as though making a decision. “Okay.” Then she looked at him with wry amusement. “ _Are_ you just here to watch me?”

“I’m here to recruit you, I think. It’s obvious young Grayden’s improved even in the past week under your tutelage.”

“So I don’t get to be the head of your super secret spy network, but I _do_ get to take over teaching your archers?”

Sebastian laughed. “Elias would hardly thank me for that. But your skills are different than those the Royal Archers learn. I wouldn’t mind if you… shared some of your experience.”

“I can do that.” Her gaze turned shrewd. “You’re not just trying to exhaust me so I won’t run amok in the city at night, are you?”

He touched his fingertips briefly to her cheekbone before dropping his hand. “You’ve discovered my ingenious plot, aye.”

“See? I _should_ be the head of your super secret spy network. I’m terribly clever.”

“Terribly.”

“I’m also terribly _hungry_. I’ve been out here all morning. I don’t suppose you’ve time for a meal?”

“Perhaps if we take it in my office,” he said mildly.

“Why, that sounds _perfect_ , my lord. Very… private.”

She spoke the last word in a whisper—and, oh, it was a whisper so very much like a _promise_ —already turning back to Garreth, leaving Sebastian with yet another blush and his uncomfortably vivid imagination. Whatever it was she said to him made the lad grin meaningfully, and she laughed as she punched him lightly on the shoulder. 

Maisie fell in behind Kiara, eyes still constantly watching, constantly wary. He appreciated that in the young guardswoman—Kinnon would have been all distraction and conversation, as ever. Oh, he did his _job_ , but—

He reprimanded himself for his unkind thought—the man had taken an _arrow_ for him, after all—and offered Kiara his arm. She accepted it, leaning ever so slightly against him in the closest they were permitted to a public embrace.

Even with the silence out of Kirkwall, even with his people still angry about rumors and shadows, even with people taking shots at him, he was _happy_. 

And it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t.

But he still wasn’t entirely relaxed, entirely comfortable. And the shiver that ran the length of his spine had very little to do with the coolness in the air. 


	71. Chapter 71

Cullen had never felt more out of place in his life. Even after… everything at Kinloch Hold, even when _everyone_ save Greagoir had given him slantwise glances and wide berths, even when he’d eaten his dinner alone more often than not, Cullen had never felt quite so… different. At least in the Tower he’d still been a templar. A mad templar, perhaps; a rabid one, almost certainly, but a templar nonetheless. He’d had the Order to hold on to, a chain of command to follow, and routine to make even his loneliest moments bearable. He might have been broken, but he still _fit_.

Watching the interactions around him now, it was clear just how well they all knew each other. Even Fenris, by nature the most taciturn, belonged.

Cullen didn’t belong. Oh, no one singled him out— _very well, no one except Varric singled him out_ —but still he felt like the odd afterthought. On the fourth night, just as they were leaving the thrice-blasted mountains behind, Isabela produced a deck of cards. He’d never seen a more voracious group of gamblers. When he admitted he’d never played a game of Diamondback in his life, Varric looked disgusted, Fenris disappointed, and Amelle pitying. Isabela dumped herself so near she might very well have just sat _in his lap_ and promised to teach him.

He was pretty sure she fleeced him. The rules she whispered in his ear seemed to change with every hand. And she _always_ won.

He found himself almost jealous of their ease with each other. Their banter was swift and unstudied, and they spoke in a shorthand he couldn’t quite follow, all inside jokes and references to adventures past that he’d played no part in. Once Varric had muttered something about, “Remember that time we came across the stick-in-the-mud templar beating his own recruit on the Wounded Coast?” but Amelle had only kicked the dwarf in the shin—actually _kicked_ him—and warned him to stop being an insufferable ass.

“Or what, Firefly?” Varric had challenged, but with a laugh in his tone.

“I haven’t decided yet. Lightning bolt?”

“Boring.”

“Rain of fire?”

“Ugh, uninspired.”

“Paralysis followed by sleep? Only to wake up to find your magnificent chest hair completely shaved off?”

Varric chuckled. “Better, but too wordy. You’ve got to compete with the way your sister can say _arrow through the eye_ with a completely menacing, completely straight face. Scary enough to make a man’s balls shrivel right then and there. _Arrow through the eye._ And you know damned well she could do it, too.”

“I have to come up with a ball-shrivelingly frightening signature punishment?”

“Of course! Think about your _image._ No one ever said it was easy, being the hero of a tale. You gotta give your… biographer something to work with.”

“Hero of the tale?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. Anyway, I know my biographer. He’ll figure something out. _And_ make me disproportionately top-heavy as an added bonus.”

They needled each other, and then laughed about it. Even Fenris. If Cullen had ever dreamt of speaking the words _pull your head out of your ass, Broody, you’re bringing the rest of us down_ , he was fairly certain he’d never have lived to tell the tale. But when Varric said it—with alarming regularity—Fenris only scowled the scowl Cullen was coming to think of as ‘amused scowl’ and said nothing. Sometimes his lips almost twitched. Once in a while his eyebrow lifted.

But he almost always… pulled his head out of his ass. _That_ was the alarming part.

Amelle, bless her, tried to include him. She regaled him with commentary, tried to explain the inside jokes, and even occasionally reminded the others that _not everyone_ had been around for the past seven years. Sometimes she apologized. He hated the apologies most of all. Mostly because—even though he wasn’t precisely included—he could see why the japes and jests and endless stories happened.

The closer they grew to Starkhaven, the more troubled Amelle looked. The more troubled Amelle looked, the more stories Varric told, and the more outlandish the tales became. He was trying to keep her spirits up the best way he knew how, and Cullen couldn’t fault him for it, even if it did leave him feeling most decidedly like a fifth wheel.

One small relief Cullen couldn’t help but appreciate was the fact that Fenris now spoke to him without a growl in his voice or murder and mutilation in his eyes.  Though he still adamantly refused to call Cullen by name.

Whatever incident had transpired between Fenris and Amelle — for neither of them spoke of it — their silences seemed to grow less awkward and strained as the days wore on.  They attempted to give each other a wide berth, but those attempts were thwarted more often than not by Isabela and Varric, who frequently suggested Amelle and Fenris cover dinner duty together, or collect firewood, or set up camp, or any number of little chores.  And they acquiesced — probably because Varric kept the suggestions so casual it would have bordered on the absurd for them to argue.  They spoke little more than a word or two directly to each other, but the general climate was better for it, and far less likely to choke them all with tension.

Now, for instance, the atmosphere was anything _but_ tense.  They were several hours out of a small village that had made a less than favorable impression on Varric and Isabela their first time through.  This time, however…

“Well, _that_ was satisfying,” Isabela announced as the mare she rode snorted in what sounded very much like amusement.

“Eminently,” Varric agreed.

Amelle shot them both an annoyed, wounded look.  “I don’t know why _I_ had to be the mark.”

“Because, Firefly,” Varric explained, “you are exactly the type any pickpocket worth his salt would look for: young, cute, petite—”

Amelle snorted.  “You could well be describing a kitten, you know.”  At that, Isabela grinned back over her shoulder at Amelle.

“Oh, we know, _kitten._ ”

“Besides,” Varric went on, “It’s easier for _us_ to spot a pickpocket when he’s not trying to make _us_ his marks.”

“But why couldn’t it have been Fenris?  Or Cullen?”

Isabela sighed.  “It’s all in appearances, sweetheart.  Trust me, I know.  How many times do you suppose some blighter thought I’d be stupid enough to fool or easy enough to double-cross?  I hate to be the one to tell you, but you just don’t look like any sort of threat.  And you _certainly_ don’t look the type who can shoot lightning bolts from your fingertips the moment anyone tried _._ ”  To Cullen’s ears, Isabela sounded wistful — almost _envious._  

“He _groped my bottom_ ,” Amelle said, outrage making her cheeks pink.  

“Well, yeah,” Varric said with a shrug.  “Distraction.  With his hand on your butt, you’re not gonna notice his fingers on your purse.”  He chuckled again, his shoulders shaking with mirth.  “He’ll think twice next time he tries to make someone’s pocket lighter.”

“It’s not as if I shot a _chain_ of lightning at him!  It was just a little… a little shock _._   _Because he was grabbing my backside._ ”  Amelle shot a worried glance at Cullen then, but he merely ducked his head, hiding his own grin.  Amelle’s magical reaction to the pickpocket _had_ been both reflexive and defensive, but Cullen was finding it difficult to muster very much sympathy for the would-be criminal.

“You know,” Isabela mused, “you’d make an excellent pirate.  You could be my little secret weapon, kitten.  Would you like that?”

Amelle made a face.  “Isabela.  I _know_ Kiara’s told you about our journey from Gwaren to Kirkwall.”

But Isabela only waved a dismissive hand back at her.  “So you got a little seasick—”

Here, Varric coughed pointedly.  The two exchanged a look, and Isabela let out a theatrical sigh.  “I _tried_ to tell you, Fuzzy.  If you stay down in the hold—”

“I won’t have anywhere convenient to puke.”  He grinned over at Amelle.  “Better to make trouble on land anyway, right, Firefly?”

Amelle was just about to answer when the chestnut gelding she rode tossed his head suddenly and jerked his entire body, prancing nervously to the side.  Its dark eyes widened until Cullen could see the whites as it looked about wildly.  Concerned and wary, Amelle ran one hand down the animal’s long neck, but the gesture did nothing to calm him.  Cullen had barely drawn breath to ask Amelle if she was all right when his own yellow mare let out a screeching whinny and turned about in a circle, hooves churning up the wet ground.

“Something is out there,” Fenris said darkly, leaping easily from his horse’s back and keeping a tight hold on the reins as he reached to steady Amelle’s horse, still stomping at the ground, front hooves lifting up in little frenetic bursts of nervous energy.  Fenris had barely grabbed the reins when the gelding reared up with a terrified, screeching whinny, sending Amelle tumbling unceremoniously from the saddle and landing with a grunt upon the ground.

“Amelle!”  Cullen shouted, sliding from his mount’s back just in time — the rest of the horses began to react with the same level of fear as Amelle’s had, though the threat was yet to be seen.

Unhurt, Amelle pushed herself to her knees and flung out both hands, light and magic pouring forth and wrapping around the horses. The rush of magic sent every single nerve in Cullen’s body on edge, every reflex pulling at him to counteract it, despite the fact Amelle’s sleep spell was the only way they had to calm the horses in order to face down whatever it was frightening them in the first place.  The large animals gave a shudder and sank first to their knees before collapsing onto their sides.

Varric already held his crossbow in his hands.  “Everyone all right?”  He asked the question generally, but he seemed to be paying particular attention to Amelle.  “That was a bitch of a fall, Firefly.”

“Right as rain,” Amelle answered, shaking her hands out as the light faded from her fingertips.  She then scrambled to her horse’s side, working frantically to free one of her staves. Cullen’s own hand was closed upon the pommel of his sword as he turned around, eyes closed, listening for whatever had frightened the horses so.

The sound of a deep, wet growl sent a chill chasing down Cullen’s spine.  He _knew_ that sound.  He’d heard it described over and over again in the days after the Blight, after the Archdemon had fallen.  Then he’d arrived in Kirkwall, and on his first patrol of the Wounded Coast, he’d experienced it himself.  Gritting his teeth, Cullen pulled his sword free from its scabbard and his shield from his back as Fenris and Isabela likewise armed themselves.

“I see,” Fenris muttered, “you weren’t exaggerating about the darkspawn, either.”

Cullen had never seen so many of the monsters in one place. His rare encounters with strays on the Wounded Coast had not prepared him for the way a host could _seethe_. A fist of apprehension tightened in his gut, but resolve followed, and he swallowed hard.

Even Varric seemed at a loss for words. When he glanced back over his shoulder at Fenris, his face had gone pale. “Trust me, if it’d been like this when we came through last time, I wouldn’t have left the details out.”

Isabela grimaced, spinning her blades as if to test their balance. Her attention remained focused on the monsters in their path. “We killed two genlocks and a half-dead hurlock grunt. _And_ we had the advantage of surprise.”

A howl from one of the darkspawn made certain they knew surprise would not be an option. Nor would running. The sounds of grunts and growls and high, thin cries filled the air all around them. Varric prepared a volley of bolts; Fenris took position at Amelle’s back, greatsword at the ready; Isabela’s narrowed eyes took in the field as she prepared a miasmic flask, readying it for deployment.

And then, beneath it all, Cullen felt the faint hum of magic so vile, so _wrong_ , it made every hair on the back of his neck rise, and the fear in his stomach was twisted instead into nausea.  He cast about, trying to sense the origin of such foul magics, but by that point Amelle’s hands and staff were aglow with power, and the thrum of energy in the air confused his senses for a moment.  He felt both, and his instincts screamed at him to incapacitate both _,_ but after only a fraction of a moment, he felt the differences between Amelle’s power and the fouler, corrupt magic curling through the air, like whistles set at different pitches.  

He felt _and_ saw Amelle — Fenris still kept his back to her, pushing back any of the darkspawn that encroached too closely — summon her mana and close her eyes, staff and hands flaring impossibly, blindingly bright for a moment before she flung both arms skyward.  And then fire descended upon the battlefield, filling the air with furious shrieks and snarls, and the stench of burning, corrupted flesh.  But Amelle was already summoning a second storm to work along the first, and soon the crackle of lightning made the charged the air around him and made Cullen’s ears pop.

Steeling himself, Cullen turned his mind away from the high, clear, _true_ feel of Amelle’s magic and focused himself upon seeking out the source of malevolence.  It was a short search.  

Tt the end of the thicket they were passing through, protected by two muscular genlocks wielding massive spiked shields, another darkspawn — _an emissary,_ his mind supplied —  floated, its features distorted, its arms too long and spindly, tattered robes giving the fiend a ghostlike appearance.  And magic poured from it, every bit as foul as the creature itself.

Cullen broke into a run as the creature lifted its arms, summoning a spell.  There wasn’t time enough for a smite, there wasn’t _time—_  

He loosed a rush of cleansing energy in time to see the spell gutter out, and with a hideous roar, one of the genlocks rushed forward, pushing its shield, sending dirt and earth and mud splattering everywhere as the ground rumbled beneath them all.

Cullen raised his own shield, bracing for impact, and from behind him came a shout, and a rush of cold as thick spikes of ice erupted from the ground — it did not stop the genlock, but slowed it slightly.  The force of its shield against Cullen’s still sent him reeling back, and when he looked up, he could see the thing watching him from around its shield, smiling horribly, thick spittle dripping from its too many, too sharp teeth.

It never saw Isabela. Maker’s _breath_ , even Cullen couldn’t follow how quickly the pirate moved. One moment the genlock was grinning at him, and the next its head was toppling from its gnarled shoulders, severed by a sweeping twist of Isabela’s twin blades.

The pirate’s grin was nearly as unnerving as the genlock’s. Then, with a wink, the woman was gone again, and Cullen had just enough time to scramble to his feet and get in position before the second monster descended upon him, snarling its rage and blood-lust.

The second genlock heaved its spiked shield toward Cullen, and again he was forced to block with his own. The metal creaked and held, but the scrape of the spikes against it created a jarring scream that set his teeth on edge. He couldn’t find purchase, and the monster’s shield was so big it left no easy opening for Cullen’s blade. Grimacing as sweat trickled into his eyes, he blinked to clear his vision. The genlock howled, and though the sound had no words, Cullen was certain the sound was meant to call reinforcements.

The emissary was casting again, but this time Cullen could not spare the will necessary even for a cleanse. Still, he attempted to unravel the creature’s spell as it loosed. He thought he felt it weaken, but behind him Varric grunted and Cullen heard Amelle shout.

Cullen couldn’t turn, couldn’t look to see what had happened. The genlock snarled again, but this time when he tried to thrust his shield at Cullen, he dropped to the ground, kicking out and catching the darkspawn off-guard. The monster fell, and Cullen removed its head… if not with Isabela’s finesse, at least with equal proficiency. The end result was the same.

The battle still roiled on behind him, and the sounds of shouting, of clashing blades, of inhuman howls filled the air, but Cullen dared not look.  He raised both his sword and his nearly-ruined shield against the emissary — he had _barely_ enough will for a smite.  But then the air twisted and shimmered, and as Cullen swung his sword forward the darkspawn conjured a barrier, catching his blade and trapping it as if it were caught in molasses.  With a grunt, Cullen pulled, and when his sword came free he stumbled back a step.  The emissary looked down dispassionately at him as it drew its hand back, energy coalescing around its fingertips.

“Cullen!”  Amelle’s voice.  He turned his head just a fraction in time to see the mage awash in blue-white light.  She knelt by Varric, who looked too still, too pale, and Fenris and Isabela were locked in battle against two hurlocks and another genlock, trying to push them back and give Amelle the space she needed to work.  But for all Isabela’s speed, sweat darkened her headscarf and made her hair plaster wetly to her head, and even Fenris — his markings astonishingly bright — seemed to be flagging.  Amelle set her jaw and flung one hand out, sending tendrils of pale light out toward them.

Incongruous warmth flooded his limbs, washing away every injury, every strain, and as he turned back to the emissary, he felt his own diminishing reserves return.  He found himself standing up a little straighter, a little taller _,_ and he could feel his will swirl beneath his skin, as easy to gather and focus as a thought.

Behind him, there was another wave of magic as Amelle cast again and Cullen was fairly sure he’d never been so happy to hear the dwarf’s voice:  “Really, _really_ need to learn to parry.” 

Closing his eyes, Cullen flung his arms out, feeling the rush of energy funnel forward, slamming a bright column of light into the emissary, throwing it back, dazed. It wasn’t perfect—the emissary was deceptively strong—but it was _enough_. Cullen cast aside the ineffectual remains of his shield, and gripped his longsword with two hands, wishing for the greatsword he’d used in Ferelden. The emissary hissed at him, and uttered a cry so shrill and eerie it bored straight into Cullen’s skull. Even the sound was filthy, and he had to shake himself so as not to give in to it. The darkspawn mage raised its clawed hands, but before it could cast, Cullen swept his blade in an arc, taking the creature’s hands off at the wrists. The shriek grew louder, madder, drenched with dark power, but it wasn’t enough. Pain had stolen its ability to conjure, and another vast, two-handed strike brought Cullen’s sword down, cleaving through the beast from shoulder to groin.

With the emissary’s magic gone, Cullen was once again inundated by the purer call of Amelle’s power. He followed it like a beacon, slaughtering three more darkspawn foolish enough to get in his way. It felt odd to have no shield, and his sword was too short and narrow to be wielded the way he was attempting. It wasn’t until he was back at Amelle’s side he realized his left arm was aching from shoulder to fingertip, and tingling in a way not simply borne of fatigue. He ignored it, focusing on the battle. Corpses lay high around them, but the focus and drive of the darkspawn seemed to have gone out of them when the emissary died. Killing them now was a matter of hunting them down and picking them off.

When the last creature had fallen—sliced in two by a whirling, two-handed strike of Fenris’ Cullen only wished he could emulate—Cullen sank to his knees in the blood-drenched, muddy ground. His left arm was completely numb, and his blade hung limp from the right.

He saw Amelle’s feet first, as she stopped in front of him. He thought she was speaking to him, but the words sounded strange and distant. “Hurt,” was one of them, and “blood” another.  Then she crouched down and looked up into his face and shook her head, answering a question he hadn’t heard, then he felt himself get hefted to his feet — Fenris on one side, Isabela on the other, both looking grim — and half-carried, half-dragged to a spot untouched by the battle.

“There,” Amelle said, her voice sounding faint and far away.  “Set him there.  Carefully, now.”

He felt her hands on him, felt his armor — too light for a battle such as this, but he’d never have made the trip in heavy plate — loosen as it was pulled away.  Amelle swore under her breath, and then he felt the tension as the fabric of his tunic was pulled tight until it tore.  Gentle fingertips prodded at his shoulder and suddenly a burst of throbbing pain shot through his back and down his arm.  He wanted to groan, but it would have taken too much effort.

The hum of Amelle’s magic pushed forward and sounded clearer than even her voice had.  He felt her hands upon his back and shoulder, followed by a wave of something that felt both hot and cold — agonizingly so.  It hurt _,_ and despite the darkness creeping over his mind, he felt years — _decades_ — worth of training rail against the magic.

Then he heard Amelle Hawke’s voice by his ear — Maker, he hoped  it was Amelle and not a demon, not another of Uldred’s demons, whispering and promising—

“Cullen, if you don’t stop fighting my magic _right now_ , you are _never_ getting the opportunity to smite me.  So knock it off, you big dummy.”

 _Definitely_ Amelle Hawke, Cullen decided.  Exhaling a soft breath, he allowed the healing magic to sink into bone and sinew. After an eternity, the magic faded, and the ache left behind was only the usual exhaustion of hard-fought battle. Blinking, he pushed himself upright.

“Easy,” Amelle said softly. “You—”

She was interrupted by Varric. “Maker’s nuts, kid! You didn’t have to go all sodding _hero_ on us.”

Isabela snorted lightly. “Says the man who called him _Turnip_ after the last battle.”

Varric had the grace to look chagrined. His color was better, Cullen noted, and whatever damage had been done seemed to be well on its way to mended. “Are you injured?”

Varric’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “You know _you_ were the one who was dancing around in the middle of a battlefield, tainted blood flying every which way, with an open wound just _begging_ to be used against you.”

Cullen frowned, and Varric clapped him on the unwounded shoulder. “I’m fine. Firefly got to me quick.” Varric jumped, as if he’d been elbowed from behind, but Isabela, the only person standing behind him, adopted an expression of complete and utter innocence. Gruffly, Varric added, “You did good out there, templar.”

Blinking, he felt the weight of the praise. “Does that mean you’ll stop… you know. Turnip?”

The dwarf grinned. “Not on your life, kid.”

Somehow? Somehow it was _this_ —the smiling dwarf and his adherence to the ridiculous nickname—that made Cullen feel he might not belong quite yet, but at least he had a chance of one day doing so.

#

It took a perfectly quiet night for Amelle to realize how long it had been since they’d had one, and how nice it was to finally get one.  A day outside Starkhaven, they were finally free of the bitter wind and chill of the mountains.  Tonight the sky above was clear, there was no need to seek shelter in caves, and a neat circle of tents surrounded the warmth of the fire.  All that remained of dinner was the carcass of a boar roasted over the fire, picked nearly clean.

It was a good night.  And tomorrow, they would reach their destination.

Amelle rolled onto her stomach and stretched out on the patch of soft grass, basking in the warmth of the flickering campfire.  She had the Chantry map unfurled in front of her and she propped herself up on her elbows, examining it — it really _was_ horrible.  Everyone else was similarly occupied: Varric cleaning Bianca with his usual level of meticulous care; Isabela shuffling a deck of cards with increasing flair; Cullen, whose injury was healing cleanly and had _not_ suffered the darkspawn taint, sitting quietly, reading from the Chant of Light; and Fenris perfectly still upon his back, arms folded behind his head, watching the night sky, lost in his own thoughts.

Amelle wondered for a moment what those thoughts were.

“I’m bored,” Isabela announced.

Amelle lifted her head.  “You’re… bored.”

Varric barely looked up from Bianca’s mechanisms, but he gestured in one direction with the cloth he held.  “Whole bunch of darkspawn, about a day’s walk thataway.  Have fun, Rivaini.”

Isabela scowled.  “Don’t tell me any of you lot aren’t _bored_.”

“We fought darkspawn,” Fenris said.

“Got stabbed,” Cullen added.

“Ditto that,” muttered Varric.

“Healed them both,” Amelle said, arching an eyebrow at her.

“I’m not looking for a _fight._   I’m just… twitchy.”  She sighed.  “Anyone want to play cards?”

“ _No,”_ Cullen said, glancing up from his book long enough to send a dark look Isabela’s way.  

The pirate sighed and pulled a card from the deck, taking it between two fingers and flicking it at Cullen.  It fluttered onto the open book and he looked up slowly, arching an eyebrow at her.  Isabela flashed him her most winning smile.

“Oops.  Slipped.”

He looked down at the playing card and shook his head.

“There, now, Handsome, give us the card back and—”

“Unorthodox as it is, I think this will make a most excellent bookmark.”

“Hey!  That’s from my mar—  my _very special deck._ ”

Amelle shook her head and sighed.  “We all know your cards are marked, Isabela.”

“ _I_ didn’t,” grumbled Cullen.

“Which is why you kept losing to her,” Fenris remarked.  “You’ll learn.”

“Like you did, elf?” Varric chuckled.  

Fenris exhaled a soft snort, the faintest ghost of a smile curved at his lips, and Amelle wondered suddenly what memory was amusing him.  She shifted on the grass, propping her chin in one hand, pretending to examine the flawed map while she watched Fenris through her lashes.  He was within arm’s reach again, and the urge to reach out and touch him was nearly impossible to ignore — but ignore it she did, tamping down on her sigh.  Denial was supposed to feel _virtuous; a_ ll Amelle felt was lonely… and vaguely cheated, since she didn’t even feel virtuous.

“I have rum,” Isabela supplied helpfully.

“You always have rum, Rivaini.”

“We could drink round the campfire and share… bosom tales.”

“I didn’t realize there were quite so many tales about your bosom,” Amelle quipped, tipping her head a bit to grin up at the pirate.

“I’ll have you know there are any _number_ of tales about my bosom,” Isabela retorted. “And they are all _epic_.”

“And they’re all ones you wrote?”

Isabela’s face froze mid-smirk. “I didn’t—”

“Allow me to amend that: are they all ones you _or_ Varric wrote?”

“You’re a spoilsport, kitten.” Isabela stretched out her long—once again _bare_ —legs and sighed as she crossed them at the ankle. “We could play a drinking game?”

“Why do I feel like we’d _all_ come out losers in that one?” Cullen remarked mildly, turning a page.

“The word you’re looking for is _winners_ , actually,” Isabela opined. “But your reluctance is noted, Handsome. In that case I’m sure the no-holds-barred orgy is out?”

Cullen lifted his chin and regarded Isabela calmly. To his credit, he no longer even blushed when the pirate indulged in her increasingly risqué flirtations. “I don’t know about that,” he replied, utterly composed. “I could be convinced.”

Isabela gaped, for once rendered altogether speechless.

Fenris shifted onto his side and propped his head on his hand, sending a smirk Varric’s way. “You owe me, dwarf.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, elf.”

It was so rare to see Fenris simply smilethat Amelle realized she was staring. Recollecting herself, she glanced back down at the map, glad the glow of the fire hid the blush at her cheeks. “What was the bet?” she asked.

“Whether or not Isabela could be rendered speechless by the templar,” Fenris explained, lifting a meaningful eyebrow at Varric. The dwarf rolled his eyes and scrubbed at a perfectly shiny spot on Bianca. Fenris waved a hand in Isabela’s direction. “Clearly I have won.”

Amelle snickered, but it was Cullen who replied, “And what’s my cut?”

“I hate you all,” Isabela griped. “Every last one of you.”

Amelle grinned. “What did I do?”

A bit plaintively, Cullen added, “So you’re saying there’s not going to be an orgy, then?”

Varric laughed, pointing a thumb in Cullen’s direction and raising his eyebrows. “Who is this guy, and what’d he do with Turnip?”

Amelle grinned up at Cullen and felt a strange flush of pride.  It had been a rocky — an _incredibly rocky_ start, but now Amelle couldn’t imagine having made the trip without him.  She rolled onto her back and looked up at Varric.  “You might have to change his nickname whether you like it or not, Varric.”

“Nah.  I think Turnip suits him now.”

“And why is that?” she asked, resting her arms beneath her head, mimicking Fenris’ earlier position.  “I do believe you called him a _hero_ yesterday.”

“Bah.”  Varric waved one hand.  “All that move proved was he’s as _dumb_ as a turnip for pulling a stunt like that.”

“Or Varric can’t be bothered to think of another more accurate nickname,” Fenris said.  And with that same lazy smirk at his lips, Fenris turned his head and looked down at Amelle, meeting her eyes.

Amelle’s breath stopped and the seconds ticked past.  It was Fenris who blinked suddenly, looking away and clearing his throat.  Amelle flipped onto her stomach once more and resumed her study of the map.

“The Chantry’s cartographers are quite hideous, Cullen,” she said with forced brightness, cringing at the husky note in her voice.  She coughed a little and stabbed at a portion of the map.  “There is _no_ mention of _any_ of the caves along here.  What good is a map that doesn’t tell people where they can find safe shelter?”

Cullen sent her a long, even look, his eyes just barely flickering to Fenris, who had rolled to his feet and was checking on the horses.  Amelle kept her smile fixed in place, widening it when Cullen’s eyebrows lifted inquisitively.  Finally he closed his book with a sigh and held out one hand.  “Let me have a look.”

“ _Ooh_ ,” Isabela exclaimed, sitting up and clapping her hands together.  “ _I_ know what we can do.”

“Isabela,” Amelle said as she handed over the map, “if you read so much as _one_ word of your _friend-fiction_ , I am going to _immolate_ you.”

“Handsome will smite you if you do that.”

“Actually,” Cullen drawled, frowning at the map, “I could probably be persuaded to turn a blind eye — you know, Amelle, I must admit you’re right.  There’s no— oh.  _Oh._ ”

“Oh?  What kind of ‘Oh’ is that, Cullen?”

The templar cleared his throat.  “There’s a bit here.  Down at the bottom.  Very small print.”

“And it says?”

“‘ _By the order of Divine Faustine II, 8:99 Blessed, all dens of sin and other pits of iniquity are heretofore removed from this rendering, ensuring a blessed, pious journey for all worthy pilgrims._ ’” 

Isabela gasped, horrified. “Worst. Map. Ever.”

Frowning, Cullen scrubbed a hand over his head back to his neck.  “ _Maker_.  I must’ve been in a rush if I grabbed a map almost forty years old.”

“But the caves.  Caves would’ve still been there forty years ago,” Amelle reasoned.  “So… _caves_ are… dens of sin?”

“To be fair,” Varric remarked, “they might just be pits of iniquity.”

“I _wish_ ,” Isabela griped. “This journey’s been _nothing_ but blessed and pious, no matter _how many_ caves we’ve camped in.”

“That so, Rivaini?” Varric asked, his tone deceptively mild. He arched an eyebrow at the pirate and Amelle was surprised when it was enough to make the woman actually _blush_. “The way you’ve been haranguing the Turnip and all…”

A faint crease appeared between Cullen’s brows as he stared hard at the map. If he heard them, he did not acknowledge it. In fact, the longer she looked at him, the more troubled Amelle felt. The easy humor had gone, replaced by… by something she didn’t much like the looks of. “There are no caves and inns marked, but they didn’t think to eradicate clearings.” He pointed at one very near Starkhaven, but still well outside the city’s limits. “You should probably wait at this one.”

Amelle heard the words. And then she _heard the words_. “Oh no,” she said. “No. Don’t even _think_ about it, Cullen.”

Cullen ignored this, reaching over her to point out the clearing to Fenris. Fenris made a brief sound of approval and nodded. “That will do.”

“You boys want to fill us in?” Varric asked.

“No,” Amelle repeated.

“Fenris and I have come up with a plan,” Cullen said. “Or at least we’ve come up with the first _step_ in a plan. The rest will follow once we have the opportunity to… check the lay of the land, as it were.”

Varric set Bianca down and turned his full attention on the templar. “Plan? I like plans. You want to elaborate?”

Cullen nodded once, firmly. Amelle noted he didn’t look at her, and when she turned to glare at Fenris, he was pointedly staring past her as well. After a moment, Cullen explained, “Given the… climate you described, it seems like a scouting mission is necessary. You two were seen and might be known to authorities.” Isabela stifled a snort and Cullen amended, “You are _likely_ known to authorities. Amelle is a mage. Fenris and I are unknowns, and, if necessary, I believe I can… talk my way out of any potentially disastrous situation.”

“You mean you’ll quote _magic exists to serve man and not rule over him_ until you’re blue in the face,” Varric supplied. “With a hefty dose of _burn them all_ thrown in for good measure?”

“If necessary.” Cullen rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug, finally turning to meet Amelle’s gaze. He winced at whatever he saw there. “Amelle, please. You can’t take on the entire city single-handed.”

 “I don’t want to take on the whole city,” Amelle argued, getting to her feet.  “I just want to _find my sister._ ”

“Who happens to be in a city that is—”

“Maker’s _blood,_ Cullen!  Did you think I was just going to waltz past the city gates and start a rain of fire down on the place until someone told me where Kiara Hawke was?  Do you honestly think I have _no_ tact whatsoever?”

Cullen sighed and shook his head.  “You know that’s not the case, but you must be reasonable.  There is no point flinging yourself into what could potentially become a dangerous situation.”

She shot a hard, level look Cullen’s way.  “We need to contact Kiara’s healer, first.  I answered her last letter telling her I was on my way; she’s got to know by now that I’m _close._   Whatever else is going on in Starkhaven, _she’s_ the woman I need to talk to.”

“Let Fenris and I go into the city and make some… inquiries first,” he told her reasonably.  Too reasonably.  Which was unfortunate, since Amelle wasn’t feeling particularly _reasonable._   “If you write a letter, we’ll bring it and see if we can somehow get it delivered.”

“During your… _inquiries.”_

Cullen winced a little at her tone, hesitating a breath before answering.  “Yes.”

Betrayal settled cold in the pit of her stomach as she looked between Cullen and Fenris.  “And when exactly were you going to _tell_ me about this… this _plan_ of yours?”

The two men exchanged a guilty look.

“I see.”

“Hey, now, Firefly,” Varric said from behind her, getting to his feet and coming to her side.  “This really isn’t a bad idea the guys have.  Let them _find_ Hawke first, or at least that healer.  Then we’ll figure out a way to sneak you into the city and you can do what you’ve gotta do.  Or we’ll sneak her _out_ of the city.  Whatever.  It’s, what, half a day, tops?”

“That’s hardly any time at all,” said Isabela, getting to her feet and moving to Amelle’s other side.  “The boys here do a little scouting, while _we_ get prepared. Send your healer to meet us out here while they explore, and we’ll be gathering information on two fronts.”

“And the more intel we’ve got, Firefly,” Varric chimed in, “the better off we’ll all be.”

 Isabela nodded. “Who knows what’s happened since we left, kitten. Maybe they’ll be able to waltz in and out no problem.  Did this healer of yours say Hawke was a prisoner?”

“No…” Amelle answered slowly.

“So let’s find out what we can, and if we’ve got to… _then_ we craft a plan,” Varric said.  “Listen to the voices of experience here.  We went into Starkhaven with a plan, and things _still_ fell completely to shit.”

“It is a town full of _crazy people_ ,” said Isabela darkly.  “We got kicked out of an inn—”

Cullen snorted.  Fenris simply shot Isabela a look utterly lacking in surprise.  Isabela’s eyes went suddenly wide.

“—And it wasn’t even _my fault._   It was _Princess_ that got us booted out on our arses, thank you very much _._ ”

Amelle opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut again.  “Sebastian?  _Sebastian_ got you thrown out of _an inn?_ ”  Isabela and Varric nodded.  “ _Sebastian Vael?”_ Amelle repeated, her voice creeping higher with each syllable.

“The one and only,” Varric said with a shrug.  “Just goes to show — this is one place you don’t want to even run the risk of a misstep.  We’re gonna get Hawke, Firefly.  But we’ve got to be smart about it.”  He jerked a thumb at Fenris and Cullen.  “These two are pretty much your best bet right now.  Especially if Turnip’s got a great big flaming sword there on his chest.  They’re your best ticket past the city gates, believe me.  We send them in, they send the healer _out,_ and we reconvene and compare notes before doing anything—”

“Rash,” Amelle finished, glumly.  “Reckless.”

“ _Stupid,_ ” he corrected her.  “Big difference.”  Varric dropped a hand on her shoulder and said softly, “Look, the idea’s a good one. We… what we saw…” he shuddered; Amelle could feel the strength of it even through his hand.

“And you want me to be okay with sending _them_ into that?”

“They’re not mages.”

“From what you’re saying, I don’t think that means much. What if they’ve turned on the templars? What if they don’t like the look of Fenris’ markings? What if—for some Maker-forsaken reason—they get _taken_ for mages?”

“What if the seas dry up and the moon falls out of the sky?” Isabela said in a tone that seemed to think these just as likely. “If they need to fight their way out of trouble, they won’t have to rely on pulling fireballs from the sky to do so. And I might remind you, they’re neither of them slouches when it comes to fighting their way out of trouble.”

Amelle felt the protest rising, but choked it down, bowing her head. _What would Kiara do?_

_She’d barge in and slaughter anyone who’d laid a hand on you._

Amelle sighed. _What would Kiara do if it wasn’t_ me _in danger?_

_She’d realize this was a sensible plan, rabbit._

 “You’re… right,” she said at last. “It is a sensible plan. I… I don’t think we’ll find a better one.”

“We will take no unnecessary risks,” Fenris said softly—too softly, really. Emotion welled in her chest and she pressed a hand to her heart as though pressure might stop it. “We will find her, Amelle.”

“What if, what if they _do_ find her—what if she’s—?”

“Other than you, Firefly? Who knows Hawke best?”

“Fenris,” she admitted.

Varric made a little _there you go_ gesture.  “And let’s not forget about Choir Boy.  He made it so we were able to get _out_ of the city.  He’s not an idiot; he’s probably counting on us coming back with reinforcements, biding his time by getting kicked out of more inns.  Maybe even a tavern or two.”

Amelle could tell Varric was trying to bolster her and so she nodded and pushed forward a smile for his benefit.  She could tell it was a somewhat wan attempt — Varric didn’t look fooled in the least.  But he patted her back again and went back to where Bianca lay, still only partway cleaned.  She turned to Cullen and Fenris; the former met her eyes, but the latter would not.

“You ought to have told me,” she said quietly to the both of them.

Fenris shifted his weight but said nothing.  Cullen drew in a deep, tired breath.  “We only wanted—”

“She’s right.  You should have let her in on the plan from the start.”

Amelle jumped — she hadn’t realized Isabela was still standing next to her.  And the pirate didn’t look entirely pleased with elf _or_ templar.

“We only wanted to keep her—”

“Safe.  Right,” Isabela drawled.  “And no one understands better than Varric and I what’s waiting in Starkhaven, but I would recommend neither of you forget this is _Amelle’s_ errand.  _We’re_ here to back _her_ up.”

Amelle couldn’t quite believe the words falling from Isabela’s lips, and she turned to stare.  Fenris looked more annoyed than shocked, and he inclined his head.

“We knew perfectly well our… plan would not please her.  I am not proud of the concealment, but neither did I wish to argue the point before it was necessary.”

Jutting out one hip, Isabela turned to Amelle.  “What was that you said, kitten?  Very sensible plan?”

Amelle stood up a bit straighter and squared her shoulders.  “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

Her lips twitched.  “I don’t like that I’m not more… _directly_ involved, but… it is.”

Isabela’s dark head whipped back around to face the two men.  “Hardly a row to wake the neighbors.”  She folded her arms and shook her head, glaring at them both.

“You said yourself it was a good plan, Isabela,” Fenris countered.

“And you’re missing the point.”  She nodded at Amelle.  “This is her show.  We are rescuing _her sister._   You owed it to Amelle to discuss any plans with her, _especially_ plans that leave her out entirely.  She isn’t a child; bloody well don’t treat her like one.”

If the entire situation hadn’t been so serious, Amelle would almost have laughed at the expressions on Fenris and Cullen’s faces; they looked—just for a moment—like children being chastised by a particularly authoritarian nanny.

Or like sailors being told where to go by the captain of their ship, Amelle mused, sliding an appreciative, slantwise glance in Isabela’s direction. The woman stood with fists planted on her hips, and her expression dared them to argue with her so she could punish them.

“Thanks, Isabela,” she said softly.

The pirate cocked her head, but her eyes remained serious. “Sure you don’t want me to knock their heads together?”

Amelle smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”

Isabela’s dark eyebrows twitched, but she didn’t allow a smile to pull at her full lips. “See that you do, kitten.” With another glare toward the men, she added, “Insubordinates never learn without proper punishment.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue. Cullen only nodded; Amelle supposed a life tethered to a very specific chain of command had prepared him for words like Isabela’s.

But she didn’t punish them. When Isabela walked away to sit next to Varric—collecting her marked card from Cullen’s book as she went, Amelle noticed—Amelle turned to Cullen and Fenris and said, “Be careful. Cullen, you… you read the letter.”

“We are only going to scout, Amelle,” he replied. “And deliver a missive to Hawke’s healer, if we can find her.”  Then his brow furrowed and he added, “I know how it must seem, but we… I…”

“I know. You… were there. You saw how I reacted. I can’t be surprised you thought I might not take such news well. It is harder to be rational, where my sister is concerned.”

Fenris met her gaze, and held it. She wished she could simply _understand_ the complicated dance of emotions she saw there, but he was, as ever, inscrutable. He said nothing, but did not—for perhaps the first time in the lifetime since she’d healed his memories—immediately glance away from her.

“Are you almost finished over there?” came Isabela’s strident voice. “I’ve decided in favor of the orgy after all. Aren’t you glad, Handsome?”

Cullen gave Amelle and Fenris a quick, but entirely too perceptive look, and turned to Isabela.  “Let me guess,” he said mildly, turning and leaving them, “you’ve conceived an entirely new and untested card game by such a name, the rules designed to rob us all blind.”

“Would _I_ do that?”  But there was laughter in her answer.

Amelle and Fenris were left on the far end of the campfire’s glow.

“It was not… meant to be an insult,” he said.  Amelle sighed and rubbed the back of her neck.

“I realize that.  And it _is_ a good plan.”

He nodded once.  “But you would have prefered to be… more involved.”

She gave him a little shrug.  “It could just be this… this Maker’s Light poison.  Or Kiara could simply be suffering lingering effects from her exposure to the corrupted lyrium.  I can’t know until I see her.  Or until I talk to this woman.”

Fenris nodded, but said nothing right away.  After several beats of silence, Amelle began to turn away and return to her spot by the fire.  But then he cleared his throat suddenly and she turned, brows raised inquisitively.

“I…”  

“Yes?”

But whatever thought he was going to express, with a shake of his head, Fenris tucked it away at the last.  Again, he wouldn’t look at her.  Amelle tried not to sigh, tried not to let disappointment settle in her breast.  

“It is not important,” he said, and turned his attention to where Cullen was making a desperate and likely futile attempt _not_ to let Isabela take him for everything he was worth.  

“Ah.”  Amelle rocked back on her heels and waited for him to change his mind, but by that point Fenris’ expression was closed off.  This time Amelle _did_ sigh and turned to join the game — or at the very least try to prevent Cullen from being fleeced _too_ badly.  She took a step, then two, and stopped.  “Fenris…” she said over her shoulder.

Fenris’ reply was measured.  Even.  Disinterested.  “Yes?”

She drew in a deep breath meant to both steady and fortify her, striving to match his even tone.  “Once we’ve got Kiara back, I think… perhaps we ought to—there are… there are things we maybe ought to—to discuss?”  She hated the way her voice wavered on the last word, twitching it upwards into a question instead of keeping the pitch and tone certain and sure.

Before he could answer, Isabela’s voice carried over the campfire again:  “Come _on_ , Broody — you haven’t let me lighten your purse _at all_ this trip.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over his face, and Amelle couldn’t decide whether it was aimed at her or Isabela.  But as he passed her, she heard his reply, pitched low enough for Amelle’s ears, and her ears alone.

“…Perhaps you are right.”


	72. Chapter 72

After no small amount of effort and using every stealthy skill she’d ever managed to pick up, Kiara finally found herself blessedly alone. It was Tasia who’d put the thought in her head, casually mentioning that although there were many, many manicured paths in the royal gardens, there were also a few swathes left untouched by the gardeners and these were usually unvisited by palace folk. She might even be able to visit them without guards, if she was careful. Not, of course, that Tasia would _suggest_ or _condone_ such a thing. 

It was in one of these swathes Kiara found herself now, in a small clearing beside a pond, where willows draped their long branches over the water, conveniently hiding a great deal of the clearing from casual view.

Breathing a sigh of relief at her momentary reprieve, she freed the bow from her back and proceeded to empty her quiver into the trunk of a distant and obliging tree. Every shot reminded her where she’d come from, and the strange steps that had brought her to Starkhaven’s royal gardens, shooting unsuspecting trees. Some seemed impossible, others merely improbable, and yet here she was.

She was growing impatient for news from her sister.

She hoped Amelle wasn’t still angry and refusing to write out of spite. Now when Kiara remembered the time in Kirkwall just after the battle with Meredith, she found the memories came back in sharp, horrible little bursts, and most of the time she hardly recognized herself. She’d been angry, yes, and hurt, and so _desperate_ to keep everyone—Amelle—safe. But there were blurry bits, too; moments she saw and remembered and didn’t understand. She’d drawn her weapon on her own _sister_ , and for what? Because she’d had the temerity to speak her mind?

Her arrow flew wide and she cursed it, but it also reminded her no good would come of turning the same thoughts over and over. She had to believe she would hear from Amelle shortly, and…

A slight cough brought her back to the clearing with its willows and its birdsong, and she saw Sebastian leaning casually against a tree, eyebrows raised. She could tell by his smile he’d been watching her far longer than he ought to have been able to, had she been paying attention.

“You found me,” she said.

“Tasia rather insinuated I might find you here. Were you meant to be hiding?”

“Not from you. Just from everyone else. I didn’t much feel like an audience today.” She lifted her bow and gestured to the tree already sporting a thicket of her arrows.

His voice took on a serious cast. “Too much of that lately?”

“I’m—not used to it. I thought being _Champion_ made me too visible. This is… something else entirely. I noticed three different women trying to copy my hairstyle last night at dinner. Isn’t that ridiculous? I didn’t have the heart to tell them I keep cutting the fringe out of necessity when the front pieces dangle in my eyes. It’s hardly high fashion.”

He stepped close, running his fingers through the aforementioned fringe. “You have lovely hair, Kiara. Of course they want to emulate it.”

She tried to think of a joke—something amusing and witty—but mostly she just wanted him to keep doing exactly what he was doing. She wasn’t… used to the ease of his touch. She still found herself unable to breathe properly when his fingertips brushed her lower back or his hand took hers under the table. Now, with him standing so close, his hand caressing her, she considered it a supreme masterpiece of wit that she managed to utter a contented sigh.

He said, “Are you having second thoughts?”

She blinked. “N-not at all. Just finding time for myself. Terribly good for the sanity.”

He inclined his head. “Shall I leave you then? I… wouldn’t want to intrude.”

She laughed. “Oh, Sebastian. _You_ can intrude whenever you like.”

Cupping her cheek in his hand, he bent until his lips were almost—but not quite—touching hers. “ _Can_ I?” he asked. “But I wouldn’t want to distract you from your practice.”

In that particular moment, with those particular lips hovering just an inch above hers, Kiara couldn’t have cared less about practice. When she tried to close the inch of space between their lips, however, Sebastian pulled back and smiled down at her, and his smile was frustratingly mischievous. “Ahh,” he said. “Already you’re allowing the distraction to win. Now, now, pretend I’m not here.”

“You… want to watch me practice?”

“Not at all,” he replied agreeably. “I want to _help_ you practice. Go on.”

She scoffed and turned, drawing her bow. Before she could release the arrow at a tiny knot on a distant tree trunk, however, Sebastian’s warmth was once again too close, and he trailed his fingertips along the skin at the nape of her neck left bare by her piled hair. All the hairs rose, she shivered, and the arrow flew wide, skittering into the underbrush.

“No fair,” she retorted. “I wasn’t expecting—”

He laughed, low and thrilling, “One doesn’t _expect_ distractions. One deals with them. Now, you’ve killed some poor innocent bystander. Try again. You were aiming for that knot?”

She nodded, already trying to guess what he’d do next. Her corset suddenly felt all too restrictive, and she swallowed hard, narrowing her focus on the distant tree. Her bow was an extension of her arm, the arrow an extension of her will. She adjusted slightly to take the wind into account, and when she was ready, when she was utterly focused, she drew the fletching back.

Sebastian bent his head and blew lightly in her ear. Kiara yelped, and the arrow killed a deadly patch of grass dozens of feet from the tree she’d been aiming for. “S-sebastian,” she gasped. “No one’s going to distract me like _that_ on a battlefield.”

He pressed a soft kiss to the juncture where jaw met neck. She leaned into the touch, but he pulled away again. “They will if they know how effective it is. Maker, that grass hardly deserved death at your hands.”

“Very funny.”

“Go on, try again.”

Inhaling deeply, Kiara shifted her stance just slightly and focused. This time, before she could even get so far as drawing, Sebastian ran one hand proprietarily down the curve of her waist before lightly pinching her hip. She jumped, turning on him. “You—”

His expression was all innocence. “Your center was off,” he said evenly. “You’d have shot wide.”

“I would not have—”

“You would have. Look.” He drew her into the circle of his arms, moving her gently back into the same stance she’d been holding before. She… tried to pay attention to what he was doing, tried to follow the line of his arm and the feel of his hand as he adjusted her grip on the bow, but mostly she wanted to close her eyes and lose herself in the warmth of him, in the way his body curved around hers. When he’d finished, she recognized the slightly-off tilt of her hips and knew he was right—she’d have shot wide.

He splayed one hand across her stomach and used the other to nudge her left hip just slightly. Every inhale brought his chest flush with her back and she found herself breathing too heavily even as color rushed to her cheeks. “There,” he whispered, “better?”

“Mmm.”

“Eyes open, Kiara. Shooting blind’s never your best option.”

“Practice,” she murmured, tilting her head up toward him. “‘Sides, I’ve done it before. As you well know.”

He laughed again, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to stay where he’d put her. She wanted to turn in his arms and throw her arms around his neck. Her bow-arm trembled, and her fingers clenched around the grip.

“Now, now,” Sebastian said, and just the sound of his voice made her want to _groan_. It was entirely unfair what just his _words_ could do to her, even when they were mock-chiding. “Don’t strangle the poor thing.” His fingers danced out, and he traced her raised knuckles soothingly until her hand ceased its death grip. “Now,” he said gently, hardly more than a whisper, his voice like a caress, “listen to me very closely and we’ll see to it you make that perfect shot.”

“I can—”

“Oh, you’ve proven you _can’t_. Are you ready to listen?”

She nodded. She felt rather than heard the faint huff of his silent laughter. 

His arms came around her again and he echoed her stance so his hands rested atop hers, one hand on the bow, the other on the arrow. Very precisely, he drew her arrow-hand with his, nocking the arrow, pulling the bowstring taut. All the while he whispered to her, and though of course she _knew_ how to properly draw an arrow, how to properly grip her bow, something about his words, his voice, drew her in, until all she heard was him, all she felt was him, and all she saw was the target. Still, he teased her with words, drawing out the descriptions. She didn’t think she was imagining the extra emphasis he gave words like _shaft_ and _belly_ and _head_. “You’re pinching the nock,” he said—and she _was_ , how embarrassing; a beginner’s mistake. “Relax, love.”

“M-maker, Sebastian…” she pleaded. “Just let me shoot already.”

He chuckled against her hair and released his hands; the sudden freedom was a mixture of heady and bewildering. Before he could speak, before he could touch her or kiss her or whisper in her ear, she aimed and released. She waited only until she saw the arrow hit its mark—square in the center of the bole—before flinging her bow to the ground and launching herself at him. He laughed as they went down in a tangle of limbs and skirts, his cloak and her quiver. She didn’t care. She brought her lips to his and kissed him hard, bringing as much of her body flush with his as she could manage.

She was gratified when it was his laughter that shifted to a groan this time, and when his arms tightened convulsively around her waist. His kiss turned from amused to hungry and she clutched at him, afraid he’d dart away again. Even as she lost herself to the sensation—his lips, the subtle shift of his body against hers, the caress of his hand against her back, in her hair—she thought how… how _different_ this was from what she’d known before. She hadn’t _known_ , hadn’t had the slightest _idea_ a kiss could make her feel so…

Alive, she realized. He made her feel _alive._

After a minute or an hour, she pulled away. He lay content beneath her, resting his head on his folded arms. His smile made her want to kiss him all over again—to consider _more_ than merely kissing him—but instead she rolled to her side and curled next to him, putting her head on his chest.

“You’re getting grass-stains all over your lovely archery gown.”

“How the—bloody Tasia.”

“She told me especially to mention the archery gown. She said you were reluctant to believe her.”

“It’s a dress. Just like all the rest.”

He laughed. “You’re wrong there.”

“Oh?”

“This one’s not nearly as low-cut. Perhaps that’s what makes it suitable for sport?”

She sniffed. “Depends on the kind of sport.”

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re beautiful when you’re irritated, you know.”

“Is that why you were trying so hard to irritate me just now?”

“Of course.” She felt him smile. “It was also good to see you miss. I’d forgotten you could.”

“I’d like to see you do better with whispers in your ears and hands all over you.”

“You may distract me however and whenever you like, love.”

Her breath caught, and she nestled closer to him.

He brought one arm around her shoulders in a brief embrace. “Does it bother you? That word?”

“N-no,” she stuttered. “It’s only… I—told you, there was only the one, and it was so long ago, and I know now I didn’t have the faintest idea then what love was. And I-I just keep waiting to wake up. I had thought… I had almost convinced myself it didn’t matter. I was in love with someone unattainable, after all, and now it’s… I keep waiting for you to change _your_ mind. And I suppose I—I—”

“You’re protecting yourself.”

“It’s habit,” she said weakly. “I’ve spent my whole life protecting things. My family. Amelle— _Amelle_ — _shit_ , Sebastian!”

Kiara sat bolt upright and put her face in her hands, feeling the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. Sebastian sat, too, and gently pulled her hands away. She glanced to one side, unable to meet his gaze. “…Kiara?”

“You can’t marry me,” she whispered. “You _can’t_.”

“ _Why_ , pray tell?”

“Because my sister’s an _apostate mage_. How would it—it would _ruin_ —you can’t—oh, _Maker_.”

“Kiara…”

“Why didn’t I _think_ of it? I was just so—Why didn’t I—?”

“Kiara _._ ”

“It was bad enough with stupid Jaran and the stupid templars and now it’ll be all of bloody _Starkhaven_ and she won’t be _safe_ and I can’t—she still—I love you, but I can’t choose you _over_ her—I have to be able to _see_ her, I have to be able to protect her, and—”

“ _Kiara!_ ”

She stopped mid-rant and gaped up at him. His eyes were serious and his expression concerned, but—he did not in any way look as though he was preparing to _agree_ with her. Her breath hitched in her chest as he brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “Are you quite finished?” he asked gently. “May I speak?”

She nodded. A little reluctantly.

“We cannot pretend it would be entirely safe for Amelle here just _now_ , but this is a temporary situation. Things are getting better. You know they are. We see evidence of it daily. She _will_ be welcome here, always. And not just for your sake. She is… she is dear to me, also.” He glanced away, unable to hide the shadows that crossed his face. “I—you know, I never had a sister. I should like the opportunity.”

Kiara sniffled. “Well, she is the _best_ sister. I suppose it’s only sporting of me to share. But you don’t think—”

“Kiara,” he groaned. “At the risk of having you draw the inevitable comparison between pots and kettles, you _worry_ too much. All we require is a little more _time._ ”

But time, as it happened, was the one thing they did not have.

#

Amelle had clearly wanted to walk with them at least partway to Starkhaven, but it was Varric who volunteered to take them as far as the main road.  Fenris found it odd, but did not argue with the dwarf; Varric frequently had reasons for doing the things he did, and now was no exception.  Once they were far away from the camp only the sounds of the horses’ whinnies carried on the wind, Varric turned to them, thick brows drawn warily together, his mouth set in a firm line.

“Okay, you two,” he said, crossing his arms.  “There’s more to the story about Hawke and Choir Boy than we let on, mostly because I didn’t want Firefly to worry any more or any worse than she’s already worrying.  But you have to know the last thing Isabela and I saw.”  He went on to describe Hawke, looking more than half-dead as a pair of guards carried her to the palace, and Sebastian, surrounded by a full complement of guards.

“That isn’t quite the same thing as Sebastian biding his time getting kicked out of pubs and taverns,” Fenris told him darkly.

“That’s not even all of it, Broody,” he said.

Under his breath, the Knight-Commander murmured, “Why does this not surprise me?”

Varric shot the templar a look, but only said, “I heard one of the guards—the guard captain, maybe—call him _Highness._ ”

“So his identity is known to Starkhaven,” said Fenris.

“Isn’t this good news?” asked the Knight-Commander.  “Or at least not-horribly-bad news?  If the guards are referring to Sebastian by his rightful title—”

“Could be good news,” Varric agreed, “or it could be the Void’s waiting for you on the other side of the city gates.  It depends on whether whoever’s on the throne’s a friend or foe.”  The dwarf blew out a breath.  “It’s a sodding mess is what it is.”

The templar’s brows furrowed into a troubled frown.  “You realize arriving at a potentially hostile palace in a potentially hostile city is a far cry different from questioning people in pubs, Varric.”

“Don’t I know it.  If you want my advice, get that letter handed off to the healer, just in case asking around after Hawke and Choir Boy gets you the wrong kind of attention.”

“You mean,” Fenris interjected, “in the event that asking the wrong kinds of questions lands us in a dungeon.”

“There you go, elf.  Think positive.”

“Varric has a point,” said the templar, though the words did nothing to ease the crease of his frown.  “Better to hand the letter off to Amelle’s contact first.  That way, if something… unforeseen occurs—”

“There’s three of us to break you out,” interjected Varric, nodding, “ _and_ we’ll have a line on the inside.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” the Knight-Commander said, “I think I’d rather avoid the dungeon altogether.”

“That makes two of us, Turnip.”

#

After all Varric and Isabela’s warnings, the thing most noteworthy about Starkhaven was that it was hardly _noteworthy_ at all.  More than a few people—city guards, merchants, a chantry lay-sister—all turned a wary eye to Fenris’ markings, but he was accustomed to such scrutiny, and paid it no mind.  It was not that people were watching him uneasily that was strange, but that there were people in the streets at all, women and men in the markets armed with heavily-laden baskets or paper-wrapped parcels, worshipers and lay-sisters coming to and from the chantry, a mother scolding her children as they ran recklessly through the town square.  Down one side-street, a woman hung laundry, white linens catching the pale beams of sunlight.  This was hardly the tense and fearful city Varric and Isabela had described.  It was, in fact, startlingly _normal._

“Is it possible,” the templar began, his voice low, “Varric was… exaggerating?”

Fenris considered his words, remembering the look in the dwarf’s eyes when he’d confronted Fenris in the stables, and even more recently, when he’d seen them off barely an hour before.  “I doubt it.  Though he is prone to embellishment, I believe he was in earnest.”

“Then either _that_ was an off day, _this_ is one, or something’s changed.”

“Or perhaps not,” Fenris said, steps coming to a stop. He gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the ground, where the cobblestones were vaguely discolored.  Something ominously dark had worked its way between the stones, either packed so solidly or ground in so deeply that no amount of rain would wash the darkness away.  Fenris had seen its like in Kirkwall, marking Hightown with an indelible shadow cast over the stones.

“Ash,” the templar murmured, expression growing dark.  “Or worse.”

Fenris had an excellent idea of what _or worse_ could have been, and did not want to contemplate it any longer than he had to.  “Come,” he said sharply.  “Let us move on.”

Their strides suddenly determined, the two passed through the square and along the winding cobblestone streets leading up to the palace.  The Knight-Commander pulled from a pocket on his belt the letter Amelle had written for the healer, the woman’s name written in Amelle’s flowing script on the front of the envelope. 

As they drew closer to the palace, two young pages bounded past and the Knight-Commander called out to them.  The two boys stopped some yards away and turned, shooting each other curious looks before one of them shrugged and took a few bold steps closer.  His eyes widened at the sight of the templar insignia on the Knight-Commander’s chest, and went even wider at the sight of Fenris’ markings.  

“Yes, messeres?” he began cautiously, evidently unsure as to how to address them.  The child was indeed wary, but it seemed a more natural uncertainty, lacking the suspicion heaped in the adults’ looks.

“Excuse me,” began the Knight-Commander, “but we’ve a letter to be delivered to one of the palace healers.”

The page scuffed one booted toe against the stones.  “’S a lot of healers in the palace, messere.”

“This is for Mistress Jessamine.  Are you familiar with her?”

The boy nodded once, and smiled, “She’s nice.”

“It’s from Kirkwall, and I believe she’s expecting it.”

At the mention of the city, the boy brightened.  “Kirkwall?  You brought a letter all the way from _Kirkwall?_ ”

“Indeed,” replied the Knight-Commander, holding out the envelope.  “Can you see she gets it?”

The little page bounded forward, his smile widening to reveal a missing tooth.  “Aye, I can bring it to her.”  Once he had the letter in his hands, he looked up at them both.  “Haven’t you got anything for the Lady Kiara?  She’s been waiting for a letter from Kirkwall.  Waiting and waiting and _waiting._ I heard her say so, once, after she told us stories, but I don’t think I was s’posed to hear.”

At this, Fenris sent a slantwise look the templar’s way, to find his expression reflected in kind.  _Lady Kiara_ was expecting a letter from Kirkwall?  Fenris did not think for a moment it was a _different_ Kiara—her given name was hardly common.  And yet it seemed inordinately strange that she should be waiting for a letter.  Indeed, the first letter she’d sent Amelle had no forwarding information, no location Amelle could _send_ a reply, and been sent before Varric and Isabela so abruptly departed.  Why, then, was she expecting a missive?

After a second or two, the Knight-Commander coughed into his fist.  “Lady… Kiara, you say?”

“Aye,” the boy said again.  “You sure you haven’t got anything for her?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t, exactly.  But would it be… possible to gain an audience with her?” A breath of time passed, and in those scant moments, Fenris quite clearly saw the templar’s thought process as it sketched across his face, ending with a small, resolved nod.  “And Prince Sebastian?”

The boy tilted his head.  “It’s a bit early yet for the bounty court,” he said.

“We are not here for the… bounty court,” Fenris said, trying to piece together and make sense of what the boy was saying.  “We merely wish an audience with them.”

“Well, _I_ can’t do _that_ ,” the page replied, scuffing his foot again.  “Better luck if you go ask the guards.”  He looked behind him at the men guarding the front gate.  “Though you might ask for Captain Elias, if he’s around.”

“Captain Elias,” the Knight-Commander echoed.  “Thank you, we’ll do that.  You’ve been most helpful, young man.”  With that, he withdrew a piece of silver from a pouch on his belt and gave it to the boy, who brightened at his unexpected good fortune.

“I’ll bring that letter to Mistress Jessamine _right now_ ,” the page said, beaming at them before turning and scampering off, whispering in excitement to his cohort who looked unaccountably envious of the boy’s newfound wealth.

When they stated their business at the gates, Fenris and the Knight-Commander were immediately remanded into an almost-friendly sort of custody, but it was custody nonetheless. They were sent with a heavily armed escort to the palace, where they were parted from their weapons and ordered—politely, but it was an order all the same—to wait.

And so they waited.

The room was comfortable, furnished with fine chairs neither of them used. Food and wine appeared almost as soon as they arrived, though neither he nor the Knight-Commander partook of these, either. For all its finery and politeness, the room was a prison, and they neither of them knew what faces their jailers would be wearing when they entered. Or what intentions those jailers would have.

Fenris paced—it was fifteen long strides from one end of the room to the other—and envied the Knight-Commander his seemingly indefatigable ability to stand perfectly still for endless periods of time. Fenris couldn’t stand still. He’d tried, and lasted all of five minutes. The longer they remained away from camp, the longer they left Amelle—

“Fenris,” the templar said calmly, as though reading his thoughts, “she’ll be fine. Varric and Isabela—”

“—Weren’t enough to keep Hawke from coming to harm, if you’ll recall.”

“Yes, but as Varric tells it, Hawke was hardly lying low at the time. Amelle knows better. I am certain she will await our return before attempting anything mad.”

Fenris glared at the man, but the templar was unperturbed, returning his gaze to the spot on the wall he evidently found fascinating enough to have spent the better part of an hour looking at it.

After another interminable lifetime of waiting, the door flew open, rebounding loudly off the wall. Even the unflappable Knight-Commander startled at the suddenness of the sound, and Fenris dropped into a crouch, prepared to battle with his bare fists anything that came through the door.

Whatever he’d been expecting—and from the tone of the letter Amelle had received from Starkhaven’s healer, it had certainly been nothing good—it hadn’t been the door flung wide and Hawke panting breathlessly, covered from head to toe in leaves and grass-stains. Fenris had to look twice to be certain, but apart from the strange fashions she wore and the unfamiliar style of her hair, the bow in her hand was unmistakable.

“Where?” she gasped, sounding as though she’d been running at full-tilt for half an hour. “What the— _where_? You _idiots_. You bloody _idiots_.”

Sebastian, similarly festooned with verdure, lagged only a few steps behind. Fenris did not miss the subtle intimacy of the man’s touch as he laid a hand on Hawke’s waist and guided her fully into the room. Under different circumstances, it would have been enough to make Fenris smile, but he’d spent too long pacing, worrying… _fretting_ to feel anything like happiness.

Once the door was closed, Sebastian said, in a voice not much calmer than Hawke’s, “Tell me she isn’t in the city.”

“She isn’t,” the templar replied, his brow furrowed. “After what Varric and Isabela told us—”

“It’s not _safe!_ ” Hawke cried, raking her hands through her hair and pacing the same path Fenris had been marking for an hour. “What are you doing here? Maker’s blood, Fenris, _you_ of all people I expected to have the good sense to—”

The guards had removed their physical weapons, but Fenris did not require a mere blade to be effective. Before Hawke could finish her sentence, he leapt for her. She yelped, and both Sebastian and the Knight-Commander took steps toward him, but not before he threw her to the ground, pinning her arms to her sides with the strength of his thighs. Hawke struggled, cursing at him creatively in several languages, but she ceased the moment he allowed his right hand to glow white in preparation.

“Fenris,” she breathed. “Fenris, what are you doing?”

Sebastian took another step forward, his hands clenched into fists, but Fenris only shook his head. “No, friend,” Fenris warned, glaring up at him. “This is something that must be done. Do not attempt to obstruct me.”

“ _What_ is something that must be done?” the Knight-Commander demanded. “Release her at once, Fenris. She is not—”

“The healer said she came back wrong.” Fenris frowned at the terrified, infuriated, _helpless_ expression on Sebastian’s face, shaking his head slightly. “If she is an abomination—”

“ _What?_ ” Sebastian cried. “ _Abomination_? What _healer_? What are you talking about?”

“Sebastian,” Hawke soothed, though her voice trembled on the final syllable of his name. “Please. Let him explain.” Fenris felt how carefully she was holding herself still beneath him, but he did not relax his grip. He knew how crafty she could be, and if a demon was guiding her… He pressed the spines of his left gauntlet to her neck. She pushed her head back against the floor as far as she could, but still he held tight, bringing his other hand to hover above her chest.

Her gaze sought his and once she was looking at him, she did not look away. Her eyes appeared the same as they always had, clear and grey and intent, but he could trust them no more than he could trust her face or her words. “Fenris,” she said, choking a little against his gauntlet. “How can I prove it?”

“You cannot,” he said.

She blinked.

“Fenris,” Sebastian growled, “if you think I will stand by and allow you to murder her—”

“Sebastian, shut _up_ ,” Hawke hissed. “No one’s murdering anyone. What healer?”

Cullen looked as though he wanted to step closer, but thought better of it, saying instead, “Fenris, she may only be lyrium-sick. This is—”

“Or she may be an abomination. Perhaps it only wishes for us to bring it to a mage host. We cannot take the risk.”

Hawke’s brow furrowed. “Lyrium-sick? Abomination?”

“If you are who you claim to be, why did you not send more than a single letter to your sister? Kiara Hawke would have known how Amelle would worry.”

Her eyes widened. He did not believe the surprise was false, but he knew all too well the wiles of demons. “But I—”

“Kiara _sent_ another letter,” Sebastian said. “I watched her write it. It was very nearly the first thing she did after waking from the poison. Knowing what Isabela and Varric had seen, she did not _want_ Amelle to worry. Or to _come_. She sent a bloody letter, Fenris.”

Hawke’s breath came swift and shallow, as though she feared a deep inhale would bring Fenris’ glowing hand too close to her heart.

“This is not why we came,” the Knight-Commander said, his face shadowed by something like betrayal. That look, too, Fenris hated to see on the face of someone he was very nearly willing to believe a friend. “We were meant to—”

“You know as well as I the dangers posed by abominations, templar. Do not claim you don’t. You know better than us all, do you not?”

The Knight-Commander bowed his head, granting Fenris the concession he knew he would.  “This is not what Amelle wanted,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “She only asked us to find Hawke; she wanted to see her sister and judge for herself. She will not thank you for this.”

This, too, Fenris knew to be true, and if the Knight-Commander wore betrayal upon his face, he did not want to know how Amelle would look upon him.  He would gladly accept her anger, if that was the price he paid to buy her safety and her peace of mind. He knew Amelle would not hesitate to deal with a truly compromised Hawke. He also knew if she was forced to kill her one remaining family member, the act would haunt her.  Amelle wouldn’t likely forgive him for this, but he would rather the blood be on his hands than hers, if he could spare her.

The Knight-Commander said, “It is unlikely Hawke could even _be_ possessed, Fenris. She’s no mage.”

“ _Unlikely_ is a slippery word, templar. So is assumption. Magic runs in the blood of her family. She was deeply unconscious for many days, likely wandering the Fade.  Have you already forgotten what the mage Tahrone did to your own men? Amelle’s alarm was enough to alarm me.”

“Still,” Hawke murmured, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d vastly prefer if _alarm_ didn’t progress to crushing my heart in your fist.”

“Surely _Amelle_ didn’t ask you to come here and…” Sebastian’s voice drifted into silence, but his meaning was clear. Hawke blinked, and tears trailed from the corners of her eyes to dampen the hair at her temples.

“Amelle knows the risks posed by abominations.”

“So do _I_ ,” Hawke insisted. “I assure you—”

“Assurances mean nothing.” Fenris shook his head slightly, his brow creased in dismay. “Forgive me, Hawke. Of anyone I would not wish you suffering, but I must be certain.”

“And forgive me,” she retorted, “if I’m concerned that just now _being certain_ and _killing me horribly_ seem to be the same thing.” She swallowed; he felt the bob of her throat. “Please, Fenris. Please tell me why you think I’m an abomination? Please make me understand.”

“The healer—”

“ _What healer?_ ” Sebastian shouted, treading dangerously close to hysterical. The Knight-Commander reached out and laid a steadying hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “The only healer who treated Kiara was Jessamine, and she—”

“That was her name,” the Knight-Commander affirmed. “Jessamine. It was she Amelle heard from—a couriered letter sent post-haste, saying she feared Kiara was not entirely _herself_. It urged her to come at once. Then we met Varric and Isabela on the road and they corroborated the woman’s story—said they’d seen you taken down, Hawke. Varric thought… and then Amelle was only more motivated to come quickly.”

Still Hawke kept her gaze on Fenris, unblinking. It wasn’t unafraid, but it was brave. He had to grant her that. “Fenris,” she said softly. “I… think I understand. I’m not sure where the… misunderstanding happened, but surely you can wait until you speak with her? Will you let Sebastian send for her?”

Fenris nodded sharply. “Do not think to call your guards. Send for the healer and return. You have seen how quickly I can do what I do. Do not test me, not in this.”

Sebastian fixed his gaze on Hawke and did not once look away from her. The lyrium glow of Fenris’ tattoos cast odd, troubled shadows upon the man’s face. Fenris felt for the man, truly; the expression upon his face and the wounded curve of his shoulders were to be pitied. All too well, Fenris understood feeling powerless. 

Almost as well as he understood being in thrall to one who held power. He could not risk it, not even to ease the suffering on his friend’s face.

But as Sebastian backed toward the door—slowly, like an old man or a convalescent, gaze still fixed on Hawke, the Knight-Commander reached out and grabbed Sebastian’s arm. “Wait,” he said, “Fenris, the letter.”

“ _What letter?_ ” Sebastian shouted, more strangled than angry. “All these bloody _letters_ —”

“The one Amelle bade us deliver. Varric and Isabela told us how inhospitable the environment was to… to one such as your sister. Still, Amelle wished to speak with the healer. We brought a letter when we arrived. Jessamine may not be _here_ to question.”

Sebastian whirled away from the templar, and would have smashed his fist into the nearest wall if Cullen hadn’t reached out and caught the blow in his own hand at the last moment. The Knight-Commander bent his head close to Sebastian’s and whispered something Fenris could not hear. Sebastian closed his eyes, but none of the tension disappeared from his posture, though he did not attempt to lash out again.

“Not _here_?” Hawke growled, and the anger in her voice was tempered with fear. The kind of fear Fenris knew all too well. “You may not believe me, but—Fenris, listen to me, _please._ Kill me if you must—I mean that—but do it now and do it quickly. You must go. Something is very wrong here, and I’m afraid Amelle—”

Before she could finish, Fenris scrambled to his feet, and offered her his arm; after a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it and he hauled her upright. She swayed before finding her feet, and rubbed at the back of her head as though it hurt her.

“We must get back to Amelle at once,” Fenris said, already striding for the door. Six paces. Then the palace to negotiate, and the city. An hour by foot—they ought to have brought the horses—

“What?” The Knight-Commander’s question stalled Fenris’ frantic thoughts.

Perhaps they might borrow horses.

Hawke spoke before Fenris found his voice. “Clearly Jessamine’s been lying to us all,” she spat. “And I’m afraid Amelle’s walked right into Jessamine’s plot, whatever it is. She bloody-well opened the door.”

“And we delivered the key,” Fenris said, gut twisting in a way that no longer had anything to do with worry about abominations. “We told her exactly where to look.”

“Shit,” Cullen echoed, turning pale.

Hawke snatched up her bow with hands Fenris could plainly see were trembling.  Arrows had scattered in their altercation and Hawke was collecting them as quickly as she could, though her fingers seemed intent upon disobeying her when she tried to grasp the slender shafts, the fletching quivering as she picked each one up and slid it hastily into her quiver. 

“More arrows,” came her feverish mutter.  “I need more arrows — _we need to move_.  Andraste’s _tits,_ I need _more arrows, Sebastian.”_   Her voice shook as badly as her hands _,_ and she’d gone startlingly pale, her eyes too wide, too wild, too bright with tears Fenris knew she would not shed.  The composure she’d shown only moments before was gone, swallowed beneath the fear, the worry, and the anger clashing in her eyes.

But Sebastian was already at the door, calling out for his guard in a strong, clear voice — his tone one that would tolerate neither being ignored or questioned — and demanding Fenris and Cullen’s confiscated weapons returned as well.  The small room was soon filled with armored, uniformed guards, led by an older, grizzled man wearing the air of command like a sword and shield, though he carried only a bow and arrows upon his back.  Another guard burst in after the throng, carrying Fenris’ and Cullen’s weapons, handing the blades over with only the barest hesitation.

“Captain Elias, my bow.”  He cast a quick look at the rest of the guard.  “And we require arrows.”

“And perhaps horses,” Fenris added. “The camp is some way out of town.”

“We can’t wait — _we have to go_ ,” Hawke said, even as the captain of the guard gave a quick, decisive gesture and one of the guards removed his own full quiver, handing it over to Hawke, who took it, shucking her half-empty quiver and slinging this one on in its place.

“Highness?” Captain Elias said glancing at Hawke and back at Sebastian again, injecting a number of inquiries into the single word.

“There is an emergency,” Sebastian answered.  “We must depart.  Now.”

“With respect, Highness, do you… intend to see to this emergency yourself?”

At that moment the page who’d been sent for Sebastian’s bow squeezed into the room carrying it and a full quiver of arrows.  Sebastian gave a curt nod and took both items from the boy.  “I do.  Time is of the essence and we’ve none of it to waste.”

“Alone?”

“I am hardly alone.” He gestured toward Cullen and Fenris as he placed bow and quiver upon his back.  “Too many men will slow us down—”

“I’m ready,” Hawke announced, checking the leather strap now crossing her chest; the quiver was secure.

“Highness, it isn’t—”

“By the Maker,” Hawke growled, striding up to the guard captain, her eyes flashing, “if you say it isn’t _safe_ —”

“Kiara,” Sebastian said in a low tone, placing his hand on her arm.  She tightened her jaw and turned away, her grass-stained skirts swirling out most incongruously as she paced. A stray leaf tumbled from her hair and she stopped abruptly, staring at it as though she could not fathom from whence it came. Then she roughly pulled her hands through her hair and crumpled the leaves and grass her fingers caught in her fists. 

Sebastian looked back at Captain Elias. “We’re leaving now and we’re moving fast, and for _Andraste’s sake,_ you _must_ be discreet.”

Elias nodded and looked over his shoulder, taking no more than a second to survey his men.  “Kinnon,” he barked.  A shorter knight armed with a sword and shield stepped forward.  “You and I will go.  The rest of you, ready yourselves on the wall. There’ll be horses ready in the yard by the time we get there.”  

Twenty minutes by horseback, Fenris thought. Perhaps less.

But the pounding of his pulse in his ears said they could not move quickly enough.


	73. Chapter 73

Everything took too long.  

No matter how fast their steps, they were not fast enough.  The shortest palace corridor stretched on for miles.  The fastest horses were slow and stolid.  Every mile churned up by thundering hooves felt like ten, and the longer everything took, the more tightly Fenris’ insides twisted, the harder his heart hammered beneath his breast.

Neither movement nor sound greeted them when they finally came upon the clearing, and when the pounding of the horses’ hooves finally slowed and quieted, nothing met Fenris’ ears but silence.  The campsite was too still by half, and his blood quickened as a renewed bolt of worry lanced through him.  He dismounted fluidly, and without taking care to tether the horse, he strode hurriedly — Hawke matching him step for step — footfalls crunching too loudly across dead leaves and twigs littering the narrow, weaving path.  The glow of firelight flickered through the trees and for a moment, for the barest sliver of time, Fenris could breathe again, for clearly if the fire was still burning, it was because Amelle was tending it.

But as they burst into the warm orange light bathing the clearing and casting shadows upon the tents, he saw no sign of Amelle.

“That thrice-blighted _bitch_ double-crossed us,” snarled Isabela without preamble, even as she dabbed a damp cloth against the back of Varric’s head with surprising tenderness.  Varric, for his part, looked miserable.  His gaze was downcast and his jaw tight as he stared at his hands.  Some of his position had to do with letting Isabela tend a viciously-colored bruise swollen to the size of a goose’s egg, but only some.

The question snapped past Fenris’ lips with all the force of a cracking whip:  “What happened?”

Varric grimaced and pulled away from Isabela, looking to them — first to Hawke, then Fenris.  He’d not thought his heart could pound any harder or faster, but something about the dwarf’s expression made fear — hated fear and panic — clench around the very organ threatening to burst from his chest.

“Should’ve seen it coming—”

“How?” Isabela asked sharply.  “She had us _all fooled,_ Varric.”  

She started to say more, but Varric held up his hand wearily and Isabela subsided, looking murderous.  “The healer — Jessamine — showed up.”  He looked up at Hawke, then away again.  “She said you two were with Hawke, but that she’d taken a turn for the worse.”

Fenris felt suddenly ill, but it was Cullen who spoke.  “And of course Amelle wanted to help.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” muttered Isabela, throwing the cloth into a nearby pot where it splashed loudly.

Varric gave a glum nod.  “Firefly started asking questions about Hawke, about the poison — Jessamine said this… Maker’s Light stuff can mess with someone’s mind on a pretty permanent basis.  Said she’d got the antidote to Hawke with all due haste—”

“Not precisely,” murmured Sebastian, his brows lowering.

“But she woke up and seemed… strange.”  Varric shrugged.  “Said she suggested Hawke send a letter to Kirkwall to let her sister know she was all right, but Hawke blew her off.”

Hawke made an outraged, strangled sound.

Isabela looked Hawke and Sebastian over, arching an eyebrow at their appearance.  “She told us you were putting bounties on mages’ heads—”

Hawke snarled, “We’ve been trying to _stop them from burning_ —”

“Then sending them off with the templars,” Varric finished soberly.

Sebastian shook his head, confused.  “Not a single one of these supposed mages turned in for a bounty have _been_ mages.  We haven’t turned anyone over because there hasn’t been anyone _to_ turn over.”

Isabela snorted her disgust, but Varric only looked more defeated.  “Jessamine was also asking Firefly a _lot_ of questions about you, Choir Boy.  Seemed _really_ interested in the healer that saved the true heir to the Vael legacy.”

“What kinds of questions?” asked Hawke, her hands clenching tightly.  “And how did she _know_?”

Varric only shrugged.  “I don’t know how she knew, but—”

“But she knew well enough that _he’d_ been injured,” added Isabela, looking at Sebastian.  “She said all of Starkhaven owed Amelle their thanks; if not for her—”

“If not for Amelle, that _bastard_ Morven would still be on the throne,” Hawke hissed.  “The _healer_.  That _bloody healer_ has been on the side of that sniveling _son of a bitch_ —”

Hawke was suddenly, horribly pale and Fenris knew her thought as clearly as if she’d spoken it: it was the night Quentin had killed Leandra Hawke all over again.  Once again, they were too late.  Once again they’d been tricked.

 _No,_ he thought, setting his jaw.  _That will not happen again._

“Possibly from the start,” murmured Captain Elias.  “Then what happened?”

“I told Isabela to stay at the camp and make sure those blighted horses didn’t run off—or someone didn’t run off _with_ them.  I figured I’d tag along with Firefly, just to be safe.  And this place isn’t exactly mage-hospitality central—”

“…Mage?” murmured Ser Kinnon, arching an eyebrow.  Sebastian shot a look to the knight, who straightened and nodded once, shutting up.

“We were only about halfway to the main road when…” Varric made a pained face.  “An ambush.  A sodding _ambush._   Last thing I saw was an arrow hit her—”

“Where?” Hawke asked.  “Where was she hit?”

Varric tapped his shoulder.  “Didn’t hit anywhere vital, but she went down faster than I’ve ever seen.  And Firefly…” he almost laughed, but it came out choked as he shook his head.  “She was _pissed_.  Pulled out the arrow and… tried to heal the wound, I guess.  Only thing is it didn’t work.  Then she went down like a ton of bricks.”  He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced.  “We both did.”

The words left Fenris’ mouth even as he was processing the implications.  “She… couldn’t heal herself?  What sort of poison…” He thought of Amelle struck by such a weapon, trying to call upon the talent that was so instinctive and being unable to do so, and fury simmered to the surface, blotting out his fear, if only temporarily.  

“ _Magebane_ ,” Sebastian breathed.

“Varric,” Cullen said, and there was no denying the urgency in his voice, “is there anything else you remember?”

“Is it not enough he remembers she was struck by a poisoned arrow?” Fenris growled.

Cullen frowned, then went on to explain, “Magebane will sap a mage’s powers, true enough, but it doesn’t incapacitate in the manner Varric described.”

“Because templars don’t need to knock them out,” Hawke murmured distantly.  “You use the smite for that.”  Cullen nodded and Varric frowned, clearly scouring his memory.

“There was one… weird thing.  I remember she… she lost her voice.  She’d been hit by the arrow and it hurt — she yelled out — but then she turned to me and… she couldn’t speak. She tried to, but…” He shook his head.  “I don’t remember a whole lot after that.”

Cullen swore with near shocking vehemence.  Hawke’s eyes widened as she looked at him, the last of what color she had draining entirely from her face.  “What is it?” she demanded.  “Cullen? What did that _bitch_ do to my sister?”

“Unless I am mistaken — and I dearly hope I _am_ — it’s a poison called Andraste’s Wrath,” he explained grimly.  “Falsely rumored to have been developed by Andraste herself during the Exalted March.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened.  “Dare I ask its _genuine_ origins?” 

“Developed by one Knight-Commander Lamillia of Orlais, as I understand it, during the Exalted Age.”

“Orlesians do love their poisons,” muttered Isabela.  “What’s it do?” she asked, then narrowed her eyes at Cullen before adding, “And how do _you_ know about it?”

“The benefits of an education in Ferelden’s chantry,” he replied with a shrug.  “The Revered Mother wasn’t shy about including Orlais’… _transgressions_ in our history lessons.  At any rate, the Divine Amara III eventually condemned its use, but only _eventually_.  It’s meant to fully incapacitate a mage, blocking their abilities entirely —  muscle weakness and impaired mental focus inhibit their ability to call on their mana—”

“Mana already drained by the magebane?” asked Sebastian. 

“Lamillia was nothing if not… thorough,” Cullen replied with distaste.  “Andraste’s Wrath also causes throat paralysis — I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Amelle lost her voice.  A mage poisoned by it can neither think nor speak nor move.”

Kiara’s lip curled and she spat out a curse.  “And the Divine only _eventually_ decided it was a bad idea?”

“In large enough doses, Andraste’s Wrath is deadly.  Evidently, certain… less scrupulous templars used it in lieu of other methods of subduing mages.”

“Okay, I’ve got a question,” said Varric, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping forward.  “How in all the Void did Jessamine get her hands on it if the Divine herself decided it was off-limits hundreds of years ago?”

“That is something you would have to ask Jessamine herself, I am afraid,” answered Cullen, his scowl deepening.  “The recipe was said to have been destroyed, though rumors of it still existed — that it had never been destroyed at all, or that a secret cache was discovered in the catacombs beneath the chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“ _How_ she discovered it matters little,” said Fenris.  “What of the antidote?”

Cullen looked at Fenris, taking far too much time to answer.  “Andraste’s Wrath will… gradually cycle out of the mage’s system, but otherwise… there is no known antidote.”

“There wouldn’t be,” said Hawke.  “If it only affects mages, why would they bother crafting an antidote?  It’s not like _she_ was going to be affected by it.  I swear it — I swear to the _Maker_ if she so much as _touches_ a hair on—” 

“Kiara,” Sebastian said quietly, resting a hand on Hawke’s shoulder.  She looked for a moment as if she wanted to shrug it off and charge into battle, but with visible effort she restrained herself.  “All may not yet be lost.”  When Hawke looked at him with wide, searching eyes, he nodded in Varric’s direction.  “I would wager Jessamine _wants_ us to know what’s happened, wants us to know she has the upper hand.  Otherwise…”

“She would’ve had one of those archers put an arrow through my head,” Varric supplied bluntly.  “The First Rule of Villainy:  Never kill the messenger if you’ve got a message you want them to deliver.”

 

**KIRKWALL: 9:37 DRAGON**

 

The basket dangled from Amelle’s elbow as she frowned at that day’s produce.  It was always better to go earlier for the best pick, and since their dinner guests were a rather late development and couldn’t be helped, Amelle had to make the best of what there was.  Which wasn’t much.  She finally found some hearty potatoes and some promising looking squash, and both were soon tucked away in the basket.  

Stopping in the shade of a pillar, she peered at the list Orana had recited for her — and as Amelle had sat in the kitchen scribbling out the list, she’d made a mental note to suggest to Kiara that Orana learn to read as well.  The elf worked miracles in the kitchen, but could neither write down nor read a recipe and, in Amelle’s opinion, _that_ was bloody criminal.  Those morning buns of hers needed to be preserved for posterity.  The happiness of future generations depended on it _._

Amelle had found the milk and cream, better vegetables than she’d expected to find at this time of day, and had even managed to pick up a bouquet of flowers — at Orana’s insistence, because they were having _company_ for dinner. 

She chuckled and shook her head.  _Maker,_ _no one had better tell Varric he’s_ company _now.  He’ll start insisting we pull out the good china._

All that was left on her list was a stop at the butcher and then—

“Mistress Amelle?”

She looked up from her list to see a templar approaching.  She tensed almost immediately and knew without looking the fastest route out of Hightown was behind her and to the right, down the stairs.  It would take her to Lowtown and in the completely opposite direction from home, but it would get her away from the templars in front of her.  And she knew she could lose them in Lowtown — or Darktown, if she needed to.

 _No.  Ser Cullen_ said— _They wouldn’t just… pick me up in the middle of the city, would they?_

She held her breath, poised to run, even as she turned an amiable smile at the templar.  The smile relaxed and became more genuine as he approached and she realized it was Ser Thrask.  Thrask wasn’t a bad type — her sister liked him well enough, which was endorsement enough for her.  

“Good morning, Ser Thrask.”  She frowned at the sky.  “Well, morning for a little while longer, at least.”

The templar appeared troubled as he looked down at her and asked, “Mistress Amelle—”

She waved a hand at him.  “Just Amelle, please.”

Something about her request seemed to pain him, but he nodded.  “Very well. May I have a moment of your time, Amelle?”

“Of course,” she said, sliding the basket from her elbow and holding it in both hands.  “Is something wrong?”

“A great many things, I fear.  Do you have the time to walk with me a while?”

“A very short while, perhaps. I’m on an errand and expected back shortly.”

He offered his arm and Amelle hesitated before taking it.  She didn’t entirely like the sensation of plate armor digging into her through the thin material of her dress, but neither did she want to appear rude.

“Your sister has done a great deal of good for Kirkwall,” the templar said, leading her up the stairs, away from the market.  “Many of us remain in her debt.”

“Thank you.  I’ll be sure to let her know you said so.”  She looked over her shoulder as the butcher shop got smaller and smaller.

“Some, however, would mean to use her.”

“Oh, Kiara’s pretty crafty,” she replied lightly.  “Not many people get the jump on her.  Usually she knows someone’s her enemy before they’ve even decided it themselves.”  The templar made a noncommittal noise and Amelle cleared her throat.  “Well. Most of the time.”

“Some of us are concerned your sister has allied herself with…” he paused, and Amelle thought for a moment his grip on her arm tightened minutely, “with the wrong people of power in Kirkwall.  People like Knight-Commander Meredith.”

Amelle was shaking her head before the templar had even finished.  “No. Not my sister.  She would _never_ —”

The grip on her arm was tighter now, and grew firmer still as Amelle found herself pulled along, unable to douse the flicker of apprehension in her breast.  The flicker licked into a full flame as Thrask continued to speak.  “We have our sources, Amelle.  I’m sorry.  I truly am.  You must understand we cannot allow that to happen.”

Alarm prickled through her and Amelle tried to pull away, then pulled harder; she tried to step away, but her shoes had no purchase against the stones as Thrask led her to a blind alleyway, hidden too well by pillars and statues.  She caught the reflected glint of armor on the stones even before she saw the armor itself.  Hissing a curse, Amelle let the basket fall and swung her arm around, readying a fireball, but the templar was too close, the cleansing aura too effective.

She drew in a breath to scream — _if magic doesn’t work, scream bloody murder_ — when Thrask looked at her, such _pity_ in his eyes and said, “I _am_ sorry for this, Amelle.  If nothing else, you must believe that.”

A blast of white light made all go quiet.

#

They were trying to teach Fenris how to use a bow.

It wasn’t going well.

Kiara covered her mouth, faking a cough to keep the elf from seeing her grin as he shot—and that was using the term loosely—an arrow that flew so wide it nearly hit Varric.

And Varric was standing as _far_ from the practice butt as was possible in the Hawke estate’s back garden. Varric leapt aside with surprising grace and _glared_ at Fenris. “You doing that on purpose, Broody?”

“Would that I were,” Fenris growled. Kiara had no doubt that if Fenris, like Amelle, had the ability to burn things with the power of his _mind_ , the bow in his hand would have long since been reduced to ashes. Still, his perseverance couldn’t be faulted. Instead of tossing the weapon aside—or snapping it in half, as he so clearly wished to—he merely retrieved another arrow, narrowed his eyes and bit his lip in concentration.

It was _precisely_ the same look he wore when he was puzzling over a particularly challenging passage in their reading lessons. Sheer, bloody determination. As if the task at hand was an enemy to defeat, and he would do so _even if it was the last thing he did._

This time the arrow skimmed right over Varric’s head.

It wasn’t going well, _at all._

“I’m not sure I want to play this game while the healer’s not in residence,” Varric groused. “Since _someone_ here seems to think the bull’s-eye is shaped like a magnificent specimen of dwarf.”

Kiara turned away, meeting Sebastian’s eyes. He appeared to be having the same difficulty hiding the urge to smile. When Sebastian spoke, a hint of laughter made his accent just the slightest bit stronger, “You have to keep your eye on the target, Fenris.”

“I _am_.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “See? He’s _aiming_ for me. He just admitted it.”

Fenris let out a stream of invective in the Tevinter language. Not for the first time, Kiara was glad she had no idea what he was saying.

“Where is she, anyway?” Varric asked. “Can’t believe your sister would pass up the opportunity to experience entertainment like this.”

Fenris glared. Hard.

Maker, but it was a good thing he didn’t have fire at his command.

“Market,” Kiara explained. “Orana didn’t think we had food enough to feed three growing lads.” She frowned, glancing skyward. By the sun it was long past noon. “She… should probably have been back by now, though. Maybe she’s inside.”

Before Kiara had crossed the garden however, the door to the kitchen flew open. Orana’s face was streaked with tears. She managed to choke out, “M-mistress. There’s—there’s a templar—there’s a templar. He says—he says something’s happened to Mistress Amelle. N-not the Gallows. S-something… something _worse_ ,” before her sobs began anew.

Killer ran out into the yard, sat at Kiara’s feet, threw back his head, and _howled._

“Where is she?” Kiara demanded, already reaching for her bow, heedless of the companions clamoring behind her, heedless of their questions and cries and insistence on helping. Her heart pounded in her chest. Rage choked her. “ _Where is she?_ ”

“T-the Wounded Coast,” Orana managed feebly. “He… the templar. He thinks it’s blood mages. B-but they have t-templars _with_ them.”

Pushing past the trembling elf, not knowing and not caring whether her fellows followed, Kiara heard the echo of Killer’s howl ringing in her ears and she ran _._

#

Sebastian doubted the elf girl’s words until the first group of templars and mages attacked them, and still, it wasn’t until one of the templars actually swung at him that he realized the situation was life or death, and that for some Maker-forsaken reason, these templars had turned against all that was right and good and _holy_.

Though their helmets hid their faces, he did not doubt he knew some of these men and women. Perhaps he’d taken their confessions, or shared a pew with them at services. They were _brethren_.

And now they were kidnapping innocents? Joining forces with mages who did not even pretend to hide the scars on their arms and the knives at their belts? He could make no sense of it.

A voice that sounded irritatingly like Anders’ echoed in his head: _Is Amelle innocent? She’s an apostate. Really, Brother Sebastian, you ought to have turned her over years ago. It’s a slippery slope, isn’t it? Once you put a toe over the line…_

One of Sebastian’s arrows felled a templar before the warrior could bring his blade crashing down on Hawke’s unprotected back. The white fletching quivered as the man fell, and the flaming sword on his breastplate ran red with blood as Hawke’s mabari leapt to tear the man’s throat out.

Sebastian swallowed the feeling of betrayal and drew another arrow from his quiver.

 _Amelle_ is _innocent. She’s… she’s a healer. She’s_ good.

The sneering voice laughed. _They say spirit healers are the most dangerous, you know. Maybe she’s not as innocent as you think._

And he hesitated.

Hawke did not hesitate. Her arrows flew as fast as she could draw them. One took an apostate in the eye before he could finish casting whatever devious spell was whirling to life around his bloodied fingers. A second hit a templar’s plate with force enough to stun, and Fenris’ blade did the rest. Except that she barked the occasional order and was careful to stay out of the line of friendly fire, he’d have thought she was too single-minded even to realize they were there with her. She fought with a vicious fury unlike anything he’d seen in her before. It was awe-inspiring. It was terrifying.

And Sebastian knew that he would have fought just as hard for his brothers’ lives, if he’d been able.

All too well he remembered Hawke’s pain after her mother’s death. He remembered Amelle coming to him, swathed in one of her sister’s cloaks, her eyes swollen and her face blotchy with tears. It had not been an apostate come to see him in the chantry that night. It had not been an apostate he’d allowed to cry on his shoulder. It had not been an apostate’s tears dampening his robes. Only Kiara Hawke’s little sister, grieving her mother and worrying for her sister. Whatever else Amelle Hawke was, she was Kiara Hawke’s _sister_ first and foremost.

He could not bear to see a night such as that one repeated. Apostate or not, templars or not, Sebastian knew he would fight tooth and nail—would give his _own_ life if necessary—if doing so meant he would not have to see Hawke blood-stained and paralyzed, slowly dying of the grief her sister’s death would cause.

 _That_ was enough. Whatever these templars were doing, whatever these mages had planned: this was not the way honorable people acted. Honorable people did not resort to treachery and hostage-taking. Honorable people used words, and they used them face to face.

Sebastian drew another arrow, and this time did not hesitate before he shot it.

#

All of Kirkwall knew Hawke’s reputation, but Fenris was only too aware that those with power, with influence, were the ones most frequently challenged.  It had only been a matter of time before someone was foolish enough to challenge her directly.  Only a fool would cross her.  And yet fools these templars must have been, to align themselves with blood mages.  

Doubly foolish to cross Hawke.  Hawke, who had his loyalty and his blade.  

Foolish indeed.  For when she heard the words, heard that someone had taken her sister, murder flashed in those grey eyes, turning them to ice.  His own anger rose with hers.  His hands clenched.  His heart pounded.

Hawke had his blade.  He would strike them all down if she asked it.

A soft voice whispered that he would strike them all down even if she _didn’t._

Fenris did not think too carefully on this.  Hawke’s sister was a mage — this was no secret.  While he trusted Hawke implicitly, he had no reason to trust her sister.  A viper in the nest — that is what he’d called her that night, now so many years ago.  A viper who would soon show her true nature.  And in the intervening years, he’d waited for that true nature to emerge.

 _He has his reasons for having neither love nor trust for mages.  I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger_.

Fenris kept pace with Hawke all the way to the Wounded Coast, telling himself his anger, the slowly bubbling fury in his chest, was only on Hawke’s behalf.  The cold knot of concern deep in his gut was for Hawke and Hawke alone.  She was his friend — and that was still a word he’d not yet grown accustomed to using with any measure of frequency — and the last of her family had been wrenched away from her in a cowardly attempt to control her, to intimidate her. 

All they had done was underestimate her.  They would not do so again, Fenris knew.

They followed the twisting, sandy path and rounded the corner into the small cove, and it was then that Fenris saw Amelle Hawke’s crumpled form, still as death. He stared, unprepared for the sight as something deep in his gut iced over and grew leaden.  But the cold only lasted a moment, barely a second, before it was blanked out by swirling, blinding, _burning_ rage.

_When someone hurts us, we remember it, and even if we don’t want to, even if we don’t mean to, we still hold it against the type of person that hurt us._

 In that instant, there wasn’t the least doubt in his mind they would all pay for whatever they had wrought.  There would be no mercy, no forgiveness.  Not for this.  Death would come this day —  it was just a matter of how swiftly Fenris dealt it.  

Lyrium flashed bright as daylight as Fenris hefted his weapon and swung into battle.  Warm blood splattered his armor, coated his blade, and still his markings burned brighter, _hotter._ He lifted his sword above his head and swung downward, cleaving a mage in half, from shoulder to waist, the ruined remains collapsing to the sand, the blood from his fading spell mingling with the blood coursing from his dying body.

_I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger._

A curse ripped through Fenris’ gritted teeth as he clashed swords with a templar in heavy plate.  The blades locked at the hilt and as the other man pushed forward, Fenris thrust one glowing hand into the templar, listening dispassionately to the man’s screams.  He withdrew and the templar fell, but Fenris had already turned to advance upon another opponent before the man even hit the ground.

Fenris kept an eye on Hawke throughout, but she was a force unto herself, red hair flying behind her like a bloody banner as she ran forward, nocking and shooting arrows with speed that seemed haphazard and accuracy that was anything but.  He knew her anger as well as if it had been his own.

Blood magic, the dark red tint of it, the foul _stench_ of it, spiraled up and all around, twisting in upon itself in a spray of color as mages hurled spells at them all.  His markings flared brighter still, his blood thrumming and pounding in his ears as he rushed forward, his greatsword a blur as he angled it to the side and swung, using the momentum to knock a second mage back with the pommel, then reaching inside with gauntlets like claws and _squeezing_.  Spells died with the mages and soon more blood soaked the ground than fouled the air.

Fenris straightened, flicking the blood from his gauntlet before turning again, sword raised, markings bright.  

He glanced again where Amelle Hawke lay, now in the shadow of the abomination Grace revealed herself to be.  She looked too small, too still, and anger coursed through him anew, the lyrium in his skin glowing brighter and brighter.  He knew what Amelle Hawke was.  But he also knew she had already shown him her true nature, and he knew that just as surely as he knew the shrieking, howling fiend before him was the blood mage Grace’s true nature.  

She had fought for him.  And now he would fight for her.

#

Words. It always came down to words.

It always came down to the uselessness of words.

Kiara had loved words, once, back when she thought they had value, back when she thought using words might save lives. She was good with words. She could be clever and witty with them. She could be kind and diplomatic. She could be brave. Words were her friends. Her old companions.

But what value did they have? Words had not ended the conflict with the Qunari. Words had not saved her mother or her brother or her father. She’d been speaking words and words and words for almost seven years in an attempt to bring peace—something like peace, _anything like peace_ —to the madness embraced by Kirkwall’s mages and templars.

While she’d been using words, they’d been planning _this._

She saw Thrask’s lips move. She saw Grace’s sneer. She saw the templar die—had she actually _respected him_ once, back when she valued words? Madness. _Foolishness_ —and she saw Grace turn to blood— _I knew it. I knew it, Papa. I knew she was never as innocent as she claimed to be_ —and Kiara Hawke realized she’d had _enough_ of words. Words could bloody _hang._

Arrows were so much more eloquent. So instead of allowing Grace her speech, her futile, mad explanations, Kiara shot her. And then she shot her again. Again and again and again. Killer howled and snarled, his muzzle bloody. Fenris didn’t howl, but his lips were curled back, and his eyes were dark with hate. White-fletched arrows and heavier crossbow bolts struck all around them.

And Amelle lay still on the sand. Blood trickled down a too-pale cheek. Her hand was slightly curled by that cheek. She’d always slept that way, ever since she was a little girl, on one side with her hand slightly curled by her cheek. But Hawke didn’t think she was sleeping. Not this time. She was too still. And there was blood on her cheek. There was blood. Amelle _hated_ having blood on her. Hated it.

This time the howl Kiara heard wasn’t Killer’s. It was hers. It, too, was more eloquent than mere words. She cast aside her bow and leapt on the _thing_ , the thing that had been Grace, and she drew her belt knife. It wasn’t anything, really; backup for when enemies drew too near, not even a real dagger. Again and again and again she drew her arm back, until it was heavy, until the muscles burned, until everything ached. Again and again and again she brought her knife down. Blood was everywhere. It dripped down her face, clung to her hands, dribbled into her mouth. It was hot. She was cold.

She didn’t have words. She had a knife. She had a knife and an arm and the howling rage and sorrow and despair too deep, too horrifying for words.

The creature beneath her was bloody pulp. Still she raised her arm. Still she struck.

Amelle lay still on the sand.

“Hawke,” cried a voice behind her. She knew it. She didn’t care. It was only words. More words. “Hawke, stop. They’re all dead, Hawke. They’re all dead. You can stop now. You can stop. _Kiara._ You can stop.”

She snarled and snapped and whirled so hard and so fast her knife nearly caught Sebastian across the cheek before his hands closed on her wrist and squeezed tightly enough to make her bones creak. The dagger fell to the sand. Still she fought him, twisting and spitting and screaming. She threw a punch with her other hand and he did not duck away; he let it land. It caught him in the jaw, and he grunted, his eyes watering. And then he twisted her knife-arm behind her back until her shoulder nearly gave.

She screamed. Sebastian wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his armored chest. Too tight.

Amelle lay still on the sand. There was blood on her face.

There was blood _everywhere._

Kiara shouted something wordless—warning, grief, panic, something like _no_ would have sounded if she still had words—as Fenris knelt at Amelle’s side and gently touched his fingertips to the pulse-point at her neck.

It was too late. They were too late. She was always too late. Always, always, always too late.

Amelle was too still.

Fenris looked up. Met her eyes. Nodded. Not grief. Satisfaction. “She lives.”

She would have fallen if not for Sebastian’s arms keeping her upright.

She didn’t have words for this, either. She only had tears. She put her head back against Sebastian’s bloody breastplate and she _sobbed._

#

When the last of Grace — or the abomination she became — died away with a choking scream, the resultant silence was staggering.  There was only the lapping of water and the more distant roar of the ocean, punctuated by the wet, sucking sounds of a knife being plunged over and over again into gruesome remains, and Hawke’s wordless keening.

Sebastian had never seen Hawke like this, pushed even further to grief than she’d been the night he’d found her unable, _unwilling_ to move as she sat before a fire burning too high and too bright and still not chasing the chill from her bones. He recognized her helpless fury, turning mindless in her sorrow.  He saw the ache — oh, and he felt it keenly, remembering with sharp, terrifying clarity the days after he’d learned of his family’s massacre — and he prayed never to see torment like that again.

And when that despair turned out to be premature, Kiara Hawke cracked and crumbled under the weight of her relief.  Kneeling upon the ground, he held her as she sobbed the deep, wracking, hoarse cries of one who had come far, far too close to losing everything.  He breathed a silent prayer to the Maker for sparing Amelle Hawke’s life; he feared the woman in his arms would not have returned from such a loss.  And if she had, she would have been irrevocably changed.

He cradled her until her sobs subsided into wheezing, hiccuping breaths, though tears still streamed from her eyes.  It was relief, he knew, and after a battle fought believing the worst, _prepared_ for the worst, he could not fault her such a reaction.  He brushed the hair away from her brow, and she blinked up at him, her face wet with tears and sweat and smeared with blood.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, his tone gentler now, as if perhaps she hadn’t heard him before.  “Your sister lives.”

Hawke nodded, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and letting it out again, wiping at her face and pushing her hair back, pulling herself together, piece by piece.  He’d seen this before as well — seen it too many times after too many battles.  Sebastian released her and helped her stand again.  She sent him a smile then, small and teary, but genuine and grateful as he squeezed her hand and let it go. She winced as she rolled her shoulder, and then she reached up and touched gentle fingertips to his jaw. He could feel the bruise beginning to ache.

“She’s all right, Hawke,” Sebastian said in an undertone.  “Amelle is safe.”

Varric strode across the sand and crouched down by Fenris, who was carefully cradling Amelle’s head as he tried waking her.  But her body remained limp, her face slack.

“Safe is one thing, Choir Boy,” the dwarf said, frowning hard as he gave Amelle’s shoulder a brisk shake. She did not rouse.  “But for anyone to sleep through a fight like that?  Not sure I’d use the words ‘all right.’”

A lone mage, barely more than a boy, and quavering with fear, came out from behind the rock formation where he’d been hiding.  Sebastian tried to find sympathy for him, but in the face of such horrors committed so senselessly, he found the feeling rather lacking.

“Alain,” Hawke breathed and Sebastian couldn’t tell if she was amazed he was there at all, or that he’d lived through the battle.

“It’s… i-it’s a spell,” he stammered, looking down with unabashed horror at what remained of Grace.  Of Grace’s _pride._   “Grace—s-she used blood magic.  To… to k-keep your sister under.”

Fenris’ lip curled as he glared at the younger mage.  “Then _undo it._ ”

“Now, now, Broody,” Varric said, giving the elf’s shoulder a little pat, “we’re reasonable types here, aren’t we?”  He cast a glance back at Sebastian and Hawke, and Sebastian at once saw the hard edge in the dwarf’s eyes.  “You said the lying, murdering, backstabbing bitch here used blood magic to knock Little Hawke out?”

Alain nodded, his eyes darting fearfully to each of them.  “Y-yes…”

“Well, then.  Looks like it’s our lucky day, doesn’t it?  If it’s one thing we’ve got plenty of right now, it’s blood.”  He gestured at the fallen mages and templars, their wounds oozing in the afternoon sun.  And as he turned back to Alain, he hefted Bianca into his arms.  “I recommend you fix this, Sparky.”

“Varric,” Sebastian said, trying for patience.  “Don’t you think enough blood has been shed already?”

The dwarf only shrugged.  “Don’t ask me, Choir Boy — blood magic needs blood.  Them’s the rules, and I didn’t make ‘em up.  I’m just trying to be helpful.”  He looked back at Alain.  “Well?”

“I-I can!” Alain cried, putting his hands up.  “I can wake her again!  But— but I’d have to use blood magic to do it.”

Bianca gave a deadly click.

“Varric,” Hawke said, resting a hand on his shoulder.  That was all she said — that was all she needed to say.  The dwarf looked up at her, his expression still stormy.

“I never said I was going to _kill_ him, Hawke.  But if he needs blood to make this work, hey, I’m a helpful sort.  Who needs a kneecap these days, really?”

Hawke only gave a tremulous smile and shook her head. Varric shrugged and lowered his weapon.  Then she looked at Alain, fixing him with a steely glare.

“Do it,” she told him, and for all the tears she’d shed, for all the heartbroken cries, her tone brooked no argument.  She was Hawke, and unquestionably in charge once more.

But Sebastian had seen too far behind her mask, had seen her closer to broken than he’d ever seen before.  And though she appeared to have pulled herself together, he could not ignore the thread of worry that pulled in his breast.  She appeared fine now, but he wondered how long it could last.

_Maker, watch over her._

#

Cullen and his templars had been walking the sandy paths of the Wounded Coast for days, and they’d met with more action than he was accustomed to. A band of mercenaries had attacked their camp, and the slavers they’d come upon seemed even more desperate than usual, more willing to fight and die rather than run and leave their goods behind. On a sigh, he realized it must have been some time since Hawke and her companions had had reason to sweep through. Hawke was sometimes a thorn in his side, but she and her companions were very good at keeping the paths clean and free of vermin. He had to give them that.

It had been a lengthy patrol, and he thought he’d been gone long enough for Meredith’s temper to have cooled once again. Every time the Knight-Commander had a run-in with the Champion, it was Cullen who paid the price.

Every time the Knight-Commander had a run-in with the Champion, Cullen found himself respecting the Champion a little more, and the Knight-Commander a little less.

It wouldn’t do to think too hard about that.

Still, it had been a full day since last they saw anything out of the ordinary, and Cullen had begun to long for his bed and a bath. He was about to order their return when he heard something—something out of his memories, he thought at first. They’d been too long away. He never slept well out under the open sky. Surely there was no—

—He heard it again. The scream of a demon. Followed by the crash of battle. As distant as the ringing of blades sounded, the demon’s scream was near. Too near. It echoed in his head, making his heart stutter even as a cold sweat began to bead upon his brow. Cullen nearly put a hand to his head, as though such an action would—could—drive the sound away. Instead, he wrapped his hand tight around the grip of his sword. The sword was real. He knew the sword was real.

“Knight-Captain?” asked Ser Hugh tentatively. “Should we—should we investigate, ser?”

Cullen nodded brusquely, still not trusting his voice. _Hugh hears it too. It is not illusion. It is real._

But Cullen couldn’t be certain Hugh heard the _demon_ , and he couldn’t bring himself to ask in case the answer was no. _This is not Ferelden. This is not the Circle. There is sand beneath your feet. There is a sword in your hand._

By the time they crashed down the hill—too many bodies, too many mages, too many _templars_ Cullen recognized, all riddled with arrows and savage sword cuts—the battle was done. The demon had ceased its screaming, and he found himself oddly relieved when he surveyed the scene and saw the mangled corpse of something he knew to have been demonic. _This is real._

The stench of magic—dark magic, _blood magic_ —permeated the air, twisting his stomach. As he scanned the carnage, he recognized Sebastian, the Chantry brother first, even though his white armor was bloodied. The dwarf merchant stood at his side, crossbow still readied. The white-haired elf had one clawed fist tight around the bicep of a Circle mage— _Alain,_ Cullen remembered—but the mage looked too mortified to do more than stand and quake. Cullen noticed the man’s arm was bleeding, and he readied a smite just in case.

It took him longer to recognize Hawke. Indeed, he only put a name to the bloody horror kneeling on the sand because he recognized the red of her hair and the girl she cradled in her arms as her sister. Amelle was just blinking awake as they arrived. “W-what _happened_?” she asked, voice cracking. “I—oh. Ser Thrask was in the marketplace. This isn’t—where _are_ we?”

“The Wounded Coast,” said a voice so terrifying Cullen nearly flinched. It was Hawke’s voice. He _knew_ it was Hawke’s voice, because it was Hawke’s mouth speaking, but he had never heard her sound so grim. “You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you.”

“Hawke? We, uh, have company,” the dwarf said, swinging his crossbow around until Cullen found himself staring down the point of a particularly savage-looking bolt.

Even at a distance, Hawke’s eyes chilled him. She whispered something to her sister and then gestured toward the elf. 

“I’ll be fine… I’ll be fine in a minute,” Amelle protested, pushing unsteadily to her feet, but Hawke was having none of it. She bodily pressed her sister into the elf’s arms, forcing him to release the shuddering mage, before stalking across the sand to face him.

She wasn’t even armed, and she was still the most forbidding foe Cullen had ever faced. “Did you have anything to do with this?” she snapped.

“I don’t even know what _this_ is,” he admitted. “We’ve been on patrol out here for days. We heard battle. We came. There are a lot of dead templars here, Hawke. I need an explanation.”

If possible, her eyes grew even cooler, even more dangerous. “They kidnapped my sister. Thrask. Grace. Their… conspirators. They thought to use her as leverage, to ensure my cooperation with their plans. I don’t know what those plans were. I don’t care. They were all dead the minute they laid a finger on her, whether I might once have sympathized with them or not.”

_You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever._

“I see,” he said, because he did.

Hawke raised her hand, but it was only to jab him in the breastplate. Ser Hugh made a sound of disapproval, but Cullen only gestured at him to remain silent. “Keep them away from her, Cullen. Keep them away from her, because I swear by the Maker and Andraste and every holy thing in all of Thedas I will _slaughter_ anyone who threatens her again.”

“I understand,” he said, because he did.

“I think perhaps you do,” she replied. She swept her hand around in a cutting motion, taking in the still-shivering Alain. “He must be watched. If he so much as scrapes himself, kill him. He brought Amelle out of the spell Grace put her under, but he’s no innocent. He was out here, after all. Only his cowardice kept him from death.”

“He will be questioned.”

Hawke nodded. Something about the nod disturbed him. It seemed… satisfied. Too satisfied. Not very much like Hawke at all. “Good. I hope this ends here, today, but if there is a deeper conspiracy…”

She didn’t have to finish. If there was a deeper conspiracy, and she _knew_ about it, Cullen would have more templar corpses on his hands. He knew it. She knew it.

“S-ser Cullen,” Hugh began tentatively, “s-she’s an apostate. It’s our _duty_.”

“Hugh,” Hawke snarled, and Cullen blinked at the realization she knew the lad’s name. “Today is not the day to fuck with me. So, begging your pardon, the Maker can take your _duty_ and He can shove it up His arse.”

Behind her, Brother Sebastian flinched, but said nothing.

_You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever._

“Stand down, Hugh,” Cullen warned.

“The Knight-Commander won’t like—”

“ _Hugh_ ,” he commanded. “Not _now_.”

Hawke nodded approvingly, her expression warming just slightly.

“Kiri,” came Amelle’s voice, stronger now but still tremulous, “can’t we… can’t we just go?”

“They—they’ll torture me,” Alain pleaded. “Please, Champion, _please_ —”

But Hawke was immovable. “You should have thought of that before you got yourself involved in something so monumentally stupid,” she snapped, returning to Amelle. Her sister was standing now, albeit unsteadily, still leaning heavily against the elf. Hawke touched her sister’s cheek gently and wrapped an arm tight about her shoulders.

“But, Champion—”

“Alain,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, rage barely controlled, “be grateful I’m leaving you your life. I do not want to.”

Cullen sent two of his men to subdue the mage, and ordered others to begin gathering the dead. Then he watched as Hawke and her companions began the slow trek back to Kirkwall.

Hawke didn’t look back at him. Amelle did. And for a moment, he thought she looked truly distressed.

He could hardly blame her. He found himself similarly distressed.

But then Hawke said something in her sister’s ear, Amelle turned away, and Cullen was left to clean up the mess they’d left behind. As usual.

Meredith would have him walking _solitary_ Wounded Coast patrols for ages after this.

#

It was nothing like the other times they’d walked home from the Wounded Coast.  For one, Amelle was usually better prepared than this, wearing boots instead of thin, leather slippers.  For another, there was usually more _talking_ than was going on right now _._ Which was to say _none._  

She looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye; Kiara’s face was streaked with blood and blotchy with tears, her hair matted and sweaty, her light armor slick with gore.  But none of that did a thing to hide the rigidness of her sister’s jaw, or the tension in her shoulders and down her arms.  Every step Kiara took was stiff, as if it pained her.

After another few minutes spent in silence, Amelle ventured a quiet, “Kiara?” She tried again a moment later, but when her sister still hadn’t responded, Amelle laid a hand on Kiara’s arm.  “Kiri?”

Kiara startled and whirled, and for an instant Amelle saw her sister’s face go ashen beneath the blood.  “What?”

“Let’s stop a moment.”

But Kiara shook her head.  “No.  I want to get you back to Kirkwall as quickly as possible.”

“Kiara, you could be hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“Just… stop and wash your face,” she suggested, pointing vaguely down to one of the small segments of beach far below them.  “Please?”

Kiara started to protest, but when she brought a hand to her face and felt stickiness there, she closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh.  “All right.  A rest.  A short one.”  She whistled for Cupcake, who had trotted on ahead.  Within moments the huge mabari was galloping back toward them.

“All clear?” Kiara asked the dog.  Cupcake sat, his stubby tail wagging, and let out a sharp bark.  Kiara nodded and gave him a scratch behind the ears.  “That’s a good boy.”  When she indicated the downward sloping path to the dog, Cupcake bounded on ahead, barking his delight.  The sounds of splashing water soon followed.

Amelle slipped out of her shoes and ventured down the narrow path that led down to the sandy beach.  Surprisingly, it was Fenris and not Kiara who remained by her side.  Amelle glanced briefly behind her, nearly misstepping as she did.  Fenris’ hand grabbed her elbow before she could stumble, and she was surprised to find his grip wasn’t as punishing as she might have expected.

“Be more careful,” he advised curtly, nodding at the hole she’d nearly stepped in.  

“Thank you.”  But she spared another glance behind, then lowered her voice to a whisper as she said to Fenris, “I don’t know—what _happened_?”

The look he shot her was inscrutable.  She was used to it by now.  “You were kidnapped.”  A shadow passed over his eyes as he spoke, and Amelle wondered what he wasn’t telling her.

“I figured out that part,” she murmured, lengthening her strides just a little.  “What—”

“She feared you had been killed, Amelle.”

Her shoes slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers as she turned and stared at him, her heart giving a mighty thud that was hard enough to make her ribs ache.  _Killed._   _Oh, Maker.  Like Mother all over again._   Amelle thought of the carnage strewn about the campsite and swallowed hard.  “She—”

She picked up her shoes and Fenris took hold of her elbow again.  “Come,” he said, though without his customary brusqueness.  “She thought you… she thought you dead.”  He paused, staring straight ahead.  “We all did. You were… very still.”

When she spoke, her voice sounded faint and far away.  “…Oh.”  Amelle looked back again at her sister. Sebastian and Varric flanked her. Sebastian watched Kiara closely, and something about his bearing seemed almost coiled and tense, as if waiting to catch her if she fell.  Varric was chattering on about something, but Amelle could see how keenly the dwarf watched her sister too.  

No matter where anyone else’s eyes were, Amelle could _feel_ Kiara’s gaze on her — _eyes like a winter sky and twice as sharp_ , Papa used to say whenever Kiara hit a particularly difficult target. 

It seemed strangely appropriate now.  

She dropped her shoes and turned to Fenris.  “Is she all right?” she asked in a whisper.  The look she got in return was eloquently dubious.  Amelle sighed.  “Is she _hurt?_   Physically hurt?”

“I imagine she must be, for all she’s hiding it.  Surely this does not surprise you.”

Amelle nodded, this time suppressing her sigh.  “What about everyone else?  Are you hurt at all?”  There was a small cut at Fenris’ temple and Amelle frowned as she reached up to touch it, but the elf flinched away at the last second.

“I am unhurt,” he said quickly, dismissing the cut.  “That is but a scratch.  If you’re going to tend anyone, tend your sister.”

Kiara and the others had reached the shoreline by now.  Varric took a seat on a boulder, setting down Bianca next to him.  “You guys go ahead.  I like my water in a tub.  And heated.”

“Big baby,” Amelle tossed back, attempting a casual tone as she let the water wash over her feet, up to her ankles.  

“Maybe, but I’m a _dry_ big baby, thank you,” Varric replied, bracing his hands behind him.

Amelle smiled, but that smile faded as she watched Kiara crouch down, then kneel in the sand, heedless of the slowly lapping tide as she cupped salt water in her hands and rinsed her face.  Once the blood was washed away, Amelle saw clearly the strain in her sister’s face and her heart turned over in her chest.  She strode through the water and knelt down in front of her sister.  The wet sand gave under her knees, and the cold water soaked the skirt of her dress.  It didn’t matter.

“Kiri.”

Kiara splashed her face with water again.  “I’m fine.” 

“Kiri, please.”  Reaching out, she grasped her sister’s hand, holding it tightly.  Kiara tensed again, and Amelle could almost feel her sister think about pulling her hand away.  “Look at me, Kiara.  _Please._ ”

Kiara closed her eyes, shaking her head briskly.  Tiny droplets of water flung free from her hair.  “I can’t.  I can’t, Mely.  Don’t make me.”

With her free hand, she placed her fingers beneath Kiara’s chin, tipping her face up, gently forcing Kiara to look at her.  “I’m okay, Kiri. See? I’m okay.”

Kiara looked at her — and looked for a long time, blinking back tears.  “I thought you were dead,” she breathed, and even Amelle almost couldn’t hear Kiara’s voice over the gentle rush of water.

“I’m all right,” she whispered.  “I’m healthy and whole, I promise.  I’m safe now.”

“You’re not safe. _You’re never safe_ , Mely.”  The words came out in a haunted whisper that chilled Amelle throughout.  

Amelle found she could do nothing but shake her head and fling her arms around Kiara, hugging her _hard._   After only the briefest hesitation, Kiara was clinging to her so tightly it almost _hurt_ , and Amelle could feel the way her sister’s body shuddered, shedding more tears she didn’t want anyone to see.  Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she let a wave of healing magic into her sister.  Kiara shivered, but didn’t comment.  A bad sign.

“I’m okay, Kiri.  I’m _fine._   I promise.  I _swear it_ , Kiara.”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe, Mely,” Kiara mumbled against her shoulder.  “I promise.  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better. I promise you’ll be safe. I _promise._ ”

But Amelle found herself chilled rather than reassured by her sister’s words.


	74. Chapter 74

Cullen’s experience with royal palaces was limited, but he was fairly certain such a large space had no right feeling so… small.  The rooms felt close, constricting, and he felt as if he’d trod the expanse of it ten times over in the past two days.

Two days.  An instant in some cases, an eternity in others.

The mood was of course alleviated in no way by Hawke or Fenris, who were prowling about, both restless, both too quiet, too tense with worry.  He knew perfectly well Hawke was entirely unused to _waiting_ ; she preferred action — he’d known that almost from the moment he first laid eyes on her.  The waiting, the not-knowing, frayed her temper, outbursts of which growing ever more frequent.  At the other end of the spectrum, Fenris stalked the grand halls in utter stony silence, and woe to anyone who dared interrupt that quiet.  Hawke shot arrows at targets until the muscles in her arms trembled, while Fenris trained in the yard until nothing but hay and burlap remained of the army of practice dummies. They didn’t speak to one another. They didn’t speak to anyone else, either.

Varric and Isabela kept their own counsel, searching for leads and clues in their own way.  Through it all Isabela was uncharacteristically quiet, watching over Varric, who clearly felt responsible for Amelle’s disappearance.  Cullen had never seen the dwarf so subdued.

He couldn’t blame any of them.  He was growing impatient as well — he suspected he simply hid it better.  Like Hawke, Cullen disliked having nothing to do _but_ wait. More than that, he disliked someone else dictating how long they were meant to wonder.  And that she was using Amelle as either a pawn or a target for retribution… Cullen could hardly bear it.

It was early — few other than the servants were awake, so far as he could tell, and the smells of the morning meal wafted up from the palace kitchens.  Cullen had slept ill, and, rather than tossing in his too-fine sheets, decided to patrol the palace’s perimeter.  _Patrolling_ — _not pacing_ , he reassured himself.  Patrolling.  It was entirely different.

He stopped in a vast, pristine courtyard, and looked up at an elaborately carved statue of Andraste, Amelle’s words rising up in his memory like tendrils of smoke.

 _I… accept what I am, Cullen.  And I know… I know what can happen if—I know.  And… and I don’t_ want _that to happen —_ ever _, if I can help it.  I don’t_ want _to be a mindless…_ thing _that would slaughter those I care about without compunction.  Being trapped like that is… it’s worse than death._

Two days.  He knew all that could be inflicted on another in two days and tried without success to think of those doomed mages in the Tower who had succumbed to fear and helplessness.  Tilting his head up at the statue, Cullen sent up a quick, silent prayer.

_Please, keep her safe._

The moment of supplication ended abruptly when a voice called out behind him, “Knight-Commander?”

Cullen turned, a frown already pulling at his lips. The prince was flanked by two guards—one of whom was the young soldier who’d attended them when they’d come too late to the camp. Two days. _Do not think what may be done to a person in two days._ “Knight-Captain if you must, Your Highness,” he said. “I was never invested with the other, and gave it up when I left Kirkwall.” He shrugged. “If she’s heard of my defection, the Divine may have already stripped me of my rank entirely.” Once again, Cullen glanced toward the statue. The Maker’s Bride gazed back, serene and untroubled. He wished he could feel half so calm himself. “Perhaps just Cullen would be best. That much I still know for truth.”

“Perhaps the Divine is displeased with both of us,” the prince agreed. “I would like to believe she will hear reason when it is spoken, but until then you be just Cullen and I will be just Sebastian, and perhaps we will put right the wrongs done against her people.”

It was a noble sentiment. Cullen tried to drown the voice that said it was as fruitless as it was noble. _Is there anyone less one of Divine Justinia’s people than an apostate mage?_ “Is there news?”

Sebastian shook his head, and Cullen could not miss the pained wince that creased the prince’s brow. “None. My Eyes have been combing the city to no avail. Jessamine has disappeared without a trace.”

“There are always traces,” Cullen replied, hating the way his voice betrayed him, raising the final syllable almost into the inflection of a question. 

“She has been adept at erasing them.” Sebastian looked as tired as Cullen felt.

“And Hawke?”

Sebastian pushed a hand through his hair, heedless of the disarray it left behind. His eyes searched out Andraste’s as well, lingering on the statue a moment too long before he replied, “The same. If words could kill, she’d have left a string of corpses in her wake. Only Tasia will even attempt to speak with her now. She is a bowstring liable to snap at the slightest provocation.”

“As you would be, in her place.”

Sebastian did not bother denying it. He only nodded wearily. So wearily. “Knight-C—Cullen, I would have your counsel.”

He turned to face Sebastian fully.  “Of course.”

Sebastian gave a quick, sharp nod to the soldiers flanking him.  “Leave us a moment, if you will.”  The guards exchanged a look and moved to the other end of the courtyard, out of earshot but still able to see Sebastian’s every move.  Once they were alone, Sebastian turned back to Cullen.  “There is… something.”

Something in his tone both pricked his interest and commanded his attention.  He met Sebastian’s eyes steadily, controlling the flutter of hope in his chest.  “Something that is… not a trace?”

“It may prove fruitless, but I believe it is a path worth exploring.  This waiting.  It is… maddening.”

“I suspect that’s largely the point.”  Sebastian nodded in silent agreement as Cullen added, “It’s harder than most suspect, doing nothing.”

The prince’s expression darkened.  “Remaining idle under such circumstances is not something to which I am accustomed.”

“Nor I.”  But there was no enemy present to fight, no trail, no clues.  At the moment there was _nothing_ for any of them to focus on beyond a situation that was entirely out of their control.  Cullen was well and truly tired of being thrust into situations wherein he found himself at the mercy of another’s mad whims.  He suspected the same of Sebastian.

“It is true Jessamine has all but vanished; however, there remains one loose end.”

“That sounds… unexpectedly sloppy of her.  What is it?”

Just then, a pair of pages, one fair-haired and the other ginger, both blissfully unaware of the tension in the palace, ran pell-mell across the courtyard, shouting back and forth at each other, their young voices reverberating off the stones in the midst of a game:

“I’ll get you, filthy Archdemon!” the fair-haired page yelled.

“No you won’t, stupid Grey Warden!” shouted the redheaded one.  “And you’re just a girl anyway!”

The little blond boy stopped, indignant and red-faced. “I AM _NOT_ A _GIRL_!”

The other laughed and kept running, only to call out behind him, “ _You_ wanted to be the Grey Warden!”

The chase began anew.  “I wanted to be the other one!  Hey, wait up!”

Soon the shouts faded, but the moment — so normal, so _natural_ — had been painfully discordant.  Cullen shook his head briefly in a vain attempt to clear it and looked back at Sebastian.  “You were saying?”  

“We’re still holding the pretender who usurped my throne. Morven.”

Cullen thought a moment. “The one you now suspect Jessamine of being allied with from the start?”

“The very same.  He currently occupies a cell in my dungeon, and until very recently he’d been… unhelpfully unconscious.”

It was not a trace, exactly, but it was _something,_ Cullen had to admit.  “He is now significantly less unconscious?”  He arched an eyebrow at Sebastian.  “By his own volition?”

Sebastian’s face remained impassive.  “Does it matter?” 

“It may influence how helpful — and truthful — he’ll be.”

The prince’s smile was tight, his eyes cold.  “Then we’ll have to make him realize honesty and helpfulness are in his… best interests.”

A shudder of uneasiness ran the length of Cullen’s spine. It was the cage again, and the demons whispering promises and threats. The promises were worse. The promises were always worse. “I… even for Amelle, I will not put a man to torture. I cannot.”

“I know,” Sebastian said.

“Then why—?”

The prince met Cullen’s gaze unflinchingly. “I trust you to stop me if I go too far.”

Cullen saw the truth of it in Sebastian’s eyes. After a considering pause, he reached out his arm. Sebastian traded grips with him, and with a last glance toward Andraste’s serene visage— _keep us all safe_ —Cullen turned from the courtyard and followed the prince of Starkhaven to the dungeons. Much as he clung to hope—the fragile thread of hope—Cullen hoped the cost of it would not be too dear.

#

As soon as Cullen fell in at Sebastian’s side the prince was glad he’d made the decision to hunt the templar down and ask his help. He’d debated it some time. He didn’t know Cullen well, but  the Knight-Captain had been a frequent visitor to the chantry—even more frequent than duty dictated. More frequent a visitor than Meredith had ever been, to own the truth. And Kiara trusted him. She did not bestow her trust easily. It was enough for Sebastian. 

Under normal circumstances Sebastian would have turned to Kiara for help interrogating Morven— _You and I both know getting answers from recalcitrant villains is something of a forte_ —but Kiara was…

Sebastian remembered the beach. He remembered Thrask and Grace and Amelle’s still form crumpled on the sand. He remembered the rain of arrows. He remembered the blood on Kiara’s face, and the coldness in her eyes, and the way she so utterly fell to pieces afterward. She was too close to that now. He saw it in the way she stalked and snapped—she had to be angry so she wouldn’t cave to despair. He was, in truth, almost glad of it: he knew Kiara Hawke’s grief, and rightfully feared it.

He could not contemplate what would happen if Amelle—

No. He would not think it, not so long as there could be hope. Not so long as he had loose ends—this single loose end—to follow. For now, at least, Sebastian needed Morven alive. He was relatively certain Kiara would not see things the same way, if the pretender’s guilt or collusion was admitted. It was the beach all over again, and he did not want to see it end in the same carnage. Necessity required restraint.

Restraint Sebastian feared would elude him when faced with Morven’s recalcitrance. A tight knot of emotion tangled in his breast—fear, anger, frustration, _hate_ —and if the pretender taunted him or spoke words he did not want to hear, Sebastian did not trust himself to react any more rationally than Kiara would in his place. Cullen’s presence was solid and silent, a half-step behind him, and his gaze was wary and watchful, but not distrustful. Sebastian valued that.

 _He will stop me_ , he thought over and over. _He will stop me if I go too far._

When they entered the dungeons, Sebastian waved the guards back to their ease. Whatever he was, Morven was no threat. Illness had stolen all the flesh from his form; Sebastian could have counted the man’s bones beneath the taut, sallow skin stretched tight over them, had he been so inclined. Sending a slantwise glance Cullen’s way, Sebastian was relieved to see the templar’s expression unchanged. Wary. Watchful. Still not distrustful. Not yet.

Morven turned his head and his swallow was audible. His Vael eyes had lost some of their fire. Sickness had rendered them pale and watery, and had stolen much of their defiance. “Forgive me,” Morven rasped. “I would rise, but I find I cannot.”

“Give the man water,” Cullen ordered. When one of the guards looked to him for confirmation, Sebastian nodded.

Cullen himself knelt at the man’s side, tilting the waterskin. More water slid down Morven’s face than into his mouth, but the pretender’s expression was still grateful. “She’s gone,” Morven said once he’d drunk his fill.

“She?” Sebastian asked coolly.

Morven closed his eyes and lay back on the straw mattress that stank of his filth and his illness. “Jessamine,” Morven said, drawing the word out long.

“And how would you know that?”

The skeleton sighed. “I’d still be sleeping if she was here, wouldn’t I? Surprised I woke up at all, to own the truth.”

_Traces. Everyone leaves traces._

Sebastian narrowed his eyes.  “It is because of Jessamine you are alive.”

Morven snorted and the subtle movement seemed to wrack his whole frame. “If she truly has gone, then it’s hardly a favor she’s done me, is it?”

“You’d have preferred to die, then.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of taking poison in the first place?”

Sebastian considered this as he crossed his arms over his chest.  There was something odd about the question, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. If death had been denied him, perhaps offering Morven what he truly desired would reap better results than more common methods of persuasion.  “And yet she saved your life despite your obvious wishes.”  He nodded at the stone walls surrounding them.  “Despite your current circumstances.”

“Well,” the pretender replied, and the sneer was more pronounced on his emaciated face, “she is a healer, after all.”

Sebastian had barely opened his mouth, a sharp retort upon his lips, when Cullen said quietly, “Knowing potions and poisons does not a healer make, ser.”

“Not like the little mage bitch that saved _his_ life, eh?” he said, jerking his chin at Sebastian.

“Were I you, ser,” Cullen said, and though he still spoke softly, his voice grew icy, “I would choose my words with more care in present company.”

Morven’s expression was mutinous, but he subsided.  Sebastian was very nearly disappointed at this, but it was a fleeting emotion; more important things were at stake than his own disappointment.  He inclined his head at the prisoner.  “So far you have admitted to knowing of Jessamine’s absence and of Amelle Hawke’s existence.  As it happens, those are the two topics I wish to discuss with you.”

“I only have so many fingers you can break, you know. Or are you going to use the knife again?” Morven’s smile was closer to a grimace, but it chilled him nonetheless. “If you want to use me for archery practice again I promise I won’t move. Couldn’t if I tried.”

Cullen shot him a look, which Sebastian ignored, keeping his gaze on Morven.  “What else do you know of Amelle Hawke?”

He narrowed rheumy eyes at Sebastian and seemed to turn the question over in his mind before answering, “She’s an apostate from Kirkwall, the _Champion’s_ sister—” and there was no denying the vitriol loaded into that single word, “—and the sole reason you’re standing there and I’m lying here.”

“Is Jessamine acting on your order, then?” Cullen asked.  But Morven only laughed — a horrible, raspy sound that quickly turned to a wet, hacking cough.  Cullen offered him more water, but Sebastian noted the templar seemed less than pleased about it.  After several minutes, Morven was once again breathing normally.

“ _My_ order?  I was bloody well _unconscious_ when she left, you idiots.  No. If some mage is stupid enough to come on the basis of a letter from a woman she doesn’t even know, then she deserves what she gets.”

Sebastian took a step closer, his patience dwindling, his fingers itching to grasp Morven’s hand, to bend back finger after finger until his screams drowned out each cracking snap.  “Indeed.  And what do _you_ deserve, Morven?”  

He had a few ideas. None of them pleasant.

“Better than _this,_ ” the other man spat. His tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. Something about the gesture made Sebastian’s stomach turn over. “She ruined it all, and she didn’t even know it.”

“Who ruined it all? Jessamine, by foiling your suicide?” Sebastian asked. “Are you so craven? You would choose the Void over repentance?”

Morven shook his head; the straw rasped beneath his skull. His cheekbones looked sharp as knives; Sebastian half-expected them to break through the fragile skin at any moment. “Thick, thick, thick, thick.” Then the pretender smiled, and it took all Sebastian’s will to keep from smashing his fist into that contemptuous smirk to destroy it completely. 

“ _Amelle_ ruined it all,” Cullen said. It was not a question, and Morven’s lips twitched. “But ruined _what_? She was in Kirkwall. You were here.”

“I’m the prince of Starkhaven,” Morven declared as grandly as his frail body and hoarse voice would allow. “Or I would have been, if you’d stayed dead, you pompous prick, with your prayers and your pretensions. She promised me. _She promised me._ ” Fervor made the pretender cough again, and it took several moments for the spasm to cease. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes, dampening the dirty sheet beneath him.

Sebastian swallowed hard and crossed to the other side of the room, clenching and unclenching his right hand into a fist. 

_If some mage is stupid enough to come on the basis of a letter from a woman she doesn’t even know, then she deserves what she gets._

“How did you know about the letter?” Sebastian asked the wall abruptly.

Morven coughed, and said nothing.

Turning, Sebastian faced the pretender but directed his question at Cullen. “He was imprisoned by then. He was guarded heavily every hour of the day and night. Kiara was still _unconscious_ when he was brought down here. _How_ did he know about the letter Jessamine sent Amelle? Unless—”

“Jessamine _told_ him,” Cullen said.

“Knowing potions and poisons does not a healer make,” Sebastian breathed. “She gave you the poison, too. To keep you from talking. To keep me from breaking you. To keep you silent.”

Morven remained silent, but his lips twitched. Sebastian did not think the swallowed expression was a smile _this_ time.

“But she did not kill you when she could have. Curious. So very curious. Why, Morven? If you were merely a loose thread in some plot of hers, why did she not simply… _snip_ you?”

The pretender blinked. And said nothing. An echo of his smirk returned.

Sebastian looked hard at the other man, meeting his eyes unwaveringly.  There was no doubt about it — he had Vael eyes.  He’d passed for Connall — physically, at least — for weeks.  Seconds ticked by as he held Morven’s gaze; the other man looked away first.  “Let’s consider all the reasons she didn’t let you die, shall we?”

“It’s not as if she did me a favor.”

“Punishment, then, for not being convincing enough?” mused Cullen.  

Sebastian nodded slowly. “Entirely possible, assuming this was her plan to begin with — and it’s beginning to sound as if it was.”  Sebastian paced the length of the small room as he recalled Jessamine’s manner as she worked to keep Morven from dying — he remembered how sharp her temper was, how… _invested_ she seemed in saving his life.  He allowed himself to wonder for a moment how Amelle might have handled such a situation.  She’d saved his own life at a time when another might not have thought he deserved being saved.  He had little doubt if it had been Amelle in Jessamine’s shoes she _would_ have saved Morven.  Amelle was a dedicated healer, though; she ached when those she could not save perished, but she was typically calm and focused as she worked.  She did not lose her composure, unless…

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  Suddenly his head jerked up and he whirled, crossing the room to once more glare down at Morven.

“What is she to you?”

The skeletal man said nothing; he simply looked at Sebastian with the same bland, maddening expression. “ _What is she to you?_ ” he shouted, loudly enough to make the other man flinch.

Cullen watched him closely, though his eyes still held no judgement.  “Sebastian, what—”

Turning to Cullen, Sebastian jabbed a finger in Morven’s direction.  “When he was on the verge of death, we summoned Jessamine.  She could have easily let him die then.  She could have told us there was nothing to be done and none of us would have been the wiser.”

“She could have quietly and neatly snipped a… troublesome loose end.”

“Exactly.  But she _didn’t._ ”  Sebastian turned his gaze back upon Morven.  “On the contrary, she _fought_ to keep you alive.  Fought as hard as Amelle whenever Kiara’s injuries threatened to overcome her — when my own wounds were so stubborn to heal.  And she was more angry about the cut to your blighted thumb than she was about the poison itself. So I ask you again, Morven _,_ what is Jessamine to you?”

Morven’s chin jutted out obstinately, but on his sunken, bony features the expression appeared more a caricature of stubbornness.  “And what is such information worth to you?”

The question, the sense of entitlement, sent Sebastian’s pulse pounding, his hands curling into fists.  But before he could reply, Cullen posed an altogether surprising question, “What is a merciful, painless death worth to you?”

“Less than you’d think,” Morven spat back, a spark of defiance in his Vael eyes, “as I’m not _actually_ suicidal.”

Cullen blinked and sat back on his heels. His fingers tightened reflexively around the waterskin, sending water splashing over his hand and down the front of his tunic.

Sebastian hunkered down at the pretender’s side. “It wasn’t punishment, was it? She poisoned you to keep you quiet, and you trusted her to heal you when the danger had passed. Do I have the right of it?”

Sebastian was standing close enough to see Morven swallow, to see the way the man’s jaw clenched and the way the corner of his left eye twitched. 

“But you woke up to find she’d left you, and that the danger was far, far from over. She’s not here to save you now. She’s not here to make you sleep and keep you dreaming of better days.” Sebastian’s voice hardened. When Morven tried to turn his face away, Sebastian reached out and grabbed the man’s chin, holding his face still, forcing him to look him in the eye. “She’s not here, but I am, and Maker help me, Morven, I am losing what little patience remains to me. You have answers I want. You have answers I _need_. You pissed yourself when you thought I was going to cut one of your _thumbs_ off? Fingers are nothing. I will break every bone in your hands, and then I will break every bone in your feet. I will shatter your elbows and your knees and your collarbones. It would take hardly any effort at all to smash every rib in that emaciated, sunken chest of yours. I will break every bone in your pathetic body if I think broken bones will induce you to speak. Do you think I will hesitate? Do you _doubt_ my sincerity? I assure you, I am entirely in earnest.”

Beside him, Cullen’s face was impassive. _Good man_ , Sebastian thought. _Stop me when I_ do _, not when I threaten._

 _The threat is enough_ , said Kiara’s voice.

Morven’s eyes were so wide Sebastian knew Kiara’s assertion was truth. The man believed him. The man was _frightened_ of him. Good. The ever-present smirk was gone now; to see it finally erased filled him with a thrill of something like triumph.

Swallowing the bitter ugliness of this petty victory, Sebastian repeated insistently, “Who is she to you?”

Morven’s lips parted and his throat worked silently. When he squeezed his eyes shut, Sebastian grabbed his chin harder and gave his head a little shake until he opened them again. “She’s… she’s… I…” the words were torn from him, but they were not enough. They were not _answers._

“Who is she?”

Morven gasped and choked and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He’d bitten his own tongue, Sebastian realized, tightening his fingers hard enough to leave bruises. “If you bite that tongue off I will make your death last an eternity! _Who is she?”_

It wasn’t Morven who answered. It was Cullen.

“She’s your mother,” he said, and Morven sobbed. 

“His _mother_ ,” Sebastian echoed, his stomach turning over unpleasantly as the man on the pallet shuddered, biting at his bloodied lips.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“I suppose she could be his sister,” Cullen answered.  “Though according to your descriptions of her, she is a somewhat older woman — old enough to have an adult child, at the very least, especially if she was young when he was born.  A much older sister? Or even a lover, I suppose, though I suspect he wouldn’t be so unwilling to give up a mere lover under current… circumstances.”  There was a weighty pause, and Sebastian had to wonder if Cullen was doing so intentionally.  “Any man would be less willing to confess against one with whom he shared blood.”

Morven whined, turning his face to the wall.

“You have something to add?” Sebastian asked with deceptive mildness.

“Jessamine is already in a great deal of trouble,” said Cullen reasonably, when Morven didn’t reply.  “And so far she has only abducted a woman.  Your silence will not save her.”

“If you knew where she was, you wouldn’t be down here at all,” Morven rasped, and the smothered sobs now lent a disgustingly wet quality to his voice that made it sound less than human. His bitten tongue made him slur. But for all the defiance of his words, Morven sounded somewhat less certain.

“We are down here,” answered Sebastian, “because I do not have the patience to await report from the Eyes.  We will find Jessamine, Morven.  One way or another.  It will only go worse for you if you impede us.”

“Amelle Hawke is not a woman without friends,” explained Cullen with far more patience than Sebastian possessed.  He wondered how the templar managed it.  

“And what I’ll do to you,” Sebastian added, “pales in comparison to what her sister will inflict upon you if Amelle is not returned unharmed.”

“Unharmed?” Morven echoed raggedly.  “How long has it been, then?  A day?”

“Two,” Cullen supplied.

“My _mother_ ’s temper is worse than yours,” said Morven, leveling a look at Sebastian.  “Your little whore’s sister—” Sebastian trembled with restraint; if he broke Morven’s jaw now, the man could give them nothing useful, “—ruined my life.  _Our_ lives.  Mother won’t thank her for that.”

“Then she… does intend to kill Amelle.” As he heard himself saying the words, Sebastian’s insides twisted and dread turned to rage that knotted in his shoulders, made his hands — already clenched into fists — tighten until the tendons ached.

Morven’s reply that made the blood drain from Cullen’s face. Sebastian wondered if his own countenance was as pale.

“Eventually,” he replied.  Blood pounded louder in Sebastian’s ears, but before he could speak, Cullen was on his feet, glaring down at the broken man. 

“ _Eventually_?” Cullen echoed.  “Jessamine has _already_ incapacitated Amelle, has she not?  What more does she have planned?”  Morven looked alarmed then, and Cullen smiled without humor. “Oh, I know all about Andraste’s Wrath.  I know what it does, how it affects mages.  I know it is illegal and said to be impossible to procure, but I have also seen with my own eyes the return of other such recipes supposedly lost to time.  Even without instructions, a true master of herbs and poisons has knowledge most do not.  Perhaps she was able to recreate the poison without instruction or assistance — however Jessamine managed to procure Andraste’s Wrath, the fact remains she has it, and we know she has used it.”

“ _Eventually_ ,” Morven repeated. “Mother is nothing if not patient. I defy either of you to be half so patient. Thirty years she plotted her revenge. Thirty years she planned. Thirty years she _waited_. And then it was all undone.”

“So now she’ll take her revenge on a girl whose only crime was _healing_ me?” Sebastian snapped.

“Andraste’s tits, you _are_ thick. It’s not about the mage. It was never about the _mage_. The mage fell into her lap like a gift from the bloody Maker, and Mother’s never been one to turn down gifts. She’s a means to an end.”

“Like you were?” Cullen asked.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Morven’s uneven, hitching breaths. At last he said quietly, “I was going to be Prince of Starkhaven. It’s not like I drew the short straw.”

“You’re not Prince of Starkhaven now,” Cullen insisted. “Nor will you ever be. She left you here, Morven. You’re so useless she didn’t even bother rescuing you. Or killing you. What does that say?”

The pretender went so suddenly grey Sebastian almost thought the man had died. A rasping inhale disproved the theory. “She’ll come back for me.”

“Why?” Sebastian pressed. “Placing you on the throne as Connall was a gamble she made and lost. It won’t work twice.”

“I’m still a Vael. The last, if you’re dead.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “And you make a fine case for having me see you executed for treason, but you and I both know you’ll never sit that throne again. My guards have their orders. If I die, you die. Tell me what she’s planning.”

“So I can add betrayal to the already lengthy list of my crimes? Perhaps I am craven, and perhaps I am weak, and perhaps I was a foolish, arrogant sod when I sat my ass on that pretty chair in your great hall, but I won’t turn on my own family.”

“You already have, cousin. As your father did before you. Make amends. Let me save Amelle Hawke. Tell me what she’s planning.”

Morven grimaced and turned his head. Blood-tinged spittle dribbled from his mouth. “Oh, _cousin_ ,” he jeered. “You already _know_. All the pieces are lined up on the board, waiting for her to play them. You’re three moves behind. Look at you. You’re wasting your time talking to a corpse in a dungeon. I’ve been trying to tell you all along… if she thought I knew anything that might compromise her, she’d have laced that last sleeping draught with poison. Nothing I say will change what’s to come.”

“ _Try_ ,” Sebastian ground out. When Morven said nothing, Sebastian reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Long illness and long sleep had left the man’s neck thin, fragile; Sebastian could have crushed it with barely a second thought. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out reason, drowning out even the pitiful mewling noises Morven made. _The smirk. The bloody smirk._

Cullen’s hand fell heavily on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice cutting through the blood-rage.

Without releasing Morven, Sebastian snapped, “What?”

“Your Highness,” Cullen repeated calmly, firmly. For some reason it was the repetition of the honorific that brought Sebastian back from the brink of madness. _You are Prince of Starkhaven. Restraint is necessary._ “There is a guard at the door, and one of your pages.”

Loosening his grip instead of tightening it was perhaps the most difficult thing Sebastian had ever done, but he did it. “News?” he asked. Cullen inclined his head. Turning back to the gasping pretender, Sebastian repeated, “I die, you die. If Kiara dies, you die. Maker preserve you, but if Amelle Hawke is already dead, you won’t see another morning.”

“I get it,” Morven drawled, his words slurred by his wounded tongue and rendered raspy by his wounded throat. With his bloody lips and his chin smeared with pinkish spittle he looked more a corpse than ever. “I’m a dead man. But you’re still three moves behind. I’ve known I was dead since the day you marched into my hall and shot my hand.”

Cullen sent Sebastian a silent look that was only too eloquent, but Sebastian only shook his head and strode past him, exiting the cell to find the ginger page they’d seen earlier, but now he looked harried and out of breath, his eyes wide with what looked very much like fear.

“What have you found?” he asked, keeping his voice down as another guard closed and locked Morven’s cell door.  

The guard looked down at the page, who seemed doubly alarmed now, put face to face with Sebastian.  “Tell him just as you told me, son.”

The boy stood up a little straighter, but his voice trembled as he spoke.  “It’s another one of the platforms, Highness.  With the stakes.  Like what they used to build to—”

“Burn mages,” Sebastian breathed, feeling sick.

From somewhere above, an angry voice shouted out and the timbre of it ricocheted off the walls.  Sebastian recognized it immediately.

“You will _let me pass,_ you stuffed tin can, or I swear I’ll—”

Sebastian broke into a run, Cullen on his heels; the two of them reached the noise in time to find Isabela with one hand already on her blade and murder flashing in her eyes; Varric stood behind her and to the side, looking similarly mutinous, Bianca in hand.  

“Let her pass,” Sebastian said sharply, suddenly enough that the guard in question jumped and turned, wide-eyed, to stare at him.  

Under normal circumstances, Isabela would have smirked at the guard and made a flip remark as she sauntered past.  Instead, she charged past the guard, her expression beyond furious as she looked between Cullen and Sebastian.  “We’ve got trouble, boys.  Someone’s built a—”

“Pyre,” Sebastian said.  “I’ve only just heard.”

“Three guesses what it’s for,” Varric said grimly.

Sebastian only shook his head.  “Only if we let it get that far.”

“Which we _won’t_ ,” Cullen insisted, with the fervency of a prayer.


	75. Chapter 75

Amelle was in trouble.

She’d known it from the moment the arrow whistled out of nowhere, striking her painfully, and with startling force in her shoulder.  She remembered that — stumbling forward with the impact of the blow, the pain of it radiating down her right arm, even the soft damp earth as she fell to her knees.  

Instinct had demanded she pull the arrow free and heal the wound.  Granted, it was common knowledge you were never supposed to pull arrows _out,_ but Amelle also knew herself well enough that she was confident a breath of well-aimed mana would knit muscle and sinew and skin back together again.  

But when Amelle had drawn in that breath and stretched out to touch the living, pulsing swirl of power residing within her, nothing happened.  She couldn’t … _reach_ her mana, couldn’t touch it.  Unlike those troubling days in Kirkwall, however, her mana wasn’t simply depleted.  It was eerily— _terrifyingly—_ silent, but worse, much worse, was the very means she used to _feel_ for her mana felt sluggish and numb.  Clumsy.  Blind.  Amelle tumbled forward, landing hard on her elbows, breathing deep and forcing herself to concentrate, but everything felt too thick, like molasses or mud, like trying to wade through the silt at the bottom of the pond back in Lothering.

Suddenly her vision swam and blurred, nausea clawing at her gut; Amelle fought the rising tightness in her throat, gulping hard against the urge to retch.  _Magebane.  Whatever this is, it’s got magebane in it._

And then a sickening, heavy crack—someone had hit Varric from behind, sending him sprawling forward with a grunt—Bianca rattled strangely, almost forlornly against his back; even the _crossbow_ had known something was wrong.

It was the sight of Varric— _Varric_ —lying upon the grass, blinking hard and struggling to focus, fingers twitching as if in effort to reach back for Bianca, that bade Amelle open her mouth to yell, to cry out, to _scream_ — to do something _.  Anything._   But to her horror, little more than a ragged, panting breath had come out when she tried yelling the dwarf’s name.  But Varric’s eyes rolled back and his lids fluttered shut as unconsciousness finally overtook him.

Everything swam, like water too deep, too far over her head, and Amelle’s arms shuddered.  Like jelly.  Blackberry jam on thick-sliced bread, sweet upon her tongue—no, not sweet.  Arms and legs like rubber, like jelly and jam, her throat burning with bile and too much blood trailing down her arm.  Amelle sunk to the ground, cool grass tickling her cheek like so many spiders’ legs.

 _Move, spirit healer.  Go.  Go now, rabbit.  Move.  You must_ move _, rabbit._

The voice in her head was faint, faint like words called to her at the end of a long, deep tunnel, but no less urgent for all that.

Yes.  Yes, she had to move.  She had to _try._

Summoning the last of her strength, all of it strangely slippery in her mind, Amelle pushed herself to her knees, crawling toward where Varric lay.  Surely he was only sleeping — he needed someone to wake him.  _She_ needed to wake him.

Darkness swallowed her vision soon after that.  Gone was the urge to choke and gag and retch, gone were the numb and rubbery limbs, gone was the voice calling to her so desperately.

It became ever harder to remember, harder to stay awake, harder to move _._   She woke to find herself on the dirt floor of a small room.  It was dark — Amelle had always hated the dark, had fought against it with light kept ready at her fingertips, but now no light came, and that scared her even more than the dark could.  Lightless fingertips flexed, her wrists closed in shackles that weighted down her hands.  It seemed so strange to her that iron had any business being so heavy; Amelle couldn’t lift her hands, couldn’t move, couldn’t _think._

Things were bad; she knew that much.  Didn’t have to think to know she was afraid, and not just because she was locked in the dark and weighed down to the floor.

She knew what came in the dark, what had always come to her in the dark.

Desire.

Vengeance. 

Despair.

They all came, taking turns with her, playing with her like jackals taunting their prey.

Desire slithered through the dark as she lay on the dirt floor, her mind open and weak, foul dark lips brushing her ear as the demon whispered all of its promises.  Promises that it would make her stronger than she could even possibly conceive, promises that she would return to her loved ones, to the ones who loved _her_ , to the one she wished could love her.  It promised such beautiful things.  Strength and love and _eternal life,_ if she desired it.  Anything she desired—anything at all.  It showed her a sister who did not constantly fear for her; it showed her Carver and Mother and Papa, all healthy and whole and happy, if only she joined them; it showed her Fenris, forgiving her pride, forgiving every one of her transgressions—

It showed her their _children._   Amelle saw her own rounded belly, felt squirming red-faced life in her arms.  Fat cheeks and tiny toes and eyes a deeper, darker green than she could fathom.  It showed her and showed her and _showed her still more_ , until Amelle’s head ached with sobs she could not voice, her eyes stinging and blind with tears.  Her fingertips did not tickle a pudgy belly; her shackles were too heavy, too tight, biting too painfully into her skin.

Vengeance came next, its voice hissing, _hissing_ like a sword pulled from its scabbard, about the _power_ it would give her, enough—more than enough—to crush, to decimate those who had dared do this to her.  Its breath was foul, a stench like steel and blood and so much rot as it promised her mastery of every arcane art.  She would burn the forests and dry out the rivers, razing everything in her path until they’d paid _._   They deserved whatever she decided to bring down upon their heads, deserved it twice— _thrice_ —over.  She would punish them, their children, their children’s children, until any and all who dared breathe her name did so in voices trembling with awe and fear.

But no fire flickered from her fingers.  No power swam through her veins.  Just the cold, hard-packed dirt, making her back ache.  Vengeance laughed at her weakness, a terrible gurgling laugh that sounded too much like a throat being slit.

Then a tiny cold hand folded itself in hers, around hers, holding her hand—or did _she_ hold it?—  as little fingers ghosted a path across her forehead as if to soothe her.  A girl, no more than eight, with pale features and huge eyes gleaming green in the dark, knelt by her side, holding her hand and stroking her hair.  The girl’s own hair was long, falling past her shoulders in a tumble of wide, springy curls; the ends of her hair tickled Amelle’s cheek, and though she tried to twitch away from it, she found she could not.  With the girl came the scent of something long-burnt, burnt like shriveled vines and waxy pods.

_I’m sorry about the peas, Papa._

Cold fingers caressed her brow.  _You’re all alone_ , she said.  _They’ve given you up for dead._

That little hand, those little fingers, gliding across her forehead, sending ripples of cold throughout Amelle until she shivered with it.

_You know they’ll never find you.  You’ll be dead before they do.  Better if you stay with me._

Icy lips kissed her cheek.

_Won’t that be fun?  Just the two of us.  We’ll play every day—there’ll be a garden with roses and we’ll have the grandest tea-parties and you’ll never have to be alone again.  We’ll always have each other.  I’ll never leave you.  I’ll never forget you.  Not like they have.  They’ve forgotten you already.  You’re lost._

_Unloved._

_Unmourned._

They came, one after another after another, over and over again, looming as they’d never done before, whispering more temptingly than she’d ever heard.  Promises.  So _many_ promises.

When Amelle tried to banish them, her lips only moved silently; when she tried to cover her ears, she found the chains at her wrists wouldn’t reach; when she tried to shut them out of her mind, she found her mental fortitude nonexistent.  They swirled through the darkness and danced before her eyes, promising sweet, tempting revenge upon those who would dare do this to her.  They promised her freedom, _power_.  They told her she was alone, she would always be alone — she would die here, alone and forgotten.

Amelle dared not sleep, for they came to her more frequently then, taking over her dreams and twisting them until she woke, exhausted, her face wet with tears and silent screams burning in her throat.

So despite the weakness she felt in her limbs, and despite the fog filling her mind, Amelle stayed awake, lying on her back in that tiny room, staring out into the darkness, the black space where the ceiling surely ought to have been.

Jessamine — Amelle knew now she was no healer; she _could not_ be a healer; no true healer would twist her abilities in such a heinous manner — came in frequently, though Amelle had no idea when or how often.  She only knew when Jessamine came to see her, it was going to hurt.

And hurt it did.

Her shoulder _burned._   Such an odd burn — not like her fire or her lightning.  It pulsed, burning ever hotter with every throb, and when Jessamine emptied a vial of _something_ into the wound, it throbbed harder and burned hotter than Amelle could have even begun to conceive; something stank, and it was impossible to tell if it was the poison or the wound itself.  Screaming brought no relief, because she could not scream, though she dearly wanted to.  She wanted to scream and curse and swear at this woman.  She wanted to utter words her father had taught her, the words that would bring a rain of fire upon this tiny room and the people who brought her here. 

 _Yes,_ Vengeance rasped in her ear, the sound filling her head.  _Do it.  Kill them all._

Time blurred and wove together, though Amelle couldn’t count the hours.  More than one day, she was sure.  But she could not count them, could not remember how often Jessamine came to see her, how many times she poured that foul fire into Amelle’s body.

She wondered where her sister was.  Wondered if this woman had killed Kiara, if _that_ was why no one had found her yet. 

 _She’s forgotten you,_ the little girl told her solemnly.  _You’ve always only been an obligation.  She’s free now.  Aren’t you happy for her?  She’s free of you.  You can’t go back to her now, not when she’s so happy…_

They crooned to her, cajoled her, whispered poisonous words in her sister’s voice, her mother’s voice, her _father’s_ voice, and though it made Amelle _angry —_ oh, how desperately she _wanted_ to be angry, to feel the fire’s hot rush as it crackled forth from her palms — she found she could only curl on her side and weep silently.  

Jessamine opened the door and came in, gripping Amelle by her wounded, throbbing shoulder and turned her.  Amelle cried out, a harsh, guttural whisper, and the woman only smiled, patting Amelle’s head as if she were a naughty child.

“It’s nearly over.”

The shackles fell with a dull clank and Amelle felt her wrists pulled brutally together, rough rope binding the raw, reddened skin.  She was lifted up, carried out, and tossed heavily in a cart, then covered with something heavy that smelled rotten and made Amelle’s face itch.

Whenever— _however—_ it ended, it would not end well.  Amelle wanted to care, she knew she _needed_ to care — to _fight_ — but she was _tired._   Her only hope was that whatever became of her, Fenris would not see it.

 _Fenris_.

The cart jostled along, Amelle’s head bumping heavily with every jolt; her eyes prickled until they stung, water blinding her until she blinked.

_“Once we’ve got Kiara back, I think… perhaps we ought to—there are… there are things we maybe ought to—to discuss?”_

_“…Perhaps you are right.”_

She’d never get the chance now.  Not that there was a great deal she _could_ tell him at the moment—and the absurdity of the thought made a peal of mad laughter bubble up in her throat, only to come out a ragged exhale.  Nothing like laughter at all.

_Come to me, my dear little mageling, and you may say whatever you wish to him, and he will reply however you wish.  Just come to me and all will be well._

The cart stopped and the burlap pulled back as she was hoisted up and out of the cart.  The sun was bright — painfully so, after so many days in darkness, and she closed her eyes, trying to turn her head away from so much _light._ It burned, burning bright red behind her closed lids.  Red like fire.

_They burn mages here._

_I’m a mage._

Her legs didn’t want to cooperate as she felt herself carried up and up and up, the toes of her boots dragging and scuffing across the platform.  But it was so hard to stand.  She was held in place even as lengths of coarse rope lashed her flagging, limp body to the stake.  The sun was still so bright; she turned her head away from it, and realized, distantly, that it would soon get brighter.  

_A trap. All of it.  You led her to you, brought yourself to her.  Like a lamb to slaughter._

_Not a lamb. A rabbit._

_‘M not a rabbit, Papa._

_Rabbit…_

When Amelle could lift her head, she saw _people._   Angry people.  There was shouting — so much shouting — until the shouting turned into a wordless, mindless roar.  Something pelted her shoulder and when she blinked down she saw a dented, rotten apple roll across the planks.  Another came.  Then another.

Amelle reached again for her mana, to direct it somewhere — to heal the festering wound that now made her entire right side ache and throb with the heat of infection, to burn and fray the ropes holding her, to do _something_ instead of standing here, waiting to die as overripe fruit thudded messily against her body.  But there was nothing inside of her.  Her entire life that force had been normally like an ever-running current, pulsing with power and energy, but the current was still.  Dead.  Dark.

_Rabbit.  Rabbit, listen to me.  Spirit healer, you must listen._

Friend or foe?  Spirit or demon?

 _Do not give in, Rabbit.  You must not lose hope.  You must not lose_ yourself. _It is a fate worse than death; you told the templar yourself.  He remembers that.  He is your friend; he has not forgotten you._

Friend, then?  Or another demon sounding too like Compassion’s voice?

She screwed her eyes shut and tried — tried so _hard_ — to listen for Compassion, then she tried to latch onto the Chant of Light.  There were words, and she knew them, but the words weren’t coming, wouldn’t form in her mind — everything in her head felt too slippery and the words slid away from her like soft, loose sand.  Maker help her, she couldn’t even _pray._

_I’m sorry, Kiri.  I tried to be good.  I tried to be better._

_Open your eyes, rabbit.  Spirit healer, open your eyes._

_I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry._

#

_The bitch has my sister._

Kiara could scarcely think of anything else. A year might have passed, or a day, or an hour and she’d have been hard pressed to explain what she’d been doing since the moment she put two and two together and came up with the worst four imaginable. _The bitch has my sister._

When Sebastian appeared at her doorway, looking haggard and drawn and vengeful all at once, she felt the world drop out from beneath her. She’d seen that look before. _No, what happened to my_ family _was murder!_ “No,” she said, unable to catch her breath, her heart breaking. “No.”

“We have reason to believe Amelle is still alive,” Sebastian said, and she could breathe again.

Kiara was wearing her armor, though she didn’t remember putting it on. Her bow was near the door, next to a full quiver of arrows. And though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to remember, she couldn’t stop thinking of the way the light went out in her mother’s eyes, the way the patched-together creature that had once been Leandra had said _you’ve always made me so proud._

She’d still come too late, though. _You know me. I always save the day._ Pride meant nothing when you came too late.

_Don’t think. Don’t think, just do._

For days she’d been shouting at everyone and everything with the temerity to enter her space, to ask her questions, to offer condolences, but now, standing in her room, thinking about her mother, her sister, Kiara found she had no words at all. She slung her bow over her back. She strapped on the quiver of arrows. And then she followed Sebastian and Cullen into the hall.

_The bitch has my sister._

Kiara heard the crowd even before they turned the corner and saw them. They sounded angry, of course. They were loud. She couldn’t make out words, voices, but she knew the tenor of their cries. _Will Sebastian have to put an arrow through this victim’s throat?_ she wondered. Then she choked the thought away, denying it, smothering it. _Will the fire take her, or the smoke? Will she burn, or suffocate?_

Beside her, Fenris glowed. It was that glow on her peripheral vision she saw move first. Before she could think to reach out a hand to stop him, before she could open her lips to utter a cry—of warning? of despair? of relief?—he was gone, barreling through the crowd. Glowing. Something so dangerous had no right looking so pretty.

_I never knew he was so fast._

He was gone before she could so much as call his name.

_#_

Lyrium was Fenris’ constant companion, buzzing along and beneath his skin, sharpening his focus and protecting him, making him faster, more resilient.  For all he despised the markings, he could not deny how much he depended on them now.

The moment he saw Amelle — pale and insensible, blood soaking her sleeve, ropes cutting into her flesh as they held her fast to the thick post — rage and fear, such a nauseating combination, struck him hard, twisting in his gut.  The former made his brands glow bright while the latter pushed him forward, moving so swiftly through the crowd that they were little more than a grey-brown blur in the corner of his eye.  He heard someone cry out behind him.

He did not stop. He could not stop.

#

“No!” someone shouted, just behind Kiara, as Fenris ran. Behind and to the left. Cullen. Beside her, Sebastian’s bow was drawn, and the white fletching of an arrow was pulled close to his ear. The crowd shouted. A woman screamed. _Amelle_ , she thought. But no, the scream was not her sister’s. It was hers.  Amelle — bloody, pale Amelle — appeared barely aware of her surroundings; her head lolled limply, as if it took too much effort to hold it up.  Jessamine stood beside her, shouting to the crowd; Kiara could not hear the words, not over the din, but she knew the speech by this point.  She’d seen tableaus like this one unfold too many times since arriving in Starkhaven — Jessamine was crying out to them, condemning mages as a blight upon humanity.

And then she would set the kindling alight.

_No._

There was a familiar creak and click and Kiara knew Bianca was settled in Varric’s hands, awaiting only the lightest touch of his finger.

“Say the word, Choir Boy, and she’s toast.”

Sebastian shook his head. With a muttered curse he dropped the Starkhaven bow back to his side and rested a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Wait, Varric.”

“For _what?_ ”

“If Jessamine is executed now,” Cullen said quickly, his own hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his sword as if he _wished_ to draw it, but did not dare,“the crowd will call it murder and they _will_ turn on us.”

“I thought things were supposed to be _different_ once you got the crown, Princess,” Isabela muttered darkly.  “Listen, while Fenris is distracting this bitch, I can—”

But Fenris had reached the platform, his tattoos aglow in the morning light, and it was soon clear to Kiara a mere distraction was the furthest thing from the elf’s mind.  He leapt upward, bypassing the steps entirely, his path leading straight to Amelle.  He paid no attention to Jessamine, no attention to the crowd.  He reached out with one hand, as if to shred the ropes with one clawed gauntlet, when Jessamine, a knowing, catlike smile at her lips, stepped deftly in front of him.

 _What is she doing?_   And then came the darker thought:  _What does she know?_

Then Kiara saw Fenris’ body language _change,_ knew what he planned.  His lip curled in a snarl she was much too far away to hear as he drew one sharp, clawed gauntlet back and thrust forward—

 _He’s going to kill her_ , she realized, the thought surfacing too quickly, too _suddenly,_ leaving Kiara with a plunging, sick tightness in the pit of her stomach _._   _He’s going to kill her, and they’re all going to turn on us._

But Jessamine moved more quickly than Kiara would have expected from a woman her age. _She must have been quite the dancer in her day_ , came the incongruous, nauseating thought. There was a flutter of robes and a glint of silver, and as Fenris rushed forward, intent upon nothing beyond crushing Jessamine’s heart, the sharp, curved dagger was thrust neatly into his gut.

The crowd was suddenly silent.

#

With Jessamine before him, arms flung wide as she fed her ridiculous lies to the crowd, Fenris’ path was simple: recover Amelle, bring her to safety, and then end this woman for every moment of suffering she’d caused.

But then she was in front of him, as if she could _impede_ him, as if anything at all could possibly deter him from his path.  Perhaps he’d not planned to kill her _yet_ —and perhaps Hawke might have decided there would be mercy for her later—but the moment she slipped in front of him, _blocking_ him, this woman became little more than an obstacle, and he would deal with her as such.

Even the flash of sunlight upon her blade had not fazed him, for he had undergone worse than mere knife wounds in his years fighting by Hawke’s side.  The pulsing rush of lyrium as his markings glowed brighter and stronger throbbed in his ears like a heartbeat, nearly drowning out the sensation of the sharp, curved blade plunging unerringly into his body.

Nearly, but not quite.

The sharp sensation surprised him, not because she had wounded him, but because he _felt_ it.  In his surprise, his markings went suddenly dark.

Instantly, he knew something was very wrong.  Blood streamed thickly from the wound, but after the initial shock, Fenris felt nothing. He pressed one hand against the tear, but he neither felt the clawed tips of his gauntlet against his skin, nor did he feel the blood seeping stickily through the armor and slicking his hands.

As Fenris pulled himself off Jessamine’s blade, he saw the red of his blood spatter against the cool blue of her robes.  A healer’s robes.  Grimacing, he pressed his hand harder against the the wound, but did little to staunch the flow of blood. He barely felt the platform beneath his feet as he turned and staggered toward Amelle.  

If he was to die, there was still one thing left he could do.

#

“Do you see?” the woman cried, brandishing the blood-streaked blade, every word ringing in the sudden stillness.  “An agent of the so-called prince of Starkhaven would have me executed brutally before you!  Murdered! And for what?  For my audacity to expose to you his greatest secret!  His greatest _shame!_ The truth he has kept from you all!”

 _All we require is a little more time_ , Sebastian had told her, with grass in his hair and his lips swollen with kisses. “Time,” Kiara whispered. Beside her she felt Sebastian stiffen, and when she glanced up, his features had gone so unnaturally still she knew he was remembering the same thing. 

But before Jessamine could speak her secret, someone in the crowd screamed—not in rage this time, but in fear—and the sound reverberated oddly, and was echoed by others.

Swinging her head around again, Kiara squinted, shaking her head, unwilling to believe what her eyes told her she saw. Fenris had pulled himself off the bitch’s blade, but instead of going at her again with his clawed fist, he’d turned, one hand clamped tight over the wound and the other outstretched toward Amelle.  Her sister’s lips formed the elf’s name; it looked as if she were screaming, but no sound issued forth. Kiara almost imagined she could hear the blood dripping, but of course Fenris was too far away. She could see it, though. _Heal him, Mely._

Fenris stumbled as he took the first step, nearly falling to his knees; from a distance Kiara could _see_ the sheer force of will keeping him upright. Even Jessamine seemed momentarily taken aback. A second step followed the first, and then a third. Somewhere in the crowd a child was wailing.

#

As Fenris staggered toward her, Amelle’s wide eyes were bright with tears and her lips formed his name.  She pulled, struggled, _screamed_ , though no sound came, though tears coursed down her cheeks and tendons stood out on her neck.  

The sky above her was blue.  Bluer than even the healer’s robe.

Fenris took a breath and shook his head to clear it, feeling the lyrium struggle to wake beneath his skin. He stumbled, but still couldn’t feel the wood beneath his feet.  Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

And he was running out of time.  

No. 

No.

There had to be time.

Whether it took three steps or three hundred to cross the platform, Fenris didn’t know.  

After an eternity— _there has to be time_ —he finally reached Amelle’s side. Her lips still formed his name, over and over and over, and tears still streamed down her face… crying for _him,_ not herself. He wanted to reassure her, _had_ to reassure her, but there was no time.  Something was wrong.  Too wrong. Not right.

Lyrium fought magebane. Perhaps it might fight this Andraste’s Wrath as well.

It had to.

_Fight, Amelle._

He stumbled forward and landed hard against her, bracing himself upright though he couldn’t feel his legs anymore and could barely feel his hands.  That wasn’t good.  He needed his hands.  He needed to act.  Needed to speak. Not sure if he spoke them aloud at all, Fenris whispered the words of his heart.  He closed his eyes. Willed the despised lyrium that had helped him so many times before to aid him once again.  

He focused. 

Saw the light reflected in Amelle’s eyes as he thrust his hand into her chest and poured all he could into her.

_Live. Fight._

His knees gave out, but Fenris didn’t feel it.  

Above him, Amelle sagged against the ropes, her eyes closed.

Above him, above her, the sky was so blue. Bluer than the healer’s robes. Bluer than the dress Amelle had worn the night she gave him back his past and so much else went wrong. So very, very blue.

_Fight, Amelle. Heal._

_#_

Fenris’ hand touched Amelle’s shoulder, stopped, and began to glow. Kiara reached for an arrow, but before she could bring it to her bowstring, she felt arms clasp her from behind.

“Wait,” whispered Cullen urgently, tightening his arms around her. “It isn’t what you think. He’s trying—”

“He’ll kill her. _He’ll kill her!_ ” Kiara struggled, twisting and pulling, her breath coming fast and hard, but the templar’s grip was strong.

“No,” Cullen insisted, his voice as near frantic as she’d ever heard it. “Hawke, _listen_. If ever… if ever you’ve trusted me, trust me now. I know you’re frightened but _I promise you,_ he’s trying to _save_ her. Sebastian— _Sebastian,_ stop your guards from firing.”

Kiara dimly heard Sebastian issuing orders, and Elias echoing them in a tone that refused to be ignored or defied. Cullen didn’t release her, and she stared at the platform refusing to blink. Her eyes watered. The water ran down her cheeks.

In the glow of the white light, Amelle’s head flew back to hit the stake she was tied to, her mouth open wide in a silent scream. _There is a hand inside my little sister’s chest. There is a hand crushing my little sister’s heart._ For a moment, Fenris’ cheek touched Amelle’s, and Kiara thought she saw his lips move. Then the lyrium-glow died and Fenris fell. The sound of his armor hitting the wood was too loud, too heavy with the ring of finality. Once he’d landed he did not move again. Amelle’s chin fell back to her chest.

Kiara was glad of the templar’s presence then, glad even of his bruising grip, because without it she was certain she would have fallen. Like Fenris. Like Amelle.

Jessamine turned back to the crowd, and if she was still taken aback she hid it well. “And so the Maker strikes down those who would stand against Him,” she said fervently. “In fire and lightning He strikes down the unbelievers, the wicked, the black. And those who would do His work and spread His truth are left standing.”

“Tell that to Elthina, you lying bitch,” Varric growled under his breath. “Tell that to the chantry at Kirkwall.”

Kiara stared at her sister, at Fenris, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of them.  Fenris remained still as death on the platform, and the blood dripping between the wooden planks upon which he rested started to form a small puddle on the stones beneath.

_Move, Mely.  Move.  Please move._

“You said he was saving her, templar,” Varric said.  “Care to expand on that?”

Cullen’s grip loosened, but when Kiara’s knees began to buckle, he caught her up again.  She did not look away from her sister, sending prayer after prayer up to the Maker, promising Him anything in her power if her sister would only _move._

“A vast number of things transpired in Kirkwall during your absence.  And there is too much to tell of it even now.  But I have seen Fenris do this before—”

“Aye, as have we,” Sebastian growled, his voice thick with betrayal.

“ _No._   He—at the time, Amelle was weak, her mana all but depleted,” explained Cullen quickly, his words coming in an almost feverish rush.  “Then, he’d — he’d at least time enough to remove his gauntlets.  I cannot say what he did, but whatever the true scope of his abilities _are,_ he used them to help Amelle in Kirkwall and I believe he has done the same now.  If I am right, Amelle now needs only time.”

 _Time. All we require is a little more time._ Kiara’s eyes settled on Fenris.  He wasn’t moving — wasn’t even twitching.  Almost as if…

Isabela’s voice came from her right; she was watching from behind a pillar, hidden in its shadow.  “I’ve seen Fenris get hurt before.  Wounds worse than some piddly little letter-opener of a dagger,” she muttered, sounding every bit as confused and troubled as Kiara felt.  “He went down too fast.”  The pirate queen scowled suddenly.  “What was on that blade?  That’s what _I’d_ like to—”

The pounding of Kiara’s heart, the tattoo that had thundered through her veins until she felt every single beat stopped and she sucked in a sudden gasp.  Sebastian swore vividly beside her.  

“Maker’s Light,” she breathed, now unable to tear her eyes away from Fenris. He must have realized something was wrong instantly — Kiara only barely remembered the moments after her own poisoning. Blue. Everything had gone blue.

Time was indeed of the essence; Amelle needed more, but Fenris had only an hour.  Kiara’s mind, which had felt sluggish with shock and terror, began to work, pushing through uncertainty and fear.  They weren’t too late.  They still had time.  Whether they had _enough_ remained to be seen.

“Get yourselves into position,” she whispered.  “Get ready.  _Be_ ready for anything.  If that bitch is carrying around poisoned blades—”

“She knows we’re coming for her,” Isabela supplied.  Kiara nodded.

“Isabela, Cullen, try to hide yourselves in the crowd.  If the mob looks as if it’s going to turn against us, try to forestall that.”

“Turn the tide of a bloodthirsty mob?” Isabela drawled, arching a dark eyebrow at her.  “That runs rather counter to my usual skills, you realize.”

“Use your imagination,” pressed Kiara.  “But try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

“I do love a challenge.”  She turned and shot a wink at Cullen.  “Let’s get moving, Handsome.”

Cullen pulled his arms away from Kiara, but her legs were steady now, her mind made up.  He shot her a look that said, _I hope you know what you’re doing,_ and with a brisk nod, he joined Isabela, who had already melted into the crowd with ease and stealth that never failed to amaze her.

“Varric,” Kiara began, but the dwarf only slung Bianca on his back and nodded.

“I got it, Hawke.  Get high up, keep her in my sights and have my big bag of dirty tricks open and ready.”

“And wait for my signal.”

A ghost of a smile—the first in two days—curved at Varric’s mouth.  “Let me guess: I’ll know it when I see it.  We’ve been working together too long, Hawke.  I think the mystery’s gone.”

“Maker forbid,” Kiara murmured as Varric vanished up a stairwell.  “Sebastian,” she began, and when she turned to face him she saw nothing less than complete comprehension in his eyes, and felt a sudden, fierce swell of emotion.  “You already know what to do, don’t you?”  

He nodded once.  “Like Varric, I suspect we’ve been working together too long.”

“No such thing,” she said with a brisk shake of her head.  Kiara glanced again at the platform, but nothing had changed, and Jessamine still rallied the crowd before her.  “Above all else, see if any of your archers have the antidote or know where any is hidden.  If Jessamine’s out to end us, I doubt she’ll be so accommodating.”

“And you?” he asked, though his eyes revealed all — the look he was giving her was too knowing.

Kiara straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, shooting him a sharp, determined smile.  “I’m going to buy us some time.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

The voice was familiar, but the words it uttered were so unaccountably _odd_ , so wrong Kiara stopped before she’d taken more than a couple of steps. She turned, looking for the source and found Maisie, her dagger held to Kinnon’s throat. Kinnon’s eyes were wide and when they met Kiara’s he gave his head a tiny shake. Even that slight motion was enough to draw blood.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elias snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. Several of the guard flinched. “Stand down, Ser Maisie.”

Maisie didn’t flinch. “Forgive me, Captain. I cannot.”

“It’s an _order_ , soldier!”

The pretty knight shook her head. “I have my orders, Captain. I’m afraid they supersede yours.”

“Maisie, don’t,” Kinnon pleaded, heedless of the way his words brought more blood to his throat. “It’s not too late. Put down your weapons. They’ll be merciful. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, Kin,” she replied, her tone fond and sad and completely unyielding. “I’m sorry, but I do.”

Before he could so much as yelp, Maisie whipped her blade away from his throat and brought the pommel of her dagger down hard. Kinnon went down with a groan and a clatter. 

“Why?” Sebastian asked.

“We have had too many bad princes,” Maisie replied. “Someone must put an end to the madness.”

Incredulous, Sebastian shook his head. “You think that someone is going to be Jessamine?”

“She understands what it’s like for us,” Maisie insisted, tilting her chin defiantly.

 _Strength in a woman is… rarer here, I think._ Kiara remembered Jessamine telling her once. _Considered less a charm and more a defect._

“We don’t have time for this,” Kiara said softly. “Maisie, even you must see you’re hopelessly outnumbered. Don’t make Elias kill you. Surrender.”

Maisie turned her sad smile on Kiara. “No, my lady. You are the one hopelessly outnumbered. For every person you sent into the crowd just now, we have half a dozen. I am afraid you are the one who must surrender.”

_I can work with this._

Sebastian was standing directly behind her. She felt him touch the small of her back lightly, and she gave a brief, decisive nod. “Very we—”

Her consent was interrupted by Garreth Grayden—sweet, brave, _stupid_ Garreth. She hadn’t even realized he was part of the crowd. _He’s a lord. Of course he came._

_He’s your friend, Kiara. Of course he came._

The young lord’s sword wavered in his hand as he faced the blonde knight. “You will not speak such treason,” the lad declared, his voice breaking on the final syllable.

“Garreth,” Kiara warned. “Now is not the—”

Garreth’s cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were frightened. _Was I ever so young?_ “She impugns your honor, my lady, and the honor of the rightful prince of Starkhaven.”

“Honor is the least of my worries just now.”

But Garreth—sweet, brave, stupid, _quixotic_ Garreth—raised his blade. Maisie parried the first thrust easily. Garreth was a passable swordsman for his age, but only just. He was a better archer. _He’s a child._ Maisie danced aside, turning Garreth’s blade away. The boy left any number of openings, but Maisie did not take them. _She doesn’t want to kill him._

“Lord Grayden,” Sebastian ground out. “Enough.”

Garreth feinted and cut at Maisie. Elias stepped in then, drawing his own blade. _But you’re an archer_ , Kiara thought. _This is not your battle._

For the second time a blade’s pommel was brought down hard. This time young Garreth Grayden fell to the stones. Elias’ lips moved in a silent prayer and then he took a dueling position. Maisie stumbled backward and shook her head.

“Captain, I don’t want to—”

“The boy may be young and idealistic, but he had the right of it. You are a traitor. What you have done is treason. Die with a sword in your hand or die with a noose ‘round your neck. We will have this out, Maisie. You and I. Maker forgive you.”

 _But he’s an archer. And she’s a swordswoman._ Kiara swallowed hard. “We don’t have time for this,” she repeated fervently.

But it hardly took any time at all. Elias gave no quarter and Maisie did not dance and feint and parry away from his attacks as she’d done with sweet, brave, foolish young Garreth Grayden. When the Captain left an opening she took it, and Elias fell to the stones with a blade in his belly.

Kiara’s stomach twisted. She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes but she fought them down. Tears would not serve the role she was about to play. _Elias, forgive me. Maker, forgive me._

“Take me to your lady, Maisie,” Kiara said, heart heavy. “I believe the time has come for the truth to out.”


	76. Chapter 76

It wasn’t a great distance to the platform to begin with, but every step Kiara took brought her closer to Jessamine far too quickly.  She had a plan, or something like one, but it was _mad._   Whether it was mad enough to work, she still wasn’t sure.

But, by the Void, she was going to _try._

Jessamine, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not notice Kiara’s approach at first.  She was entranced by the power of the crowd hanging on her every word, hungering for fire and death and all that Jessamine had within her power to provide.  They were two entities, feeding off each other.  It left Kiara feeling vaguely nauseated, but she shoved that down and kept walking, her head held high.

Jessamine’s cheeks were flushed with exhilaration, but power and perhaps madness had contorted her features into something sharper and crueler than any expression Kiara remembered the woman wearing before.  Something uglier.  She felt as if she were laying eyes on Jessamine for the very first time.  Perhaps she was.

“Do you not wonder of the woman so _constantly_ found at our prince’s side?” the woman shouted out over the mob.  “A foreigner twice over, she pours poison in his ear, and he is weak to resist her charms.  He indulges her every whim, an artfully controlled puppet — but who _is_ the so-called _Champion_ of Kirkwall?  A Fereldan refugee who slithered and slunk up the rungs of power like a snake, crushing the city within her coils until it fell!  And fall it did!”

The crowd roared.  From the corner of Kiara’s eye, she saw a flash of blue — Isabela’s headscarf.  Cullen was nearby, too, she had no doubt.  She could feel Varric’s eyes following her every step as she made her way to the platform.  Their presence alone bolstered her and she hoped as she’d never hoped before they would trust she hadn’t lost her mind entirely. She didn’t dare risk looking back at Sebastian.

“Like a serpent, she moved silently through Kirkwall, hissing lies to all who would listen, until she had gained their trust.  This Hawke would have us believe she wishes to be one of us, but she is merely planting the seeds of our own destruction! Starkhaven, heed me: though they have hidden it from you, though they have lied and dissembled, I know the truth: Prince Sebastian intends to _wed_ the foreign puppetmaster. He would put your city in her hands!”

Cold fear seized Kiara, and she forced herself to take another step. And another. Whatever the crowd was screaming, it wasn’t joyous.

_They will never have me now. They will never trust me now._

_But perhaps I can still save them from this._

Jessamine crowed her wordless triumph, and then flung one arm out, pointing at the bound Amelle, who remained still against the stake.  Kiara wondered for a moment if Fenris had already been too far under the influence of Maker’s Light, and misjudged when he’d plunged his hand into Amelle’s chest.  Was she… was this all for naught?  She shook her head, and kept walking. No—she could not entertain doubts; to do so now would ruin everything before it even began.

“But that deception is not even the worst of the crimes your prince and his intended have committed against you, Starkhaven. There is a deeper secret, a more dangerous lie of omission. I present you with the _shame_ they would bring on Starkhaven! The sister of the Champion of Kirkwall is _an apostate mage!_ ”  The crowd erupted, boos and hisses filling the air and echoing back down upon them until the noise seemed to fill Kiara’s head, her ears ringing with it.  

Throughout all, Amelle remained motionless, sagging against the ropes that held her, her chin still resting against her chest, showing no sign whatsoever of consciousness.  It wasn’t until Kiara was finally standing upon the platform she saw the barest hint of color upon her sister’s cheeks.  That was all she needed.  

The moment Kiara set foot on the platform, the crowd hushed with an almost eerie speed.

_I can do this.  It’s still mad, but I can do this._

Jessamine paused for breath and Kiara stepped forward, clapping lazily.

“Oh, well said.  Very eloquent.  Somewhat off the mark, of course, but nobody’s perfect.”

“Ah, you’ve deigned to join us.”  Jessamine, playing to the crowd now more than ever, added smugly, “It is said one must only speak of a demon and wait for it to appear.”

Kiara snorted indelicately and laughed, shaking her head.  “I fear you’re sadly misinformed, Mistress Jessamine.”

“Do you mean to say this is not your sister?  If so, I call you false, for I spoke with her myself — she came to Starkhaven _looking_ for you.”

“Oh, that’s my sister, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”  She strode over to the stake and, heart pounding, placed two fingers beneath Amelle’s chin and lifted.  Amelle remained limp, but Kiara’s heart leapt as she felt the warmth of her sister’s skin.  Not dead.  Not yet.  “We have the same nose.  But as you say, _she_ came looking for _me._   Not the other way ‘round.  As you’re no doubt aware, one must be left behind before one can attempt such a venture, no matter how foolish.”  She pulled her hand away with what she hoped was the air of cruelty, letting Amelle’s head loll forward again.

Turning her back on Amelle, Kiara faced Jessamine. Her heart was pounding, but she felt her lips smirking. _Believe me._ Jutting her hip, Kiara raised an eyebrow. _Not too much. Don’t overplay it._ “ _Mages_ ,” Kiara spat, imbuing the word with all the potent vitriol she could manage. “I am sick to bloody death of _mages_. _Give me freedom_ , they whine. Then, when you do? It’s all blood magic and abominations and buildings blowing up.” Kiara brushed her hands down the front of her armor and then flicked them lightly, as though ridding them of filth. “Do you have the slightest idea how hard it is to get _abomination_ out of your clothes? I’ve spent a small fortune keeping myself in clean tunics.”

The crowd had silenced when she began speaking, and now she heard someone laugh. It was a brief sound, but it made Jessamine glare, and that was enough. Kiara thought it was probably Varric, but more picked up the mirth.

 _Believe me_ , she pleaded. _Believe me._

#

Cullen didn’t try to follow Isabela’s movements through the crowd; she was too quick for him. Instead he watched the flash of blue that marked her headscarf. He stopped abruptly when he heard the clash of swords behind him.

As suddenly as she’d disappeared, the pirate was at his side again. “No,” she said quietly. “You can’t change what’s happening, but we can be a step ahead.”

“What _is_ happening?” Cullen asked, trying to peer through the crowd and having little luck.

“Andraste’s ass, make it a little more obvious, why don’t you? Half of Sebastian’s guard has turned against him, led by the blonde knight. Daisy? Lazy?”

“Maisie?” Cullen asked. “But… she was one of Hawke’s guards. She was always—”

“Hold that thought, Handsome. Now turn it over.”

Cullen frowned, but her meaning hit him a moment later.

“There you go. Yes, whatever Hawke has planned, that girl can ruin it. She’s been following Hawke and Sebastian around since day one, and we have to assume she’s been listening carefully. Guards and servants… the highborn always seem to forget they’ve got ears that hear just as well. We need to silence her before she ruins everything.”

“You don’t mean—”

Isabela grimaced. “Templars she gives me. Spare me the sermon and I’ll try not to kill the girl. Unless she asks for it. Deal?”

Cullen felt vaguely unclean as he nodded, but he nodded all the same. Isabela arched an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some spooky templar superpower that’ll knock the girl out?”

“Not unless she’s a mage. And not with any measure of subtlety.”

“Figures,” Isabela said with a disappointed roll of her eyes. “Fine. Plan B. As I’ve said before, Handsome, _you’re tall._   You’re also big and solid.  So put yourself in her path, and I’ll do the rest. As _usual._ ”

He did as she asked. Maisie was following Kiara through the crowd and it took very little effort at all to push his way in front of her and simply _stop_. “Move aside, serah,” the young woman commanded the back of his head. “Serah, _move aside_ before my blade moves you.”

He was standing so close he felt Maisie go suddenly still. The crowd was loud, but still he heard Isabela whisper, “Now, now, Goldie. I think it best you hold your tongue. One wrong move and Backstabber here lives up to its name. Only it’ll be the kidney it finds. You ever seen a death like that? Kidney is a terrible way to go. Sorry, is he tickling you? Inconsiderate fellow. Now listen closely. My friend there’s going to stand in front of you and you’re going to stay so still and so quiet no one knows you’re there.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” the knight said, spitting defiance. “There are others who—”

“Goldie,” Isabela warned, voice so terrifyingly smooth it almost made Cullen shiver, “is there some part of _quiet_ you don’t understand?”

Maisie didn’t answer.

“Good girl. Now let’s watch the show, shall we?”

Cullen was tall enough he could see over most of the crowd. Hawke’s sartorial jape made a few people laugh, but Cullen wasn’t one of them. _What is she planning? What is she_ _doing?_

 _Getting you all killed,_ whispered an unpleasant little voice in the back of his skull.

In the silence left after the ripple of laughter ended, Cullen heard Sebastian’s voice. “Ready archers,” he called. “On my mark.”

“I’d rethink that,” Jessamine called back. Cullen couldn’t see her smirk, but her voice was thick with it. He imagined it looked a good deal like Morven’s twisted sneer. “You’re not the only one with archers, Your Highness. And mine walk in the light of the Maker. His blessing is upon their arrows. He would not see His faithful struck down.”

_Poison. More poison._

Behind him, Isabela swore creatively. Maisie remained silent.

_For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

He hoped the bloody Chant had the right of it.

#

She noticed some kind of commotion in the crowd—near Sebastian, but not affecting him. Kiara looked away, but where she’d placed her attention had not escaped Jessamine. _Distract her. Misdirection. Look over here while I use my other hand to pull the cheating card from my sleeve._ Without looking down, Kiara nudged Fenris’ body with her toe. He’d gone completely rigid. _Time. All we require is a little more time._

“Shall we discuss the points upon which you are mistaken?” Kiara asked lightly. Jessamine narrowed her eyes. “Unfortunately one lies at our feet here. This elf isn’t a Vael dog, he’s a Hawke dog. And he was acting under my orders, not the prince’s.”

_Forgive me, Fenris._

“Much the same thing,” Jessamine shot back. “You would both see me murdered.”

Kiara sighed, long-suffering. “Wrong again, I’m afraid. Fenris is a good soldier, as long as you point him at the right target. His last master was a Tevinter magister who treated him ill. Drove him a little mad, if it’s truth we’re dealing with here. I always have to keep him leashed around mages or… well, you saw what he did.”

“He was coming for me,” Jessamine growled.

“It was the mage whose heart he aimed for,” Kiara contradicted. “He would have ended this before it could begin, and without a messy pyre to clean up afterward, but you stopped him too soon.” She jerked her chin at Amelle. “She’s broken, but he didn’t have time to finish what he’d begun. You and I are not so very different, Jessamine. We are strong women. Clever women. More than that? We are _survivors_ , aren’t we?” Kiara turned in a slow circle, hands outstretched. “There is an Exalted March on the horizon and we survivors would rather find ourselves on the winning side, wouldn’t we?”

Kiara thought she saw Amelle twitch. She _hoped_ she saw Amelle twitch. She prayed it was not her eyes playing tricks. Then Kiara kicked Fenris again— _forgive me_ —and said, “You’ve cost me a good dog. Though, if I am not mistaken, there is still time to revive him. He’s a valuable weapon, of more use to me—and you—alive.”

Jessamine regarded her steadily. _Believe me._ Then she reached into her robes and withdrew a tiny vial of golden liquid. “If I am not mistaken, there is rather a shortage of Maker’s Light antidote in Starkhaven just now,” Jessamine said lightly, almost teasingly. “Some healer with clumsy hands bungled the last batch and then knocked a candle onto the recipe. Foolish girl. This vial’s good, though.” Very calmly, without once taking her gaze from Kiara’s, Jessamine reached out, extending the vial.

And then she dropped it. The bottle shattered, spilling its golden hope in a useless puddle.

“Clumsy hands,” Jessamine said. “They’ll be the doom of us all.”

“Your loss,” Kiara replied, rolling her shoulders in a shrug she hoped looked indolent and unconcerned. _Oh, Fenris. I’m sorry._ “But dogs are easy enough to come by.”

“So they are,” Jessamine replied, narrowing her eyes skeptically.  Kiara kept her expression cold and haughty as twin flashes of memory and inspiration entwined and sprung almost fully-formed into her mind.

_“It was a game we played as children. Exalted March. We thought it sounded terribly romantic and epic and exciting. I'm afraid we were... rather ignorant of the greater implications. Our parents were horrified when they discovered it.”_

_Fenris’ voice, higher-pitched and strangled: “You played a game... called Exalted March?”_

_“We were bored, creative little monsters, yes. Oh, don't give me that look. Carver and I didn't slaughter her every time. Sometimes she even managed to convince us of the error of our ways. And now she’s managed to convince me I can’t even be mad anymore. Not properly.”_

In her mind’s eye she saw Amelle, so very many years younger, her hair still long enough to fall into curls that bounced upon her shoulders, her tiny body writhing almost comically on the ground, kicking her feet and flailing about as she coughed dramatically.

_“You rotten templar,” Mely hacked, seized by another round of convulsions.  “You got me.  You… got… me…  I’m dying.  Dying!  Dy…ing…  Everything’s getting dark… darker… darkerrrrr…”_

_Kiara watched, dispassionately.  It was possibly the longest death scene Mely had attempted yet.  “Carver,” she sighed, “the Divine Kiara orders you to kill the maleficar_ quickly. _”_

_“Cut off her head?” he asked._

_“Cut off her head,” she answered._

_Mely’s eyes went suddenly wide, then closed as she lay perfectly still on the ground.  “I’m dead!  I’m dead already!”_

“You claim to be on the side of the Maker, Champion _,_ but we have heard the rumors from Kirkwall.  We have heard you fought on the side of the mages.  We have heard you opposed Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander.”

Kiara snorted and gave the woman a pitying look.  “Jessamine, I would have thought you above believing mere rumors.  Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander was compromised.  I witnessed with my very eyes as the woman imbued statues of stone and bronze with life and set them upon her own templars. If that’s not dark magic, I don’t know what is. Of course I opposed that.”  There was a gasp from the crowd.  Kiara suspected it was Isabela, but the source didn’t truly matter.  “Really,” she drawled, “all of this _secrecy_ and _suspicion_ do no credit to either of us.”

“And what of the letter you wrote your sister upon waking?”

“The letter that recommended she remain in Kirkwall?”

Nodding, Jessamine added, “The letter that assured your supposedly despised sister you were in good health and that she _must_ remain in Kirkwall.”

Kiara smiled coolly.  “Since you clearly read the letter, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to remind me what the post-script was.”  She tapped her temple.  “Old age, you know.”

“You assured her you would send for her when it was safe.”

Spreading her hands as if that explained all, Kiara said, “And I left her in the company of Kirkwall’s acting Knight-Commander and one very effective mage-hating dog.  I’m sure you’re familiar with the old saying? The one about not cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face?  My timid little rabbit was serving her purpose well until you startled her and sent her running from her burrow. Everything would have worked out neatly if you’d not intervened.”  Her smile grew colder at Jessamine’s shock.  “I was biding my time, Jessamine.  I’d planned to send for her later.  When I could assure her the sort of welcome she deserved.”  She cast a glance at Amelle, who, yes, had more color in her cheeks now.  She still remained limp, however, and Kiara bit back a hysterical giggle — _Of all time times for Amelle to learn how to play dead—or at least unconscious—properly…_

Kiara turned again to pace the length of the platform when she saw it — the wound at Amelle’s shoulder, which had been a bloody, gaping hole, was now very nearly shut.  The blood remained upon her skin, of course, but the wound… the wound was _healing._   Kiara’s eyes darted to Amelle’s hands, still bound behind the stake.  They had been rubbed raw to bleeding, but now only the faintest red lines remained.

 _Just a little more time, then._  

Jessamine strolled closer, still appearing to wear the veneer of skepticism, but now with a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes.  Kiara kept her expression bland, almost bored.

“Your sister’s letter from Kirkwall was hastily scrawled, you know.  Written as if by one in a hurry to get to her sister’s side.”

Kiara lifted both eyebrows and crossed her arms over her chest.  “Really,” she drawled.  “Little rabbit’s reply to me outright ignored clear instruction?”

Jessamine turned an angry pink, and said, “Surely you understand I only acted in Starkhaven’s best interests.”

Kiara rejoiced a little at the obvious discomposure, but she maintained her aloof facade. “Well.  At least you have noble intentions when you read someone else’s mail.”  A few other voices in the crowd laughed — she was certain Varric was among them this time — and with that dry remark, she felt the crowd’s attention begin to shift.  Once again, Kiara began to pace the platform, hands linked lazily behind her back, every step as leisurely as if she were taking a garden stroll.  “Clearly tired of the ineptitude of ill-qualified princes, you decided to take matters into your own hands and discredit the final remaining Vael… preemptively, shall we say?”  She tried to sound as if she approved, and though a shadow of confusion flickered over Jessamine’s face, she nodded.

“They have no idea what it _takes_ to rule.”

“Indeed.  But we wander from the point.  You decided Sebastian’s shame should be heaped upon his shoulders in the form of one whiny, timid, _pathetic_ little mage, good for little more than patching up common-garden injuries?”

“I had heard Sebastian Vael had been near death!”

Kiara clucked her tongue at Jessamine, shaking her head.  “And what have we learned about rumors today, Jessamine?  Honestly.”  On the final syllable, Kiara turned on her heel and began striding in Amelle’s direction again, when she saw, quite clearly, that her sister was holding out five fingers.  Then, very slowly and deliberately, Amelle’s thumb folded in, leaving four.

 _She’s almost ready._   Kiara’s heart thudded hard, once, and she felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline as she turned to face the crowd.

“I can’t help but feel as if Mistress Jessamine has wasted your time here today, friends.  You came out for flames and violence and discovered a woman who put too much faith in rumor.”

“You _deny_ then you were secretly engaged to Prince Sebastian?”

“I deny my personal life is any of your business,” Kiara retorted. “I am what I am, Jessamine. Just as you are what you are. Survivors. And to survivors? The ends always justify the means. And I have a good forehead for a crown, don’t you think? What is it to you if Sebastian thought so?”

_They will never trust me now._

Crossing her arms again, Kiara rocked back on her heels as if deep in thought, then turned back to Amelle — three fingers, now — as if indulging an afterthought.  “I do believe I’ve spotted a flaw in your plan, however. You see, it’s to do with mages being _burned._ ”

“I think you’re contradicting yourself, Champion,” sniffed Jessamine, with an air of superior condescension that would have normally made Kiara grit her teeth.  Instead, she only smiled wider, fixing the crowd below — many of whom were watching _her_ , Jessamine forgotten — with a conspiratorial wink.

“I think you’ll find I’m not, Mistress Jessamine.  Believe it or not, when I started offering _money_ for mages, _I_ was only acting in Starkhaven’s best interests.” Jessamine grimaced to hear her own words thrown back at her, but Kiara didn’t allow the moment of triumph to register. “I see you’re confused. Allow me to clarify: you see, one of the first ways in which my sister’s magic manifested itself was fire.  Many mages have control over the elements.  As such—” Here she gestured widely at Amelle’s body and saw all fingers had been drawn in, “—no true mage can die by fire.”

A woman shouted, “But my brother was burned a mage! Burned to ashes, he was, and you’re telling me it was for _nothing_? You’re telling me he was burned for a lie? Maker, no! Noooo!”

Kiara made a mental note to have a conversation with Isabela later about _melodrama._ Also, about _believable accents._

The crowd, however, seemed not to have noticed.

“It was no lie,” Jessamine called out. “It was no lie when those other heathen maleficarum died.”

“Prove it!” shouted Isabela.

“Prove it!” echoed the crowd.

Jessamine’s eyes brightened and the smile she turned on Kiara was a cruel one. It seemed to say _I know something you don’t know._ “Shall we put your theory to the test, then, Champion of Kirkwall? By your own admission this woman is your sister, correct?”

“Yes,” Kiara said. “Same nose. We’ve covered that territory.”

“And you swear she is a mage?”

“No question about it. The little rabbit’s glowy blue magic hands have healed more broken-winged birds and sick babies than you’d ever care to see in your life. Creepy, you know, seeing broken things mended before your eyes.”

 _I know something_ you _don’t know, Jessamine._

Jessamine did not pause, but the crowd began to murmur. And not in any way that sounded _supportive_. Jessamine’s grin widened, and she did nothing to hide the exultation when she shouted, “Let the Maker’s justice prevail! The Maker’s power is greater than a mere mage’s. He has incapacitated her so she cannot defile His world with her impure powers! Let us see Him control the fire and burn this witch to ash, just as he did with the others! When she burns as the others did, you will have your proof. Even a mage who knows the elements cannot defy the Maker’s will.”

Jessamine reached for one of the torches at the corner of the platform and thrust it into the kindling at Amelle’s feet.

The dry wood sputtered and smoked, but did not take. Jessamine urged the torch deeper into the pyre. “Maker! Maker, heed your humble servant! Let your fire speak!”

For an instant Kiara heard Meredith’s voice echoing in her head.

Then the fire came. But it was not the kindling that caught. In an instant, Amelle’s restraints flashed into flame and fell. The burning torch guttered in a whoosh of icy air and Jessamine stumbled back, skittering along the ground.

In a voice raspy and hoarse from disuse, Amelle said, “Oh, I think the Maker’s spoken loud and clear.”

#

Kiara knew how to win over a crowd, and Amelle had never been so thankful for it as she was during those long minutes when she felt Fenris’ lyrium infusion trickle through her, just enough to counteract the magebane and whatever else it was Jessamine had been using to incapacitate her, just enough to allow her own mana to replenish itself, slowly.  Too slowly.

Though, really.  _Timid?  Whiny?_

All through her sister’s improvised diatribe, Amelle stood, barely breathing, listening intently to what was said as well as what was left unsaid.  Kiara and Jessamine dueled with words and innuendo instead of blades.  With her eyes closed, Amelle heard Varric’s husky chuckle when Kiara cracked a joke, Sebastian’s hoarse shout, and Isabela’s travesty of an accent.  She didn’t hear Cullen, but she’d no doubt he was present somewhere.  Focusing on that, she listened to their voices, trying to figure out their placement, and trying desperately _not_ to think about Fenris, who’d not moved from the spot where he’d fallen.  

 _Fenris_.  His last words to her still rang in her ears and made hot tears prickle behind her lids.

 _Breathe,_ she reminded herself, when a hitching sob threatened to break free.  _Slowly.  You can do this._

As her mana returned, Amelle slowly, carefully healed her own injuries first, holding her power back — the half dead and deeply unconscious weren’t meant to _glow_. After what felt like an eternity, the throbbing in her shoulder died away and the feeling returned to her aching fingers.  She kept breathing, slowly, shallowly as she listened, concentrating, _waiting._   The opportune moment would reveal itself — if she’d learned nothing else from playing cards with her sister, it was the perils of showing your hand too early.

Then Amelle felt the sudden heat from the torch Jessamine held, and when she peered through her eyelashes she saw Kiara’s barely-restrained smirk.

It was time.

Amelle drew in a deep breath and nearly sighed in relief as she felt her mana swirl and dance inside of her, then let her _own_ flames manifest.  The heat had been too-long absent from her hands, and as the rush of fire poured from her fingers, she realized how desperately she’d missed the pounding of it in her blood _._   The rope singed and smoldered as Amelle opened her eyes and lifted her head.  The collective gasp — and at least one terrified scream — pleased her far more than it ought to have done, but when she spied Fenris on the ground, pale and rigid, blood still seeping from his stab wound, triumph vanished as fury flashed anew in her chest like a particularly violent spark set upon dry kindling.  For a moment lasting no longer than a single heartbeat, Amelle wanted nothing better than to burn the bitch to ashes where she stood.

 _No time._   _Later._

The older woman’s eyes widened, and Amelle saw Jessamine raise her hand — the signal to her archers, she was certain.  That only served to prod her anger forth, bubbling like molten rock inside of her; energy tingled impatiently against her skin, ready and waiting at her very fingertips.

But she had more important things to focus on right now. Sucking in a breath of mana, she redirected the fire that wanted so dearly to pour from her hands, dropped to her knees and took Fenris’ head in her hands, cradling it as she shifted her mana until it manifested in that dearly familiar hotcold thrum. Blue-white light surrounded her hands and threads of it wound around Fenris, sinking into his skin.  It was as if, after being smothered for so long, the energy had built up inside her, bursting to get out.  Now she did not hear Compassion’s voice calling to her from too far away, but rather the welcome sensation of phantom hands over hers, warm and comforting.

But Fenris still wasn’t moving.  His breathing was slow and labored, and his expression betrayed nothing, gave no indication at all that he’d received any healing magic at all.  His body was strangely rigid, and his skin too hot to the touch.  The wound’s bleeding had slowed—nearly ceased entirely—but other than that, there was no change.  She closed her eyes and probed deeper; Compassion’s touch sank into Fenris’ skin, finally allowing her to sense the corruption in his blood.  Poison of some kind—one that did not react to her methods, evidently.

Ice pooled in her stomach and fire swam in her veins as she lifted her eyes to the older woman who was watching her, derision writ large on her face.  

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Go on, then, mage,” Jessamine spat. “Kill me. Murder me. _Martyr_ me. Show them what you’re made of. Fire and hate and death. Like all your kind. They are right to fear you.”

_Fire and hate and death._

Amelle glanced down at Fenris’ face, so horribly ashen—paler still for all the healing magics she was pouring into him—and her throat tightened with what might’ve been a sob, but could easily have turned into a scream, a howling cry of rage and pain and grief. Her fingers itched to rain fire down on Jessamine, to crush her, to _destroy_ her, but…

_Fire and hate and death.  That is not who I am._

Kiara, standing halfway between Amelle and Jessamine, turned her head slightly. Her expression was fierce and proud and so full of love Amelle had to swallow the tears that threatened. _You can’t start now or you’ll never stop. Later._ “You know what you’re made of, Mely.”

Amelle did. And it wasn’t fire and hate and death. Taking a deep, centering breath, she looked again at Fenris’ face between her hands. Then, regathering all the mana she could, she pushed it all forward, all at once, urging, _willing_ the power flowing through her from the Fade to right the wrong still paralyzing the elf’s body and making him fight for every breath.

Bathed in the blue-white light of her magic, she almost imagined his tattoos were glowing— _please, let his tattoos glow_ —but it was only a trick of the light.

#

When the first arrows began to fly, Kiara dropped, rolled, and sprang to her feet close enough to Jessamine that any arrows aimed at her would have an equally likely effect of hitting the older woman.

“Call them off!” Kiara shouted. “Your bloody archers will take out half the crowd!”

“And if they do?” Jessamine shrieked back, her eyes wild and her skin ghostly-pale in the light Amelle’s magic was giving off.

“They’re _innocent_!” Kiara ducked and wove. She was in too close for her bow to be of any use, but she had the knife she carried for when she was caught in hand-to-hand situations.

She wasn’t particularly _good_ with it, but she _had_ it.

“If my men can take yours, I’ll consider a few innocent deaths a small price to pay.”

An arrow sang, nearly catching Jessamine unawares. Kiara wasn’t certain whose arrow it was. Again she danced aside. She was already breathing too heavily, and her palm was slick on the hilt of her pitiful blade. Bloody Isabela always made it looked so damned _easy._ Kiara tried to land a blow, but Jessamine spun away, pulling a second knife from within her robes. The first was still in her right hand, stained with Fenris’ blood. The second looked as menacing as the first, and from so near, Kiara could see the discoloration of the poison on its edge.

“Dance with me, Kiara Hawke,” Jessamine jibed. “I’ve seen you in court, you remember. You may be a demon with a bow in your hands, but you’re no dancer.”

Kiara was forced to jump back, nearly falling, when Jessamine rushed her, robes swirling. She couldn’t watch both left hand and right, so she was forced to keep out of the woman’s reach entirely. Arrows fell. One shaft shattered at Kiara’s feet.

_Time. All we require is a little more time._

Behind her, Amelle still glowed.

Kiara dared not bring the fight too near her sister, but she knew she had to keep between Jessamine and Amelle. Darting forward again, she aimed a sweeping kick toward the older woman’s legs, which Jessamine avoided with disdainful ease. The move had left her terribly out of position, so it was all she could do to fling her arm up. Luck, or fate, or the bloody Maker kept the knife from hitting her. Jessamine’s edge caught Kiara’s and the two blades locked hilt to hilt.

This time when she kicked out, Kiara caught Jessamine’s knee and the woman went down hard. Her second knife nearly caught Kiara’s arm, but Kiara twisted at the last moment and instead the knife lodged in the platform.

“Maker’s _balls_ , Varric,” Kiara bellowed. “How much more of a signal do you bloody _need?_ ”

But wherever Varric was—and whatever was keeping Bianca busy—no miracle crossbow bolt appeared, and Jessamine reared above Kiara holding her remaining blade—the bloody one, of course it was the bloody one—in a fierce, two-handed grip. The older woman’s expression was feral, mad.

And Kiara was trapped.

#

The world exploded into noise around her, but still Amelle knelt, still she cradled Fenris’ head, and _still_ she willed the power of the Fade to channel down her arms, through her hands an into the elf, willing it to undo, fix, or heal whatever was wrong.  Whatever in the Void this _Maker’s Light_ was, beyond incurable—and Amelle refused to believe _that_.  The wound itself had closed—and perhaps that was progress—but whatever poison swam in Fenris’ veins remained stubborn to her ministrations.

_Please, Fenris.  Please.  Heal.  You must heal._

He did not rouse, and she didn’t look up until she’d heard an arrow whistle past her ear. Chaos reigned around her — the harsh clanging of clashing swords, the whizzing and singing of arrows shooting past, and her sister locked in single bloody combat once more.  

 _The Arishok fought with more honor_.

She looked down once more at Fenris—no change there, and it made her heart twist in her chest.

_He would be furious with you right now, you know.  Expending mana on him when others need you.  He would be arguing with you if he could._

That truth of it brought a blinding rush of tears Amelle fought to blink back.  She looked up again in time to spy Jessamine bearing down on her sister, armed with the very poisoned blade that had left Fenris in this condition. 

“Fire, hate, and death, huh?” she muttered through her teeth.

Slipping one hand beneath Fenris’ head, cradling it, Amelle concentrated harder, letting power flow down her arm and past her palm until the air shuddered and a red glow engulfed Jessamine, holding her perfectly still.  Paralyzed.  Still kneeling, she glanced around quickly — Cullen and Isabela were surrounded by the crowd, though not everyone _in_ the crowd was advancing on them.  At the far end of the courtyard, Sebastian fired arrow after arrow, aiming at targets only he could see.  That left Varric.  Where in all the bloody Void was Varric?  She craned her neck and saw him high above, two of Jessamine’s zealot followers closing in on either side.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, clearing her mind and letting energy surge and swell within her, waiting to be channeled into a spell.  When she whispered the words and released the spell, she felt tendrils of protective, defensive power rush out in all directions, each one finding its target before expanding and shielding them from harm, including herself and Fenris — and then she took his head in both hands once more and whispered yet more incantations into his ear, begging with him to wake as she twisted and pulled and pushed at her mana, willing it out, focusing it until she saw the glow of her own power grow brighter and brighter, a painful mimicry of Fenris’ light.

_Please._

#

As soon as Jessamine’s arm went up and the first arrows began to sing out all around him, seemingly heedless of where they landed or whom they might injure, Cullen uttered a brief curse, turned, and wrenched Maisie’s sword from its scabbard to keep the woman from drawing it herself and using it against them. The knight glowered at him, but whatever Isabela was doing with the knife kept her silent.

He turned, trying to peer through the crowd, trying to mark out a route that would take him to the platform and the madness there. The crowd shifted and roiled like an angry sea, and every time a path seemed to open, it was gone again before he so much as blinked.

“You’ll never make it through the crowd,” Isabela warned. “Hawke’ll have it under contro— _Andraste’s saggy tits_ that was close! Shit, Hawke’s going to get herself pincushioned up there.”

“She needs help.”

Isabela sighed. “Of course she does. But Hawke is Hawke. She’d rather you stay down here, keeping all the little innocent sheep from getting their wool clipped.”

Cullen knew the pirate was right— _damn her anyway_ —but knowing didn’t make it easy to watch. Much of the crowd began to move when the fighting began—trying and failing to get away, he thought. There were too many people packed into quarters too close for comfort. Those who weren’t struck down by errant arrows were as like to see themselves crushed beneath pounding feet or smothered in the press of terrified townsfolk.

It galled him to admit it, even to himself, but he simply wasn’t _used_ to battles like this one. In his world, battles were black and white. Mage and templar. His allies wore flaming swords upon their breasts and—more often than not—the things he fought were abominations. In robes. _So many demons. So many deaths._ He had powers to help him in that kind of fight, but no cleanse or holy smite would aid him here; the only mage was one whose powers he absolutely did not want to disrupt. Here, trapped in the square of a city he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell friend from foe.

Even the woman he had, until a moment ago, felt certain was an enemy was now staring wide-eyed and horrified at the platform. Tears brightened Maisie’s eyes, making their blue strangely startling. “Oh, Maker,” she breathed. “Oh, Maker, what have I done?”

“What’d I tell you about being quiet, Goldie?”

But Maisie did not heed Isabela’s warning. She looked at him instead, pleadingly, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and biting down hard. “This wasn’t meant to happen,” she said. “You have to believe me. This wasn’t meant to happen. This wasn’t what she promised.”

“And yet you sound surprised,” Isabela opined. “You know what, sweetheart? Here’s a tip. When people ask you to do something that you know _damn well_ is going to hurt anyone and everyone you’ve ever cared about? Even if it sounds good on paper? It’s probably the wrong bloody thing to do.”

“It wasn’t about _revenge_ ,” Maisie argued. “It was supposed to be _justice_.”

Isabela spat a curse under her breath. “Isn’t it always? Come on, Handsome. I don’t like our positioning here. We’ll let Princess deal with this one.”

Maisie bowed her head, the fine golden strands of her hair falling to obscure her face. “I yield, messeres. I will go with you peaceably.”

Isabela rolled her eyes at him over the woman’s shoulder. “Color me surprised. And forgive me for keeping you right where Backstabber can see you. Save your speeches for Hawke. She’s the one you need to appeal to. And if anything happens to the people she cares about because of what you’ve done?” The pirate shook her head, her meaning perfectly clear. 

“It’s too late,” Maisie said hollowly. “But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“It never is,” Cullen said.

Isabela dragged Maisie along at knifepoint, and Cullen followed, his blade in one hand and Maisie’s in the other but hesitant to use either.

He couldn’t have said if a minute or an hour had passed—they still hadn’t returned to Sebastian’s side, he knew that much—when a man risked life and limb to climb to the platform. He was a plain man, in plain clothes, with nothing so bold as a flaming sword or a robe and staff to declare his allegiances—not that those lines in the sand meant as much to Cullen any longer. Behind the man, Amelle still glowed, the blue-white light so fierce and strong Cullen could hardly see her form within it. He wondered if she was giving herself yet another nosebleed, and whether her healing here would prove as futile as the first cases in Kirkwall. He desperately hoped it would not prove so. _Blessed Andraste, aid her, she does your work._ Jessamine was trapped in a red prison, teeth still bared in a rictus snarl, and Hawke was just getting to her knees, looking shaky and rubbing at the back of her head. She hadn’t fallen down poisoned, though; the flush of relief nearly overwhelmed him.

“Listen!” the plain man in his plain clothes screamed. “All of you, _listen!_ ” Not everyone stopped, but Cullen thought the crowd no longer pushed quite so hard, and some of the sounds of fighting ceased. The man clearly took this as the best he would get and continued, shouting as loud as he could, “Words are words. We heard a lot of ‘em. They don’t always mean what we think they mean. Deeds are deeds, and that’s what you don’t know. That’s what you haven’t seen, some of you. The Champion’s no monster burning babies and killing kin—you there, Verra, you know what Tiny was doing, you let him steal your money for months; Tiny broke your son’s arm and there was nothing you could do until the Champion came. You know it and I know it. And Kalon—you should be _ashamed_ of yourself carrying on like this. Your business has never been better, since the Champion ended Tiny’s reign. Dinag, Morl, Cindin, all of you! You pretend now you didn’t sit with this woman down at The Spotted Pig and let her drink you straight under the table? You let her buy your drinks that night and nary a complaint, but now you’re calling for her blood? You oughta be ashamed, the bloody lot of you. You stand with her or you slink back to your homes, but by the Maker, you stop pretending she’s ever done anything to wrong you.”

A rogue arrow whistled by the man’s ear, but he didn’t so much as flinch. Cullen had to admire the man—he’d seen seasoned soldiers break and run under circumstances half as terrifying as the one the plain man in his plain clothes faced. “I don’t know about our new prince yet—we haven’t had him long enough for me to make up my mind—but I tell you one thing, and I tell it to you true: he chose a good woman. I never met a noblewoman who’d do the kind of things for us lowborn I’ve seen this woman do, and damn if that don’t count for something in my book. I don’t know this angry lady in blue who has nothing good to say, but I know Kiara Hawke. And she’s no monster. Go _home_. Starkhaven’s seen enough blood, enough shame, and it weren’t the mages brought it down on us.”

Even Cullen paused, taken in by the man’s honesty, by his heartfelt plea.

And then an arrow took the plain man in his plain clothes straight through the heart and as he toppled down into the crowd, Cullen heard Hawke’s scream of horror, of despair. She stood frozen, empty hands outstretched; any archer could have taken her then, he thought, just as they’d taken the plain man in his plain clothes. But no arrows flew. For a moment, a heartbeat, a heartbroken breath the entire courtyard was still.

But when the crowd started screaming again, it was Kiara Hawke’s despair they echoed, and Cullen knew the tide had begun to turn.

#

Amelle had to wonder if the time she’d spent chained in that tiny room had addled her wits.  A solitary man, standing up to an angry mob with arrows— _poisoned arrows_ —flinging every which way?  She could scarcely believe her eyes, and yet there it was, there _he_ was, pleading with them more effectively, more eloquently than Amelle was sure anyone else could do under the circumstances.  But before the crowd could react, before the man could say another word, an arrow shot down from above and, with a sickening thunk, sank into his body.  He lurched once, then fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  Her sister’s scream tore the still air and cut through her own grief.

 _Go to him.  You must._   She knew it was her conscience, her good sense speaking, but for a moment it sounded eerily like Fenris’ voice and Amelle wondered yet again about the state of her wits.  She looked down at him, her heart wrenching in her chest—still no change at all.

 _But he yet breathes,_ she told herself, distantly aware of the tears sliding down past her nose and falling, splashing on Fenris’ armor.  Pressing a light kiss to his forehead, she sniffled and dashed her tears away with her ruined sleeve.  _He is not dead, not yet.  I have not failed him, and I may be able to help the others.  I can still_ do _something to stop this madness._

Finally, she stood, the light from her healing energy casting a soft glow upon her skin.  She kept her mana focused on healing, protection, and defense—they were all still going to need it.  She looked around and saw hardly anyone paid any heed to the glowing girl they’d all been so ready to burn earlier, and that alone made an unhinged sort of giggle bubble up in her chest.

_Wits, definitely addled._

Amelle walked to the edge of the platform, looked down at the man who’d fallen only seconds before, and climbed down to tend him.  He was not the first to be injured, not by a long shot, but he’d spoken rationally, and in this climate that mattered more than almost anything else.  

Someone cried out above the din, “What’s she doing?  What’s the mage doing to Joff?” 

She knelt beside the man—Joff—and cast a shield around them both; it was enough to stop the most well-intentioned bystander as well as the most ill-intentioned arrow.  Mindful of the arrow still lodged in his chest, Amelle turned the man in her arms.  She found relief in the fact that he was trembling, for all that his breaths were labored — he was still alive, at least, but not for much longer. Blood had already pooled beneath him. Too much blood.

“Shh, it’s going to be all right,” she whispered.  Blood stained his lips and his eyes were wide with terror, but not—she thought, she _hoped_ —at her.  

Placing one hand over the wound, Amelle pulled the arrow free, grasping the fletching and letting the shaft slide past her fingers, whispering thanks to Andraste _this_ tip at least was not poisoned.  Jessamine had evidently stretched the truth about _every_ arrow.  Once the shaft was free — and its journey out was a hundred times worse than its journey _in,_ she knew — Amelle placed both hands over the flowing wound and drew in a breath, her mana shifting and pulsing inside of her until it coursed out of her hands and into Joff’s injured body.

She was only half aware of the bodies crowding around her, but then a few of them cried out: 

“Witch!”

“She’s hurtin’ him!  She’s killin’ Joff!”

“Shut up and watch, you imbeciles!  If she was going to kill him, she’d have let the arrow do its bloody _job_.”

That almost made her smile.  _Oh, Isabela, how I’ve missed you._

With another breath and a flash of light, Amelle coaxed the flesh and muscle together again, urging it to _heal_.  It had been so bloody long since she’d healed such a straightforward injury, she was nearly startled to discover how quickly, how _effortlessly_ the wound knit.

Joff blinked owlishly up at her.

“I’m not dead,” he said faintly, a tremor to his voice.

“Not today,” replied Amelle with a little shake of her head.

“And you’re… you’re the Champion’s sister?”

“Sometimes to her annoyance, yes.”

He blinked again and swallowed hard.  “Can you… can you help stop this?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, still keeping her voice low, “but I think it’s time I helped try.”

Joff nodded jerkily as Amelle helped him sit up.  Then, after a second or two, she helped him to his feet.

“Name’s Joff,” he said a bare second before realizing his clothes were stained with copious amounts of his own blood.  He went vaguely grey as he looked down at himself.

“I’m Amelle,” she said, pulling his attention away from his bloodied clothes.  “Now, promise me, Joff, you’ll not do anything quite so foolish again.”

He offered Amelle a tremulous smile.  “I’d promise, but my wife’d cuff me on the head for lying.”

It took a moment for Amelle to realize how quiet the square had become.  People who’d been screaming only moments before now watched, breath held, as Joff clasped Amelle’s hand briefly, before making his unsteady way around the edge of the crowd, where a red-haired woman with a tear-streaked face pulled him into a fierce hug.

Amelle looked around—the fighting continued on the outer edges, but the air felt… strange.  Charged with something she couldn’t quite define.

Then, from behind her she heard a snarl and Amelle knew the paralysis spell had worn off.  “Fire, hate, and death!  She’s planted a demon in his head!  Watch and—”

Eyes narrowed, Amelle turned and flicked her fingers at Jessamine.  Another red glyph shimmered to life and surrounded her.  “Oh, _will_ you shut up?”

High above arrows still flew but — surrounded by her shield — Amelle climbed onto the platform, took another breath, and felt the almost intoxicating warmth of healing magic shift and change inside her, rushing beneath her skin and turning hotter.  Then she flung both hands to the sky and let forth a burst of intense heat: any arrows caught in midair went alight and fell to earth in ashes.

If there had been anyone else who’d not yet had her attention, that little stunt seemed to do the trick.

“Fire, hate, and death!” Amelle yelled out, her throat aching as she shouted, her voice sounding odd to her own ears — strained and rough with disuse and emotion both. “That’s what Jessamine claimed to be protecting you from!  Fire!” She pointed at the stake and kindling.  “Hate!”  She turned and shot her other arm out, pointing at Jessamine herself, caught and paralyzed in the midst of her own fury.  “And death!”  She held out both arms to the crowd.  “Look around you!  _Look!_   How many of your own have fallen today?  Because _this woman_ cared more about her own actions than their repercussions?”

Many eyes turned to Joff, who was still looking down at the bloody spot on his tunic where the arrow had protruded from his chest, wonder etched on his features.

“This woman is no healer _,_ and she is no friend to Starkhaven.  She wanted to burn me _not_ to prove her devotion to the Maker and His Bride, but _because I healed a man she did not wish to see healed._   I saved a life she wanted extinguished!  For two days she did nothing but pour poison into my body and tell me of everything I’d ruined because I did not let Sebastian Vael perish in a Kirkwall alleyway.  Look at the carnage she’s wrought today!  Does this sound like a woman on the side of the Maker?  This is not _justice._ There is no holiness in _vengeance_. Is the kind of woman who would rain down poisoned arrows upon the innocent people of Starkhaven the kind of woman on whose side you wish to fight?”

“Shit no!” Isabela cried out.  And again, the crowd echoed her.

“Thank you, child,” said a quiet voice just behind and to her left. “I do believe you’ve made your point.”

Amelle swallowed hard, reining in the power that flickered at her fingertips. Even if the fine robes of a Chantry Revered Mother hadn’t indicated the newcomer’s identity, the regiment of templars flanking her would have made her position clear enough. There could be no ignoring _them_ , with the swords flaming on their breastplates. She knew very well there was nowhere to run, no hope of escape, but her father’s lessons rang in her ears and adrenaline bade her flee. 

The Revered Mother was younger than she would have imagined—far too young to be throwing around the word _child_ willy-nilly—with a smooth, unlined face and eyes both kind and shrewd. When Amelle straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, she thought she saw the faintest ghost of a smile playing at the corners of the cleric’s lips, but she couldn’t be sure.

In her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of Kiara’s telltale hair as her sister drew near.

“Revered Mother,” Kiara greeted. Calmly, Amelle thought. “I’m afraid all this commotion on your doorstep has rather disturbed your peace. Pray, forgive us.”

“The runner His Highness sent from the palace was what disturbed our peace, Lady Kiara, as you well know. I am only sorry it took us so long to arrive.” The Revered Mother returned her clear gaze to Amelle. “It might be best if you let the rest of your power fade now, child. You know it makes the templars so very itchy.”

“I-I would, Revered Mother,” Amelle said, still desperately trying to parse the cleric’s words for humor. “But—they’re shields, protecting… protecting the prince. And keeping that bitc—keeping Jessamine—”

This time Amelle was _certain_ it was a smile that pulled at the Revered Mother’s mouth. “This woman Jessamine has done you great wrong, child,” the woman said, loudly enough for her voice to carry throughout the square; it was a voice used to speaking sermons, and the people paused, listening. “What would _you_ do with her?”

_Is there an equivalent of whatever poison she used on me for non-mages?_

Amelle glanced down at Fenris’ still form. She could hear the wounded moaning in the crowd. If she wasn’t dragged off in chains, there were some she might still save. _This bitch_ killed _them, with her poisoned arrows and her single-minded fury. Their blood is on her hands. Drown_ her _in a vat of this Maker’s Light whose antidote she claims to have destroyed and see how she likes it._  

When Amelle looked to Kiara, she found her sister’s face preternaturally still; the expression gave her nothing. It offered no criticism or judgment, but neither did it offer aid. There was bright red blood on Kiara’s face. Behind her sister, Amelle could see Jessamine in her bright red prison.

 _Not red enough. Not prison enough. I could_ crush _you. And then set_ you _on fire. See if you’d take it as well as you gave it out._

But none of these would bring back the dead. None of these would end the cycle of vengeance. None of these would make Fenris open his eyes.

Amelle swallowed to moisten her dry throat and let the magic fade. One or two of the templars at the Revered Mother’s side shifted in relief, but none moved toward her. Templars already standing ready caught Jessamine between them as the red prison dissipated, and though she squirmed and shouted, they held her tight.

“Her crimes were not just against me,” Amelle said at last. “I was but one of her victims. The… the prince is the voice of the law in Starkhaven. Justice dictates… justice dictates he must be the one to pass judgment.”

The look the Revered Mother gave her was a sad one, but Amelle saw approval there as well. _It won’t be enough. I’m an apostate mage. There will be no eleventh hour reprieve to save me from these templars._ “And so it shall be. You are wise, child. But you know I must—”

Amelle wondered where they would take her. Starkhaven’s Circle was long gone. Kirkwall’s was no more. If the rumors were to be believed, Circles were falling all over Thedas. She hoped the prison they found for her would be a comfortable one. Beside her, Kiara seemed poised to fight, all coiled energy and clenched fists.

But before the Revered Mother could make her pronouncement—and before Kiara could do anything brave and stupid—Amelle heard the clank of armor draw near. She turned her head, expecting to see more of the Revered Mother’s templars come to take her into custody, but it was only one templar. Cullen stopped when he reached her side, his face as impassive as Kiara’s.

“Revered Mother, a moment?” Cullen interrupted.

The woman inclined her head, lips still almost-smiling. “And you are, ser? A templar I see, but not one of mine own.”

“No, Your Reverence. I am Cullen, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”

 _Acting,_ Amelle thought. _And not really even_ that _anymore._

But Cullen’s voice didn’t waver on the lie, and the Revered Mother said, “Far from your home, Knight-Commander. This mage falls under your jurisdiction, then. You must be here for her.”

“She does. And I am.”

“And you would… take responsibility for her?”

Cullen didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Your Reverence.”

The Revered Mother nodded once, firmly. “Very well then, Knight-Commander Cullen. I remand her into your custody. See you keep a close eye on her.”

“Your Reverence.”

Amelle was immensely pleased the sudden wave of relief _didn’t_ turn her knees to jelly and send her sprawling to the ground. She didn’t dare look at Cullen. She was afraid her expression would say too much.

More seriously, the Revered Mother said, “I wonder if we might beg a little healing from you, though, before you go. We have no Circle to turn to for aid, and our healers—” The cleric glanced toward Jessamine and shook her head. “You have seen our healers. Starkhaven would be in your debt. More so than it is already.”

Amelle inclined her head.

“No nosebleeds,” Cullen whispered at her side.

“No nosebleeds,” she agreed. _Oh, Fenris._


	77. Chapter 77

It had been a day of emotional extremes, Sebastian thought, of bloodshed and battle and death — so much death, _too_ much death — and of questions finally answered.  A full day, and the sun was not even midway through the sky.

Somehow, through the thick of it, when his bow was in hand, sending arrow after arrow to their targets — not _his_ people, he had to tell himself again and again; they were Jessamine’s, never his — while Kiara was locked in combat with Jessamine and always too close to the older woman to give him a clear shot as Amelle cast healing magic, glyphs and shields, the light of it all reflecting off armor… something about the chaos of it all was not only familiar, it felt strangely right _._   Not, of course, the life or death peril of it all, but the knowledge that his third family—not the Vaels, not the Chantry—was once again whole, working as a unit.

 _Almost whole_ , he remembered with a pang.  Fenris still lay unmoving upon the platform, and the hour window had certainly closed by now.  A maelstrom of emotion twisted and clashed in his chest — he was relieved, thankful, grief-stricken, frustrated, _angry_ … 

It was not what he would have considered the ideal moment to present himself to Starkhaven for the first time since his return.  _Definitely_ not the ideal moment to be Prince of Starkhaven with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities therein.  For the barest sliver of time, when Amelle stood on the platform and faced the Revered Mother and stated that justice should come from the prince, Sebastian fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see precisely whom she was talking about.

And then the moment passed.

This was more than missives and documents and yellow-duckling curtains — _this_ was what Starkhaven needed.  _This_ was why he’d returned. If nothing else, the horrible, bloody mess around them, proved how desperately change was needed.  It was his duty—his duty above all things—to usher in that change.  Justice had to be done, and he had to be the one to deliver it.

Shouldering his bow, he walked slowly to the platform where Revered Mother Illona, Kiara, and Amelle waited, the latter now kneeling by Fenris, his head upon her lap; their expressions ranging from veiled pride to patient reassurance.  Jessamine, nearly rabid with fury, glared at him, and spat upon his feet the moment he reached the platform.  He walked by, barely sparing her more than a passing glance.  What she did now mattered very little as far as Sebastian was concerned; he had far more important things demanding his attention, most of them she had wrought.

He made a point of standing next to Kiara, but though she did not actually move away from him, he could sense the way she held herself aloof, refusing to look at him. Her arms were stiff at her sides, and she gazed straight ahead. _She fears the repercussions of her ruse_ , he realized. _Or she fears what Starkhaven will say, now they know without doubt her sister is a mage. She fears they will no longer accept her, if ever they would have done so._

He wasn’t sure she was wrong, for all that. His stomach turned over, but he kept his shoulders straight and his head lifted, and he did not move from her side. _Duty, Vael. Your duty above all things._

“Your Highness,” Illona greeted.

“Your Reverence,” he replied with all due courtesy. “Forgive me, but the time for conversation must be later. Now there are too many wounded.” Indeed, Fenris was once again aglow with healing magics. “Starkhaven suffers and must be made well again.”

“Indeed, Your Highness. But I believe our young friend has the right of it: justice must be done.”

Jessamine bared her teeth when he turned to face her, and her pale eyes were icy. “Go on then, murderer,” she snarled. “Have your executioner dirty his hands for you.”

“No,” Sebastian said. “Not like this. You may have acted it today, Jessamine, but you are no beast to be put down in the street. I, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, charge you with murder, with conspiracy, with high treason. You will have your trial, and if you are deemed guilty, you will be executed by mine own hand, but I will defile these stones with no more blood. Enough has been spilled here already.”

He almost called for Elias before realizing the man could no longer answer him. Swallowing past the knot of emotion this recollection raised, he gestured for another of his guards. “Bind her,” he said. “Take her to the prisons. I wonder if you might spare some of your guard, Your Reverence. I fear my own may yet be compromised, and I would not have an escape on my hands.”

“You have proven yourself a great friend to the Chantry, Your Highness,” Illona said. Her voice carried, and she allowed a moment for the words to sink in; he reminded himself to thank her for it later. “It would be our pleasure to repay that friendship in kind.”

Jessamine was dragged away, surrounded by templars and palace guardsmen alike. Amelle watched them go with a strange look on her face. Sebastian could hardly blame her; he felt odd letting the woman live any longer than necessary.

 _This_ is _necessary,_ he realized. _She must not die a martyr. There must be no question as to her crimes. Her guilt must be irrefutable._

“People of Starkhaven,” he called out, turning to face the much-dispersed crowd. “Today has been a dark day. These past weeks have been dark weeks. Brother has turned against brother, friend against friend, and it has made me heartsick to see it done. I would have wished to present myself to you under better circumstances, but know this: you are my people. This is my _home_. I would see it returned to its former glory, a place of peace; a haven. The steps toward this healing must be small ones, but they are ones I do not fear to make. Later, there will be justice meted out upon those who have hurt us, but today is a day for rebuilding, for helping our neighbors, for treating the wounded and honoring the dead. We will survive. We will thrive. There will be no more fire, no more hate, no more death.”

No great cheers went up. No great cacophony of approval rang out. Choirs didn’t sing and Andraste didn’t appear to clap him on the back. But the people of Starkhaven listened. They listened, and the fighting was ended.

“S-sebastian,” Amelle said, not quite able to keep the pleading note from her voice, “do you—this antidote Jessamine spoke of—what… what about Fenris?” She reached up from where she knelt, touching the back of his forearm tentatively, her fingertips skating over his bracer.

“The Chantry had some amount of the antidote in its stores; we brought it when we heard,” Illona replied, when Sebastian could find no words. “And from a time before this Jessamine might have tainted it, Maker be praised. I know time is of the essence. My templars are already moving through the crowd, treating those they can. But…”

“But?” Amelle echoed. “You don’t understand—I know how it must have _looked_ , but Fenris saved my life. There must be _something_ —you can’t mean he doesn’t deserve this antidote, too?”

“The hour has passed,” Sebastian said softly. When Amelle gazed up at him, brow knit with confusion, he knew she didn’t know, didn’t understand. “Forgive me, Amelle. Fenris… Fenris is my friend, too, but there is no longer anything to be done. Fenris had but an hour to receive the antidote.  That hour is past.  The window is closed.  Even if we were to give it to him, it…” Sebastian trailed off, but he could tell her nothing but the truth: “It would make no difference.”

“So you’re saying he doesn’t even deserve an outside _chance?_ ” she argued, her voice catching.  “This is _Fenris._   If anyone deserves a _chance_ ,it’s him.”

He saw it then, in her eyes.  Not only dawning comprehension, but something _more,_ something raw and broken and _defiant_ and Sebastian realized that though Fenris may have been a friend to Amelle before, he meant something far more to her now.  _Oh, Amelle.  I’m sorry.  I am so sorry._

“We… may yet have enough antidote,” Sebastian relented.  Though it seemed fruitless, he could not fault Amelle either her hope or her determination.  Indeed, even at the time he’d not been entirely certain Kiara had received the antidote in time either.  Perhaps the poison’s rules were not _so_ absolute.  Perhaps.  “But if there is not enough…”

Amelle’s frown pinched her features as she looked down at the man whose head she cradled.  “If there’s not enough, then I’ll open a door myself,” she said fervently, looking up again and shaking her head.  She was so pale every streak of dirt and blood and grime stood out starkly on her face.  “I’m not giving up on him.  He just needs healing—he just needs more _time_ —”

_All we require is a little more time._

“There are those you can save now, Mely,” Kiara added, her voice wretched with misery. She reached out and put a hand on Amelle’s shoulder, but still she would not meet Sebastian’s eyes. “Come on. I’ll—I’ll help. We can work together. You know I’m—you know I’m good at tying bandages.”

“He’ll be brought to the palace,” Sebastian said. “You will… you will have three days.”

“No,” Amelle said, gently—so very gently—sliding Fenris’ head from her lap and setting him back against the wooden planks.  “No,” she said again, pushing to her feet.  “Keep him with the rest of the wounded for now.  If there is enough antidote, then I want him nearby to administer it.”  But when she looked him full in the face, he saw how very pale she was, bloodshot eyes filling with tears, and if Sebastian wasn’t certain before, he was _now._ He looked to Kiara for confirmation, but Kiara’s gaze was set on the middle distance, as if she could not bear to look at either of them; her hand no longer on her sister’s shoulder, she now gripped Amelle’s wrist, but kept her gaze averted.  But then Amelle’s jaw clenched and determination—as well as something far fiercer—was writ in all the lines and curves of her face. “And even so, you know as well as I that I can do a great deal in a matter of days.”

And because he could not bear to break her heart yet more, Sebastian said nothing, and let her cling to her futile hope.  Though he cringed internally, because if not for Amelle’s determination, he would not be standing here at all, much less to make decisions on who received a cure to a poison whose recipe he sincerely _hoped_ would be lost after this.  He felt Amelle’s censure, though she did not give voice to it.  

Kiara still held fast to her sister’s wrist, and began leading her off the platform, where those who’d been wounded now waited for someone to tend them.  Templars bearing tiny vials of antidote worked their way through, administering the potion to those who’d been poisoned.  Sebastian looked again at Fenris — two palace guards had moved him to a stretcher and were carefully transporting him to a pallet of hay, just one of many temporary beds for the wounded and poisoned.  

“Kiara,” he said, turning.  “Wait.”  

She turned and met his eyes only briefly, then kept her gaze steadily somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder.  “Yes?”

He held back the tumble of words, but only just barely.  “I… I would speak with you. Privately.”

Hesitation flitted across her face, but she did not relinquish her hold on Amelle.  Sebastian saw Amelle’s gaze slide his way, then she leaned closer and he saw her lips form the word _Go_ by her sister’s ear.  Kiara bit her lip, and slowly released Amelle’s wrist, letting her sister slip away to see to those needing her help.  But just as Kiara took a step toward him, Sebastian heard the clank of armor and turned to find Ser Kinnon standing beside him, looking downcast.

“Highness,” he said quietly, casting an apologetic look Kiara’s way.  “My apologies, but… the men are… asking what is to be done about… about Captain Elias.”

Sebastian went still, and felt his own grief tighten his chest almost painfully.  “…Of course, Kinnon.  I—aye.”  He looked imploringly at Kiara, who — as he somehow knew she would — was already nodding.

“Go,” she said quietly, though her eyes still remained at his shoulder. 

 _Come with me,_ he wanted to say.  _Stand by my side._   But before he could give voice to the sentiment, Kiara turned back to look at Jessamine’s victims, most of whom were wounded, poisoned, or both.

“I’m needed here,” she said, and without another glance, she turned and jogged down the wooden steps into the crowd in search of bandages and anyone who needed them applied.

#

Amelle’s back ached, her head throbbed, and her fingers tingled with residual healing magic, but there had been not a single nosebleed.  Cullen helped her to her feet after she finished with the last. Injuries still abounded, but all the life-threatening ones had been seen to, and that was the important thing. Some distant part of herself that still _felt_ like herself wanted to tease him for his diligence in standing guard over her, but whenever she dared look at him, she saw every word he wasn’t saying.  Worry and concern danced in the shadows haunting his eyes, and they chased away even the slightest inclination toward levity.

The templars had dispersed among Jessamine’s victims, providing doses of antidote to those who needed it, as Amelle tended the injured.  Those most grievously hurt were her first priority, though she was always at least peripherally aware of just how often the Starkhaven templars treated a victim of Maker’s Light.  She tallied the number of antidote vials in her head, the number forever dwindling.  Still, she knelt, healing wounds left by arrows and swords, daggers and shields; as she worked, Amelle kept seeing it all in her mind—seeing _Fenris_ —over and over again.  The look on his face as he charged upon the platform had been nothing but fury, the glow upon his skin nearly enough to light his eyes like burning sulfur.

Then that light had gone out, doused by that bitch and her poisoned blade.

And then he’d pressed his forehead against hers as he struggled to hold himself upright, his eyes no longer burning, but muddled and confused.  He’d shifted or slipped or—and then his cheek was against hers, murmuring to her just before phasing his hand into her chest.  The pain of it, of that foreign presence _in_ her, of every piece of steel touching her heart—none of it compared to the ache she felt now _._ Now, when he still would not wake; now, as his skin burned with fever and not lyrium, and his breathing grew increasingly labored.  Amelle would have allowed him to crush her heart entirely if it could have meant sparing her _this._

“Mely?”  Amelle looked up to find Kiara staring down at her, her brow furrowed.  Amelle hadn’t even seen her approach. “Are you… you’re a million miles away.  Is everything… no, I know it’s not, but are you…”  

“Sorry,” she said quickly, before her sister could say the word “okay,” and looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly.  “I… was thinking.”

Kiara nodded and crouched down in front of Amelle, meeting her gaze.  “It’s been—” she stopped and frowned, pressing her lips together in a pensive line.  “It’s been a bitch of a day, hasn’t it?”

Amelle nodded, not trusting her voice. 

“…I missed you,” Kiara said softly, and though Amelle knew Kiara was doing a commendable job of holding herself together, her sister’s voice still trembled.

“I know—I… me too.  I—”

But Amelle’s words were lost in a grunt as Kiara flung her arms around her, hugging her tightly.  Every iota of worry and fear and love communicated itself clearly through that gesture, and Amelle shuddered hard, keeping her own tears at bay, even as she wrapped her arms around her sister and clung just as tightly.  The words they’d spoken—shouted—at each other in Kirkwall were too far away to matter; they belonged to different people in a different lifetime.  Then, as she pulled away, Kiara’s eyes darted over to where Fenris still lay, and it looked for a moment like she was going to say something.  But whatever it was, the words were tucked away again as Kiara shook her head and set her jaw.  Then she reached down to press something into Amelle’s hand; when she looked, she found a tiny vial of golden liquid.  Her breath caught.

“Kiri…”

“Last one,” she said, standing and then pulling Amelle to her feet.  “It… Mely, it’s— the poison.  The antidote might not work.  Please… don’t— don’t—”

Amelle let out a laugh that sounded broken to her own ears.  “Don’t tell me not to hope for a miracle, Kiri.”  She closed her fingers around the vial.  “I have to try.  I have to.  He… he saved my life.  I can’t… I can’t _not try._ ”

“I know.”  And then her sister smiled a charmingly crooked smile.  “And we wouldn’t be Hawkes if we didn’t have our hopeless causes, right?”

“I hope it’s not so hopeless,” murmured Amelle as she turned to the pallet of hay where Fenris still lay.  But as they wove their way around makeshift beds holding men and women still not recovered enough to be moved, a ragged shout stopped them and sent a chill like ice-water down Amelle’s spine.

“Hawke!  Amelle!”  And then again, louder, more urgently:  “ _Hawke!  Amelle!”_

Isabela’s white tunic was smeared with blood, and she had  Varric with her, clutching his arm in place around her shoulders as she half-carried, half-dragged him across the cobblestones.  The dwarf was alarmingly pale, an arrow protruding from his shoulder, its shaft broken midway.  He was unconscious and, Amelle realized, a sinking pit of dread at the very bottom of her belly, his body was strangely rigid.  Cursing under his breath, Cullen rushed over and took up Varric’s other side, relieving Isabela of the burden.

“…No,” Amelle breathed, for more reasons than she could count.  “Maker, _no._ ”

“I just found him,” said Isabela breathlessly, and there was no mistaking how pale she looked, how her voice shook—and her hands, Amelle realized; Isabela’s hands, steady as long as she’d known her, were trembling, too.  As Cullen undertook Varric’s weight, Isabela appeared to realize her tremors, and folded her arms across her body to conceal them.  “I just found him,” she said again, this time with steel tempering her voice.  “It can’t have been a bloody hour, Hawke.  He was _fighting_ an hour ago.”

“Less than that,” Amelle said, looking at the golden vial in her hand. She knew. She’d seen him.

The look in Kiara’s eyes was too painful to bear.  If it was not pity, it was some close kin, and Amelle squeezed her eyes shut.  If her eyes were closed, she didn’t have to see—didn’t have to _face_ what was right before her.

“Amelle…”  Kiara’s voice broke, and Amelle opened her eyes again.  Kiara dropped to her knees beside Varric and touched his forehead. “Oh, Maker, I should have sent someone to look for him straight away. I _knew_ it wasn’t like him to miss such a golden opportunity to play the hero.”

Varric.  _Varric._   Who was still well within the blighted poison’s antidote window.  And Fenris, who was not.  

“Hawke?” Isabela asked, a million unvoiced questions loaded into a single syllable, and then double that again.  “Amelle?  What’s—”

“Take it,” Amelle said roughly, thrusting the vial out in her clenched fist.  “Please, just _take it._ ”  

In the end it wasn’t Kiara, but Cullen who took the antidote from her hands, Cullen who crouched over Varric’s prone form.  Relieved of the vial, relieved of what felt like the last hope available to her, Amelle sunk to her knees and watched silently as Cullen gave Varric the dram of golden liquid.  No one spoke, though Amelle could see the questions running rampant behind Isabela’s eyes. For once, however, the pirate did not voice them.

“I think—I think we’re done here. We should… get up to the palace,” Kiara said.  “I’ll… I’ll have someone—we’ll relocate Fenris.  He’ll…” she swallowed hard. “It’s more comfortable up there.”  She turned to Isabela.  “You’ll stay with Varric?  He… he ought to wake soon.  It won’t be long.”

“Of course.  But what—”

“Later.  We’ll… talk about it later.”  And then she turned to Amelle, bitter, aching sorrow in her eyes.  “There are clean clothes.  And… and baths.  You can have a bath, if you like.”

 _Your fondness for baths is well-known._ Amelle tried not to flinch, shaking her head to hide the involuntary movement.  “But what about Varric?  And there are still more injured—”

“Starkhaven’s templars can see to the rest,” Kiara told her, firmly.  “You’ve helped those who need it most.”

Amelle glanced over to where Fenris still lay.  _No, I haven’t,_ she thought _._   But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.  

She had three days.

#

Kiara couldn’t help noticing the way Amelle’s knees shook when she attempted to regain her feet—which only made sense, given that her sister had expended a _vast_ amount of mana, to say nothing of having started the day wounded, poisoned, bound and possessed of a gauntleted fist in the chest—but before Kiara could reach out and help her up, Cullen had stepped into the breach. Startled, Kiara raised her eyebrows and took a step back. She had noted, of course, Cullen had gone above and beyond the call of anyone’s notion of duty earlier, but now he held Amelle steady with one arm, even as he put two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to meet his.

“You’re well?” he asked carefully. “I know you’re not—but you’re _well_?”

Amelle’s expression wasn’t a smile, but it was some kind of melancholy kin. “You’re thinking of our conversation on the road.”

“I confess I am.”

“I’m… yes, in that respect I’m well.” Kiara blinked, startled when Amelle flung her arms around Cullen and murmured her thanks into his chest. “You didn’t have to—what you did back there— _thank you_ , Cullen.”

After half a moment, Cullen returned the hug, if a little stiffly. Then he said, “Amelle, templars don’t generally go about embracing their charges in the street.”

The sound Amelle made was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Closer to a sob, Kiara feared. Above her head, Cullen met Kiara’s eyes and sent a glance her way. 

“I—” Kiara looked for words but found none. Time enough for tales later. Time enough for explanations. Time enough to understand how her sister and a templar Knight-Commander had come to be on embracing terms.

_All we require is a little more time._

“We should get back to the palace,” Cullen said, as Amelle stepped away from the hug, already nodding. Not for the first time—or even the dozenth—Kiara reached out and touched the back of Amelle’s arm, just to make sure she was actually there, and warm, and alive, and real. This time, before she could drop her hand, Amelle grabbed it and held it in hers as they began the walk back.

After a few moments of too-strained silence, Amelle said, “I may have been drugged and half-dead, but if you think I didn’t notice how often that bitch threw around the words ‘Sebastian Vael’s intended’ you’re sadly mistaken.”

Kiara’s stomach twisted as she went abruptly cold. The hand Amelle still held twitched. She could hear how hard her sister was trying to—to sound normal, to sound like one of their friends wasn’t poisoned past help, while another was still recovering. Kiara tried to remember how happy she’d been just… just _days_ ago, in the garden, before everything went to the Void.

Foolish, really. She should’ve been expecting the Void all along.

“That’s not—it’s all—I don’t think—” Kiara couldn’t find _words_ , so she ground her nails into the palm of her other hand and bit her tongue to keep from speaking at all.

Kiara regretted her words as concern instantly suffused Amelle’s expression. The last thing she wanted was to add to the burden her sister carried. “Kiara?”

 _Duty. He has a duty to Starkhaven._ She wanted to tell Amelle, wanted to unburden herself, wanted to explain she’d seen the end in the way Sebastian had said‘I… I would speak with you’ after the battle. But she held her tongue because she was _glad_ to see her sister, and didn’t want her thinking her… mageness was anything to be ashamed of. Finally she settled on, “It was never official. I think… I think Jessamine will have her way in that, at least. It’s the least of our worries right now.”

Amelle, however, seemed to disagree, pausing in the street. Because she was still holding tight to Kiara’s hand, she was forced to stop too. “But… but _Kiri_. It’s _Sebastian_. Of course he’ll—”

“—Do his duty first,” Kiara interjected.She forced herself to put on a brave face, to pretend it did not matter. In time they would be pleasant memories, and she… she would think of the prince of Starkhaven with fondness. “Just as we must. Come on, Amelle. I-I want to look in on Fenris.”

Some of Amelle’s color drained away and she bit her lip hard, nodding.  “I need… to see what I can do for him.”

“Mely…” she began, but Amelle only shook her head stubbornly.

“I’m not giving up on him. If Sebastian’s right—” Amelle’s voice caught and she clenched her jaw, swallowing hard.  “If Sebastian’s right, I have three days. To try whatever I can.”

Kiara and Cullen shared a brief look, but she held her words— _Sebastian is right, Mely_ —inside.

#

It wasn’t until Amelle sank into the bathwater, gently scented and steaming-hot, that she truly realized how much her body ached.  Despite healing herself, everything was still sore, still tender.  Particularly the spot just behind her breastbone, deep within her chest.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the rim of the tub, pressing her palm flat against the place where Fenris had reached into her.  A gentle breath in and out again, and sore muscles began to relax as a fresh wave healing energy washed through, from head to foot.  Sorrow still lived in a heavy knot lodged deep in her chest, but beneath that was the deeper, truer knowledge that she would be no use to Fenris if she did not first tend to herself.

And that began with washing away every reminder of the past two days from her body.  Amelle scrubbed away dirt and dried blood until her skin was pink and nearly raw, but no amount of soap would cleanse the memory of poison being poured into an open wound, or the residual echoes of demons’ whispers still hiding in her mind’s shadows.  Only time would alleviate that variety of pain, and it would not be a quick process.  It never was.

As she rinsed the soap from her skin, Amelle’s fingertips slid across the shoulder that had been wounded by the poisoned arrow in the first place.  A jagged circle of scar tissue remained, its texture strange and puckered beneath her fingertips.  She had so few scars upon her body after years of being able to heal herself before lasting damage could be done, that to have such a reminder upon her body _now_ was… almost foreign to her.  She stared at it a moment, tracing the starburst with the tip of one index finger before jerking her hand away from the mark and giving herself a shake.  By the time she’d washed away every mark that could be removed with soap and water, what remained was filthy; looking away from such a visible reminder of the past two days, Amelle dried off quickly, and wrapped herself in a thick dressing gown.

The room she’d been appointed was lovely—beyond lovely, in fact, and bordering on intimidatingly lavish.  A pert blonde woman named Tasia—her sister’s _personal maid,_ for the Maker’s sake—had left Amelle with a vast selection of perfumed soaps, salts, and oils, before laying out three different gowns upon the enormous bed. Tasia had hesitated only briefly by the door before leaving again, taking with her the ruined, bloody clothing Amelle _had_ been wearing, hopefully with plans to burn it.

Amelle rubbed the towel gently against her hair as she padded to the bed to see what Tasia left her to wear.  There was a nightgown— _oh, very subtle hint there, Kiara_ —and two simpler dresses.  One was a cream-colored gown with lavender embroidery along the hem and neckline, and the other a shade that hovered somewhere between dusky pink and pale orange — modestly designed but richly constructed.  She chose the pink.

Once properly dressed, Amelle quietly opened the bedroom door to find, perhaps unsurprisingly, that either Kiara or Sebastian—but probably Kiara—had stationed a guard by her door.  Amelle blinked, hand frozen on the door handle, and looked _up_ at the guard.  At least half a head taller than Cullen and nearly twice as broad with a shock of startlingly blond hair above a boyishly ruddy face.

“Hello,” she blurted with a start, trying not to stare.  _Maker’s blood, leave it to Kiara to make sure a human being roughly the size of a_ wall _stands sentry by my door._ “Ser…?”

“Ser Braden, my lady,” he supplied with a brief bow.  “At your service.”  He paused, looking vaguely troubled in a way that reminded Amelle distantly of Cupcake.  “…With respect, my lady, the Lady Kiara’d hoped you’d be resting.”

That was far too many “my ladys” in one sentence than Amelle was used to.  “Yes,” she began uneasily, just barely remembering _not_ to scuff her foot against the smooth marble floor. She was relatively sure ladies didn’t scuff.  “Well.  I’ve… there’s a matter that needs my—there’s something I need to… to attend to.”  Her fingers found the folds of her skirt, worrying the soft material.  “Do you know where— where they’ve brought my—my sister’s friend?  Fenris.  His name’s Fenris. He… he was—”  

“The one poisoned by Maker’s Light,” Ser Braden supplied with a solemness that looked out of place on his puppyish face.  “Yes, my lady, I know which room they put him in.”

“Then will you take me to him?”  Uncertainty sketched across Ser Braden’s features and Amelle took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin.  “I’m a healer—”

“Oh, I know, my lady—I mean, I heard from some of the men—”

“Then you know I need to see him.  Take me there.”

“But…”  Ser Braden looked briefly around the hallway.  “But, my lady, Maker’s Light—”

 _I don’t give half a bloody damn about the poison,_ Amelle thought fiercely, letting the bedroom door close with more force than was strictly necessary, letting the noise echo up and down the hall _.  You aren’t keeping me from seeing to him._   She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, glaring up at the knight, who didn’t appear to know what to make of her.

“You know, Ser Braden, I’ve heard more than _enough_ about this Maker’s Light,” Amelle said sharply, hearing and hating the quaver in her voice.  “I am asking you to take me to a man who requires healing.  Are you going to do that, or am I going to have to find my own way to his room? You aren’t keeping me from this, even if I have to wander every hallway and knock on every blighted door in the palace.  And for the record?  I’m perfectly willing to do that.  Are we quite clear?”

Ser Braden’s face went several shades of pink deeper.  “Y-yes, my lady,” he replied, blinking owlishly down at her.  “Of course.  Er.  Please, follow me.”

“That’s more like it,” she said on an exhale.  “Thank you.”

Her slippered feet were silent upon the marble floor as she hurried along to keep up with Ser Braden’s long strides through the veritable maze of corridors and passageways.  Neither spoke until they came to a stop before a large door that looked… no different from any number of other doors lining other hallways they’d passed.  Another guard stood watch here, a tall woman with freckles that reminded her vaguely of Aveline, but for the dark hair all pulled back into a neat braid.  

The guards exchanged a nod, and Ser Braden turned to Amelle, “He’s in there, my lady.”

With nothing more than a nod and a brief, belated thank-you, Amelle laid a hand on the doorknob and twisted, letting the door swing open on silent hinges and then close just as quietly behind her.  In the middle of the room, on a bed so grand and large it made him look small, Amelle spied Fenris, deathly still and ashen beneath his tan.  His chest rose and fell with rasping breaths that seemed to fill the whole room.

She was alone now—no Kiara to be strong for, no Cullen to reassure.  Just Amelle, Fenris, and three days stretching out, both too long and far, far too short a time between them.  Amelle closed her eyes and drew in a breath too sharp to be anything but a sob, and for the briefest moment she felt the rough warmth of his cheek next to hers, his lips against her ear, those scant seconds before he plunged his hand into her chest and saved her life.

_Nothing can be worse… than the thought of living without you._

Throat tightening with a torrent of sobs she dared not release, for if she started now, she might never stop again, Amelle sank back against the door, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other fisted in her skirts.  _Three days_ , she thought.  _Three days._ He was so _still._  

The longer she stared, the more she found herself unable process the sight before her—this was not her Fenris.  This was not the Fenris she’d known for nearly seven years.  Her Fenris was all motion and action.  He was energy and movement and _light_.  Stillness did not suit him.  

Swallowing hard, pushing down her tears, her grief, and the wretched shadow of hopelessness, Amelle crossed the room and sat lightly upon the edge of the bed.

“You _idiot,_ ” she breathed, tears blinding her. Wiping them away impatiently with the back of her hand, Amelle gave herself a shake.  “You aren’t dying on me, you know,” she told him, sniffling.  “You don’t get to—get to do _that_ and _say that_ and then _die on me_ without so much as an explanation.”Amelle dashed away her tears again, then wiped the moisture away on her skirts.  “You _aren’t_ getting out of this that easily.  I don’t care if I have to go into the bloody Fade and drag you back by your _hair_ , you aren’t leaving me.  Not now.”

With that, she arranged herself carefully upon the edge of the bed, took the elf’s face between her hands and bowed her head, dipping once more into that place inside her where magic pulsed.  She pulled it forward with a deep breath, and as Amelle exhaled, the power of the Fade rushed forward with its hotcold thrum and its silver-blue glow.

She had three days.


	78. Chapter 78

It took longer to bathe and dress and—in Tasia’s words—make herself presentable than Kiara would have liked. She fidgeted, wanting to see her sister, until Tasia rapped her over the head with her hairbrush and ordered her to _sit still or this will take all bloody afternoon._

Startled by Tasia’s forcefulness, Kiara sat still.

She wasn’t precisely _surprised_ when she found Amelle’s room empty, the fine silken coverlets on the bed clearly unrumpled by anything even so brief as a nap. A pang of worry made her stomach swim with momentary nausea, and she wondered if she shouldn’t have impressed upon her sister just _how_ dangerous things could still be, until the cancer of Jessamine was completely cut from the palace. Maisie—poor, deluded Maisie—had been but one pawn, and she’d done damage enough that the entire palace would feel it. Kiara blinked back tears when she thought of Elias.

Yet it wasn’t even the danger from without that had Kiara most worried about her sister. Amelle was powerful—she knew that, she’d _always_ known that—but even powerful mages had to _rest_. And powerful mages who’d been under the influence of powerful poisons certainly had even more need of recuperation. She heard her father chiding her in her head, and grimaced. _What am I meant to do? Hit her over the head?_

The silence that followed was a thoughtful one.

With a sigh, Kiara turned from Amelle’s empty room and headed down the hallway. Kinnon fell in, but for once she didn’t resent the escort.

A brief touch from Amelle in the courtyard had put Kinnon’s head to rights and healed the small cut on his neck, but as he walked beside Kiara now, there was no mistaking the rounded shoulders and troubled demeanor. She’d never seen him so silent, so melancholy. Shame hung on him like a suit of ill-fitting armor.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said at last.

Kiara took three steps before she realized Kinnon had stopped abruptly. The knight was biting his bottom lip, staring at her with bruised, wounded eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do, my lady,” he choked out. “But whose fault was it, if not mine?”

“Maisie’s,” Kiara replied without hesitation.

Kinnon shook his head, one hand clenched around the hilt of his sheathed blade. “You don’t understand. I’ve known her since we were _children_. We trained together. We joined the guard together. We’ve been—we were—don’t try and make me feel better about it, my lady. I _should_ have known. But I was too busy making japes and feeling proud of my accomplishments to notice anything was wrong. And the Captain paid the price.”

_He was an archer. What was he thinking?_

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kiara repeated firmly.

Kinnon’s expression twisted. “She was my partner. I thought I knew her.”

With a sigh, Kiara stepped close to the knight and laid one hand on his armored arm. She could feel the tension, the guilt, rolling off him in waves, and he would not meet her eyes. “Listen to me,” she said. “I understand. I understand _completely._ It’s always hardest when—Kinnon, look at me.”

When he did, his eyes shone with tears. She felt an echoing prickle in her own. “Sometimes you think you know someone and then it turns out you didn’t have the slightest idea who they really were. You share meals and drinks and laughter, you fight back to back, you speak your secrets and hopes and dreams and think they’ll be safe.” _And then they blow up the chantry._ Kinnon’s eyes widened slightly, and she wondered if he was putting things together, lining things up in his head. _Anders, you bloody bastard._ “Maisie betrayed _you_ as much as she betrayed Sebastian, or me, or Elias, or Starkhaven. Her mistakes are not yours.”

“But, my lady, after everything—”

Kiara patted his arm gently. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now, Kinnon. I don’t think anyone ever really knows what’s going to happen. But I will tell you this: as long as I’m in Starkhaven, I hope you’ll be at my back. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

At first Kinnon said nothing. He seemed to take her words in and turn them over. Then, at last, his shoulders straightened and he saluted her crisply. “It is an honor, my lady.”

_If only it were so easy to fix all the damage done today._

When she reached Fenris’ room, Kiara pushed open the door quietly, though it soon became apparent she could have barged in on the back of a horse, swinging a sword overhead, and she would not have disturbed the room’s occupants. Amelle was sitting in a chair, but she’d fallen forward and her torso was sprawled on the bed. She was sound asleep, eyelashes fluttering and lips slightly parted. Even asleep, her sister was holding tight to Fenris’ hand.

Fenris himself looked no different. Whatever healing magics Amelle had employed already had done nothing to ease the tortured breathing that was a hallmark of Maker’s Light poisoning. Moving to the other side of the bed, Kiara sat gingerly on the edge and reached over to brush the white hair away from Fenris’ brow. It merely fell back as soon as she pulled her fingers away, the fine strands cascading down to cover his forehead and his eye. _Stubborn_ , she thought. _Like you, old friend._

Fenris’ breath wheezed in and out. Kiara echoed the pattern, and it wasn’t until she realized her own chest was burning that she forced herself to breathe normally again.

Kiara hadn’t planned to sleep, but when she leaned her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes, the exhaustion of the past two days—oh, and the morning of horror, when everything had changed—caught up with her, and she found herself unable to fight the darkness that came swooping in to claim her.

#

_“I can help you.  I can bring you to the one you seek.”_

_The demon’s clawed hands followed the curves of its full breasts slowly, deliberately, as its near-melodic voice like honey and velvet and wine poured into Amelle’s ears and filled her mind.  She wondered with the sort of dispassionate detachment so common to dreaming, if it was the same demon that had crooned to her in the darkness of Jessamine’s dark, little room._

_“I don’t want your help,” she said, stepping away, shaking her head.  “And you can’t help me anyway.”_

_“Oh, but I can,” it purred.  “He is very deep in the Fade.  He seeks you.  He_ wants _you.  I can take you to him.  I can bring you all you desire.”_

_Amelle laughed, a harsh bark of noise barely laughter at all.  “You have no idea what I desire, demon.  Now, go—I want nothing you can give me.”_

_It smiled at her, full, dark lips revealing too many sharp teeth.  It stank of cloying perfume, pleasant at first, but soon overwhelming.  It smothered.  It choked.  Like desire itself, the demon was appealing from a distance.  Once you drew closer you saw it for what it was, but by then it was too late._

_“I know too well, little mage.  I know_ all _you desire.  I know your deepest thoughts, your fantasies.  I can take you to him.  I can_ give _him to you.  You must only—”  The demon stopped and stared, narrowing its pitch-black eyes.  “You are_ smiling. _”_

 _“You can’t give him to me.  He is not_ yours _to give.”_

With a shiver and a start, Amelle jerked awake.  Her cheek rested against Fenris’ bed, his hand still clutched tightly in her own.  She blinked once, then twice, letting the vestiges of the dream dissipate like smoke.  She rubbed her nose and for a moment the tickle of spicy, musky perfume remained, but almost as quickly as she recognized it, it was gone.  She had no idea how long she’d been asleep—long enough to shift the shadows in the room and stiffen her neck.

It had also been long enough for Kiara to come looking for her.  And her sister was clearly every bit as exhausted as Amelle had been, for she leant against the headboard, dozing, her head tilted to one side.  She was also snoring softly. To own the truth, Amelle recognized the sound of the snore before she recognized the woman making it. Oh, it was Kiara sure enough, but a Kiara wearing a ridiculously fine, silken confection of a gown, and with hair more elaborately pinned than anything Amelle had seen her wear before. Looking at her sleeping sister, Amelle found the splendid rooms and guard escort and even Jessamine’s broad declarations of _Prince Sebastian’s intended_ began to seem more… _real_.

Not wanting to wake her sister, Amelle stood up and stretched once before resettling herself upon the bed.  She ran her thumb over one of Fenris’ dark eyebrows, then let her fingers linger by his temple before wandering into his hair.  His lids twitched and fluttered and Amelle felt a pang: he was in the Fade.

_He is very deep in the Fade.  He seeks you._

Amelle closed her eyes and leaned forward, dropping a kiss against his temple.  “I’m here, Fenris,” she whispered by his ear.  “I’m right here.  I’m not leaving you.  I swear it.  So don’t you leave me.”

With that, she settled back, taking care not to jostle the bed and wake Kiara.  Then she placed her hands upon Fenris again, and once more called upon the power of the Fade, channeling her energy into power and light, manifesting it into slender blue-white threads that sank silently into the elf’s skin.  Amelle wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed in this fashion, but the sound of Kiara’s voice, husky with sleep, was enough to startle her and make the healing light stutter out.

“…You should be resting.”

Amelle smiled a little, folding her hands in her lap.  “I did rest.  I feel better now.”

Kiara’s eyes narrowed shrewdly at her and Amelle shrugged.  “I can rest more later.”

Her sister didn’t reply.  Instead, she looked down at Amelle’s hands.  “Mely… what did Cullen mean? About the nosebleeds?  What did he mean about that?”

It was pointless to try and hide the sheepish expression and Amelle sighed.  “It’s… a long story.”

“Something happened while we were gone.”

A short, dry laugh puffed past her lips.  “Oh, something happened all right.”  And so Amelle told her.  Everything.  _Almost_ everything.  By the time she was finished, Kiara was cursing Meredith Stannard all over again.  If the woman _was_ walking with the Maker — something Amelle very seriously doubted — whatever remained of her ears were very likely burning.

Afterward, Kiara rubbed at her temples and almost looked as though she meant to push her hands through her hair—until, of course, her hands met the pins. Scowling at her fingers as though they’d betrayed her, she said quietly, “I wish I’d destroyed that blasted idol the minute we first laid eyes on it. Every bloody thing about it felt wrong.”

Amelle could hardly disagree with her there. “If it makes you feel better, I do believe we have _actually_ seen the last of it now.”

Amelle followed Kiara’s gaze as her sister took in Fenris’ paralyzed body. “When—in the square—I would have shot him. I thought he was trying to kill you,” she said, her voice thickening even as it grew distant with the memory. “Cullen stopped me; he said he’d seen Fenris do something similar before. I…” Kiara peered at Amelle through her fringe.  “I can’t help noticing you left that out of your story.”

Swallowing hard, Amelle ducked her head and looked down at Fenris.  “It was… no, you’re right. Fenris can… it’s the lyrium. What Cullen and I did in the spring used power like you can’t imagine. I thought I’d brought enough potions, but they ran out far too quickly.”  She peered at her sister through her bangs and shook her head.  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Kiri. It wasn’t just the _power_. It was trying to control the power in the presence of a templar doing that _thing_ templars do. It was bloody exhausting. And then Fenris… well, you saw. It was like that, only with less clawed gauntlet and more… I don’t know. Life-saving tenderness.”  She looked down at his hand before gently pulling it into both of her own.

Kiara went very quiet then. She drew her knees as close to her chest as her voluminous skirts would allow and laid her cheek upon them. “Amelle,” she said at last, very softly, “if I’d _known_. If I’d had the faintest _inkling_ …”

“I know,” Amelle replied. “You would have stayed. But, Kiri, you would have gotten sicker and sicker there, like Aveline. And… and Maker only knows what would have happened _here_. It’s… okay now. At least that part. It’s okay.”

Kiara reached out and touched Fenris’ shoulder, running a fingertip up the lyrium-marking there. “I wish I could tell him how… I wish I could thank him.”

Amelle bit down on her tongue, hard, trying to change the tenor of her pain from something so brutally emotional to something physical, something real and concrete and _momentary_. “I still have three days,” she ground out. “I have time to _try._ ”

Kiara’s expression was so sad Amelle had to turn away. “It’s the nature of the poison, Mely. He’ll die in three days. Sebastian was only trying to prepare you.”

She tried, but didn’t quite succeed in keeping the accusation out of her tone.  “ _You_ didn’t die.”

Kiara winced, anxiously folding her hands into the fabric of her skirts. “I… I got the antidote in time. It’s the only way. I think… I think Jessamine may have been keeping me under, afterward, but I did get it. Fenris—”

“Kiara, _stop!_ ” Amelle snapped, burning with anger so sudden and so absolute she was forced to release Fenris’ hand lest she inadvertently burn him. “Don’t… don’t you _dare_ give up on him. Maker knows I’m not.  Maybe he’ll—”  Amelle couldn’t make herself say the words _maybe he’ll die_ , her throat threatening to close off the sentiment entirely, but she forced the rest of the words forward through gritted teeth.  “And maybe he _won’t_ , but there will be _no grieving_. Not yet. Do you understand me? _Not yet!_ Not _ever_ if I have my way!”

Kiara blinked, her eyes wide. When comprehension began to dawn there, Amelle wished she could take her words back, wished she could bury them and forget about them and pretend they’d never been spoken. “Oh, Maker,” Kiara whispered, her voice breaking, “you… Mely, you’re in _love_ with him.”

She didn’t know what to say to that — what _could_ she say to that?  Amelle hadn’t even uttered the word, hadn’t even allowed herself to _think_ it amidst everything—but it was true, wasn’t it?  And now her own silence did nothing to mitigate the truth of Kiara’s words.  Nothing she could say, no means of deflection, no silly quip would distract her sister from the realization she’d just stumbled over.  Amelle found her sight suddenly blurring with tears.  She looked down at Fenris again.  His breathing was so labored, rasping in and out, and there was nothing she could _do_ about it.  A sob built and tightened and rose in her chest, and she pushed it down, swallowed it back, blinking rapidly as she stared at the slack hand she still dared not touch just yet.

“You… you do.”  She paused.  “Don’t you?”

Amelle shrugged, not looking up.  Then she gave a miserable nod.  “I… made a mess of things,” she answered shakily as more tears fell.  “And then he—and I—I can’t… I can’t… _lose_ him, Kiri.  I _can’t._ He has to know—I have to… make it right.”

When she looked up through damp lashes, Kiara’s expression was filled with such aching sorrow that Amelle felt her entire body tighten with sobs again.  She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and bowed her head, staring at Fenris’ hand, wishing more than anything it would twitch, or that his tattoos would glow — _some_ hint he wasn’t simply going to extinguish like a candle left to gutter out.  He didn’t deserve that.  _No one_ deserved that.

Well, _almost_ no one.

“I think,” Kiara began, scooting closer and working her hand into Amelle’s.  Reluctantly, Amelle let her sister take her hand, and it felt so calloused and warm and reassuring Amelle was struck by how much she’d missed her sister, and how much she’d been certain she’d never have a moment like this again. “I _think_ , if what happened this morning is any indication, he already knew.”

“You weren’t there,” she said dully.  “You don’t know—”

“Then tell me.”

Remembering her hubris, Amelle felt a flush of shame wash over her and she closed her eyes, shaking her head.  But Kiara squeezed her hand tightly.

“ _Tell me,_ Amelle.  Plea—”

“His memories.” Once those two words had been loosed, the rest came out in a torrent.  “Fenris’ memories weren’t lost to trauma, they were suppressed by a _spell._   Danarius suppressed them.  I thought I—I thought it was just trauma.  I thought I could heal it.  I didn’t know it would—it all came… he…  Fenris left, and I—I—he had to be so _angry_ at me, I thought, Kiri.  Magic all over again — it took his memories away and—”

“And gave him back something he thought he’d never have again.  How can you think he was _angry_?”

Amelle laughed bitterly, wiping her sleeve across her eyes.  “Whatever he remembered, Kiara,” she said with a sniff, “it wasn’t _good_.  You didn’t see his face.  I wish I’d never—I should have left well enough alone.  Maybe the spell would’ve faded on its own in time, allowing the memories to come back slowly.”

Kiara’s expression was one of naked incredulity.  “You really think Danarius’ magic would’ve allowed for that?”

“I don’t _know_!” cried Amelle. “It’s possible!”

“All right.  All right, so you… he left, like you said.  Then what?”

“Then I got the letter from Jessamine and…”  Her face burned hotter.  

With a look of long-suffering, her sister sighed and shook her head.  “…You tried to leave him behind.”

“Yes,” she said, in a tiny voice, looking down again.

Kiara exhaled something that was midway between a snort and a laugh.  “And now you’re sitting here cursing him for following.”

“No, it’s…  On the trip here, I thought… I thought perhaps if I had the opportunity to speak with him, we could… I could apologize.  I was…”

“Waiting for the right time.”

Again Amelle nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Oh, Mely…”

“So… so I have to—I have to try.  I don’t know what I can do, I don’t know if what I’m doing will _work,_ but I _do_ know I can’t stand to see him like this.  I can’t stand to do nothing.  And, Maker help me, if he—” her throat tightened and she swallowed hard.  “Maker forbid, if he dies…”

If Fenris died, then whether it was vengeance or not, Amelle was _going_ to make that woman pay, regardless of what Sebastian had to say on the matter.

Again Kiara squeezed her hand, and when Amelle looked up into her sister’s eyes, she saw reassurance and determination and a flinty echo of anger there. 

“I don’t think Sebastian will be lenient with her, if that’s what you fear,” Kiara said. “She will pay for what she’s done. It’s only… politics. He must start as he means to go on, and his position was precarious to begin with…”

“It’s so much easier when you can just knock heads together, isn’t it?” Amelle asked.

“Oh, infinitely,” Kiara agreed, smiling faintly. “I am awfully glad I managed to wriggle out of the Viscountcy every time someone mentioned it.”

Amelle pursed her lips thoughtfully. “But you agreed to be Princess, here.”

Kiara’s smile turned so brittle Amelle almost wished she hadn’t spoken at all. But then Kiara shook her head a little and replied, “It’s mostly been choosing draperies and avoiding getting my feet stepped on whilst dancing. If I’d been Viscount, I’d’ve had to do all the real work.”

“That Sebastian does?”

Kiara nodded as she turned her head, ostensibly to look toward the window. Amelle didn’t miss the way her sister’s cheeks paled, and she felt the sudden tremor in the hand she still held. “I need to talk to him.”

“He loves you, Kiri,” Amelle pressed. “I don’t know if you realize but he’s… he’s loved you a long time. A… a very long time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kiara retorted at once, though not without sorrow. “Politics again.”

“Of course it matters—”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

“Kiara—”

Kiara looked at her— _really_ looked at her. “You think I’m just being difficult, but I swear to you I’m not. They didn’t trust me to begin with, and they’ll trust me even less, now. For every Joff or Garreth Grayden there are half a dozen who see only the Champion of Kirkwall trying to scrabble for yet more power. Jessamine knew that much was true when she said it. Things are already too unstable. Sebastian can’t risk alienating half his court over something like this.”

“Then you _do_ need to talk to Sebastian,” Amelle replied. “Because you’ll only keep making yourself miserable and beating yourself up until you _know_. For sure.” Her eyes flickered down to Fenris again. “Go on. You’ll know where to find me.”

Kiara sighed, rising from the bed and vainly attempting to shake the wrinkles from her skirt. “I’m going to have food sent. Please promise me you’ll eat it.”

“Throw in a pot of tea and we’ll call it a deal.”

Kiara nodded and almost smiled. At the doorway, however, she paused, and Amelle saw fresh tension in the lines of her shoulders and the curve of her spine. “Amelle,” she said quietly. “The things I said to you—the way I acted—that I turned my _weapon_ on you… I want you to know… you _need_ to know how sorry I am.”

“You were unwell, Kiara,” Amelle replied. “We neither of us knew it, but—”

“So you say,” Kiara interrupted. “And… and I do believe you, but I know… those things I said, they didn’t come from _nothing_. I was hurt and I was angry and I was afraid, and for a little while I let those things mean too much.” Her sister glanced toward Fenris and then fixed her gaze once again, unflinchingly, on Amelle. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, because I _love_ you, little sister, and all I’ve ever wanted was to see you healthy and happy. I didn’t realize it was actually _me_ standing in the way of that, sometimes.”

Amelle stood, clasping her hands in front of her and took a few steps toward her sister.  “I said horrible things too — while perfectly well, mind you — and…” She took a deep breath and let it out.  “All I could think about — when I _could_ think, at least —  over the past few days was all I’d never get to tell you.   You’re my _sister._   I love you, too.  And, _Maker_ , if you can forgive the stupid things I said in anger, I can forgive the stupid things you said while impaired by the dust of a corrupted lyrium idol.”  She rushed forward then and hugged Kiara, hard _._   “Go.  Talk to Sebastian,” she whispered, kissing her sister’s cheek.  “I’ll be here.  I’ll be fine right here.”

Kiara pulled back, letting out a little sigh.  “Don’t—”

“Overdo it?  You already know I will. Go talk to your prince.”

“He was never mine.”

“He’s _always_ been yours, Kiri.  _Go_.  Don’t…”  She hesitated, glancing back at the Fenris’ still form.  “Don’t let things go unsaid.  Never let things go unsaid.”

Reaching out and giving Amelle’s hand a final squeeze, Kiara glanced briefly at the bed then looked back.  Kiara’s smile was melancholy and wry, exhausted and fond, all at once and, reluctantly, she left, closing the bedroom door behind her.  Soon, the soft echo of her footsteps against marble floors faded away.

Amelle walked back to the bed and sat.  “I will fight for you,” she said. “No matter the prognosis. No matter the odds.”

With that, she brought her hands up, letting the healing magics flare to life once again.

#

Kiara made it as far as Sebastian’s office before she just… stopped. Indeed, she stopped so very abruptly that Kinnon, following at her heels, nearly bowled into her. The sound of surprise he made was something like a yelp—a very high-pitched, girlish yelp—but she was too distracted even to poke fun at him.

The door was closed. That had never stopped her before; all she had to do was raise a hand to knock. She didn’t. Instead, she stared until the grain of the wood started to go blurry and she realized Kinnon had said her name several times.

“My lady?” he said when she turned to face him. “Lady Kiara? Are you—?”

“No,” she said. “No, we’ll just wait here for a moment. Maybe he’s not here. There’s no guard. He’d have a guard, right? I don’t want to—I just want to wait. For a moment.”

To his credit, Kinnon nodded as if her request was perfectly reasonable. Without asking any questions, he stood at her side and waited. For a great deal longer than a moment.

By the time Kiara had wrestled her courage into place and was reaching to knock, the door opened and Sebastian stood on the other side. He looked tired, and she jerked her hand back down to her side before it could betray her by reaching up to push the hair away from his brow. He’d removed his armor, but still wore the morning’s filthy clothing. There was a smudge of blood by his left ear. For an awkwardly long moment he stared at her, and she stared back at him.

Then, confused, he asked, “Have you been… out here long?”

“No,” she lied. She didn’t look back at Kinnon, but heard the knight swallow. “Can we—?”

“We need to talk,” Sebastian said at the same time. Shaking his head a little, he continued, “I was coming to find you.”

“Here I am,” she replied, utterly failing at the flippancy she attempted. He frowned, clearly concerned, but she only forced herself to smile. 

When he stepped backward, gesturing for her to enter, she walked past him with head high and heart thudding. The door closed, leaving Kinnon in the hall. Kiara moved toward the hearth, but Sebastian stepped in front of her, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder. “I know how Fenris fares, but how is your sister?” he asked, all anxiety. She couldn’t bear the tenderness in his eyes, or the gentleness of his touch. All she wanted was to lean in, but instead she ducked and spun away, seating herself in one of the chairs near the fire.

“She’s… physically well.”

Sebastian lingered where she’d left him. “I-I wanted to talk with you before you saw her. I saw something in her face. It could be nothing, it could be merely one-sided, but I think—”

“Fenris, you mean.” Kiara snorted lightly, folding her hands tight in her lap. “Keen observer that I am, it took several blunders and her lost temper to put _those_ pieces together.” She swallowed, hating the way she sounded, hating the bitter taste of the words in her mouth.

At this, he crossed the room and took the chair opposite hers, but he did not try to touch her again. She found herself torn between disappointment and gratitude. “You know, don’t you?” she asked quietly. “They’ll never accept me now.”

“Kiara…”

“We were dishonest. That’s my fault. I know you… I know you didn’t want to be. And if we’d said something before Jessamine got the chance… it might have been hard, but it wouldn’t have been a _weapon_. Jessamine _knew_ , Sebastian. She knew. Maisie, I suppose. And now it’s all broken.”

“Perhaps we had not yet _announced_ a formal engagement, but—”

Kiara wrapped her arms tightly around herself, biting the end of her tongue to keep from crying. “Even those who see the ruse for what it was… my sister is a mage. I’m… I’m a Fereldan refugee. Is that what you want for Starkhaven? Is that the legacy you want to leave? When you look at what I’ve done—when you hear someone like Jessamine tell the tale—I’m just a _mercenary_.”

“Jessamine and her tales change nothing.”

Kiara squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “That’s not true, Sebastian. Ask Varric. Ask Varric how a tale whispered in the right ears—or the wrong ones—can change history. You’re Prince of Starkhaven. Your marriage should bring stability to an unstable realm, not serve to tip it even more out of balance. Every one of those noble families who submitted a daughter for your consideration will speak against me, and they’ll have ammunition that cannot simply be brushed aside as rumor or hearsay.”

When Sebastian did not immediately offer a reply, Kiara hazarded a glance his way and immediately wished she hadn’t. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor between his feet. He looked defeated. “Tell me,” he said, without looking up at her, “is it the nobility’s censure you fear? Truly? Is it civil unrest or wagging tongues? Or is it only that I asked of you something you were neither ready nor willing to give?”

“That’s not fair.”

He raised his eyes to hers, and she sat back hard, startled by the rawness of the emotion there. “Is it not? Forgive me for being unfair, then, because I have to know, Kiara.”

“You tell _me_ something, then,” she retorted, too sharply. When Sebastian raised a weary eyebrow she asked pointedly, “What does Corwin say?”

As clearly as she’d ever seen one of her arrows fly straight and true to hit a bull’s-eye, Kiara saw the words she spoke hit Sebastian. He flinched, and his brow furrowed as if in pain, but he did not immediately answer.

“He must have an opinion,” Kiara pressed. “If you are so unwilling to speak it, I know what that opinion must be. You have trusted him in everything else; why would this instance be different?”

Still Sebastian held his tongue, though she could see emotion and reason warring on his face. Pulling herself from the chair, she knelt at his feet and took his cold hands in hers. “I love you,” she said. “But I have come to love Starkhaven, too. And because I love it, I know I’m _wrong_ for it. I… it’s like you said. I want to see Starkhaven a place of peace, a haven. I want to see you rule over such a place. But peace? And me? I’ve been running for more than seven years, Sebastian, and always, always death and destruction follow on my heels.”

“Then stop running.”

“And let the Divine follow me here? Bring holy war to your very doorstep?”

“You have _no reason_ to believe the Most Holy will blame you. _Anders_ was the one who set fire to the world.”

“And I was the Champion he followed.”

Sebastian grimaced, but didn’t pull away. Rather, he held her hands tighter. 

Bowing her head, Kiara said, “It was folly for me to think I could stay.”

“Kiara…”

She swallowed hard, fighting the tears. She knew she would have to leave quickly, before she was overcome by them. “After Fenris… and… and after Jessamine…”

“No. You are still—you’re an Amell. You are—Kiara, _don’t._ ”

“Ask your court,” she whispered. “Ask Corwin. Ask the Revered Mother. They know what I know, and what you…” She tugged her hands from his grip and rose to her feet. “It’s not you, Sebastian. These weeks… this time—I should have thought through the consequences sooner, that’s all. I should have known.”

“Kiara, you cannot—”

“I can,” she said firmly, already heading toward the door at half a run. “And I must. Your Highness.”

When the door shut, Kinnon made no remark about her tears. He only handed her a handkerchief and fell in, her silent protector.


	79. Chapter 79

_Once upon a time, there was a shepherd.  But no ordinary shepherd he; no, indeed, for he was a prince by birth.  His father, the king, was a wicked mage, and a crueler man has never been found._

_The prince’s mother died only moments after the babe was placed in her arms, and then only because the king had taken her life himself.  For the prince was born the youngest of three brothers; the older two were possessed of magic and, much like their father, and his father before him, and again before that, and they were cruel, caring only for their own desires.  The youngest, however, did not have the touch of magic upon his skin, nothing to make him worthy in his father’s eyes, or the eyes of his brothers, and it was for this reason his mother was slain._

_And so, to make his son worthy of his heritage, the evil mage king laid a curse upon his youngest son, imbuing the boy with the heart of a wolf, so that he would thirst for blood like his brothers, and tear out the hearts of the king’s enemies, feasting upon the meat like the animal whose heart beat in his chest._

_And so this endured, for many years._

_Over time, the boy became a man.  No longer a wolf cub, he had grown into his role, and embraced it, giving very little thought to how much misery it brought him, for he saw no way out of his curse.  As he’d grown, his fathers and brothers treated him much like the animal whose heart beat inside him.  Less a prince than a pet, he was forced to take his meals in the courtyard and to make his bed in the stables.  Throughout the kingdom, however, the youngest prince was a source of terror.  He was the monster lurking in every shadow, and mothers warned their children that the Great Wolf Prince would steal them from their beds and gobble them up if they did not behave._

_Then, one moonless night, while the kingdom slept, the prince slipped beyond the castle walls, vanishing into darkness.  For though the wolf’s heart existed hot and whole in his chest, he could not live with the atrocities he’d committed, and did not wish to endure this existence a moment longer.  He ran, with all the speed and stealth of a wolf, and as day broke, his frenzied, desperate pace slowed.  He was far from the kingdom, far from the castle, far from his father and brothers.  Here, hills rolled on in endless green waves, the air clean and free from magic._

_Here, he decided, he could live.  And live he did, building a tiny cottage with his own two hands, and tending sheep on those sprawling, grassy hills.  Perhaps it was a bit strange, a wolf protecting sheep, but the prince was content with his tiny cottage and his sheep and, most of all, the quiet solitude of those grassy hills.  He did not miss the taste of blood upon his tongue; more than that, he did not miss his father or brothers.  Most of all, he did not miss magic, for it had been magic that set the wolf’s heart beating in his chest to begin with._

_But one day, one of the shepherd-prince’s sheep fell ill.  His favorite ewe, heavy with lambs in her belly, refused both food and water.  She did not graze, but instead lay listlessly in the grass.  It was early yet for her to birth the lambs, and the shepherd-prince was frightened, for he had never seen a death he had not caused.  And so, at first light, the shepherd-prince ran all the way to the village to fetch a healer who might yet save his ewe._

_Alas, the village healer could not leave the village; an outbreak of illness kept her tethered, and she could not risk going so far from the village to tend a single ewe._

_Despair threatened to overtake the shepherd as he leant heavily against the healer’s closed door, when he noted a young woman watching him from the shadows of the old woman’s home._

_“I can help you,” she told him._

_Relief overspread the shepherd, only to be replaced with repugnance when his wolf’s heart beat hard, catching the scent of magic on the young woman._

_“I do not need your help,” he growled.  “Or the help of anyone like you.”_

_“You would let your ewe die, then?”_

_“Magic does not heal; it only causes ruin.  You cannot help me.  Begone!”_

_But the young woman did not leave.  She followed him back to his cottage; heedless of his growled orders, his threats, his invectives, she followed him._

_She followed him, and when they returned to the shepherd’s home, it was to discover the ewe had perished only moments before.  The shepherd’s heart, his wolf’s heart, broke at the sight of the dead ewe, and he turned in anger to the young woman, snarling, “Use your magic to fix this, else I will tear out your heart and feast upon it.”_

_“I cannot,” the young woman said, the bright sheen of tears in her eyes._

_“Then I shall taste your blood before the—”_

_“But,” she said, holding a hand up as if to stem the tide of grief flowing from the shepherd’s heart, “I might yet save her lambs.”_

_“Do it,” the shepherd ordered, though he never sounded quite so like a prince than he did in that instant.  “But know that if you fail, your life is forfeit—“_

A soft knock sounded, and Amelle’s head lifted from the book she was reading.  She’d heard once that even those deeply asleep and lost in the Fade might yet still hear words spoken to them by those in the waking world.  So she’d chosen a book of fables and tales from the palace library and read to Fenris whenever she stopped for food or drink, or simply to let her mana replenish.  She could not say whether it helped or not, but at this point, there was very little Amelle wouldn’t do, or wouldn’t at least _try._

“Come in,” she called out softly, her finger resting on the page, holding her place.  But when the door swung open to reveal Varric, Amelle stood, the book falling near soundlessly to the carpeted floor.

“Hey, Firefly.”

“What in all the bloody Void are you doing out of bed?” she demanded.  “For the Maker’s sake, Varric, _you were poisoned._   You ought to be _resting_.”

The dwarf sighed and ran one hand over his head, eyes shifting to the side.  “Yeah, says you and Rivaini and Hawke and Choir Boy and the damn Turnip would probably say something if I’d even seen him yet.  But the way I hear it, Hawke was holding archery contests an hour she woke up from this stuff.  Least I could do was take a walk down a hallway.”  His jaw tightened, thick brows furrowing, but the expression lasted only an instant and Amelle could not be sure if discomfort or fatigue was the cause, or at least not until Varric cleared his throat and said, “So.  How’s Broody coming along?”

Neither discomfort, nor fatigue, if Amelle guessed correctly.  Something different.  Something deeper.  And though Varric’s expression was now just as benign as she would have come to expect over the years, she’d seen a glimpse of pain, and regret, and something like enough to guilt that her heart turned over with it.

She looked down at Fenris, brushing back the pale hair lying against his forehead.  “No… there’s been no change,” she told him, around the lump in her throat.

Varric took another step or two into the room, letting the door shut quietly behind him.  “Firefly— Amelle.”  

“You aren’t going to try and tell me I oughtn’t to have given up the antidote for you, are you?”  She sat, letting out a long, deep breath.  “Because you’d be wrong.”  Sending Varric a steady, level look, and trying to tamp down the way her heart twisted painfully in her chest as she said the words, Amelle told him, “Because giving the antidote to Fenris at that point was a… a last resort.  An outside chance.  There… there were no guarantees it would work, and—and _Varric,_ if you’d—if you’d…”  After so much death, so much time spent _fighting_ death, fighting what everyone was telling her was an _inevitable_ death, Amelle could not make herself say the words _if you’d died._   Varric seemed to understand what she was trying to say anyway, if his somber expression was anything to go by.  “We’d have risked losing two friends.”  Her smile was a watery one.  “And you know me.  I—I can’t do that.  Want to save everyone without risking anyone.”

“Don’t you say that like it’s a bad thing, Firefly,” he said with a snort, and after a moment Varric shook his head, taking a few steps closer to the bed before settling into the chair Amelle had only recently vacated.  “And none of that means I want to see a friend in this kind of shape.”

“I know.”

Neither said anything for a few seconds, and the room was filled with the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and Fenris’ labored breathing.

“This has been one hell of a shitty trip, you know that?”

“Tell me about it,” she said with a wan smile.  “Not one I’d care to repeat.”

They sat a little while, letting the quiet settle around them.  Perhaps on some level it was strange that Varric _was_ being so quiet, but despite the sound of Fenris’ breathing it felt…almost peaceful, _companionable_ , and Amelle was not inclined to break it.  But when Amelle looked at Varric’s face, peace was the last thing she saw there.  

“…Varric?”

“He was scared, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”  But Amelle knew.  Oh, she knew.

“Broody.”  Varric paused, and it was a weighty silence this time; even Varric looked as if there were something heavy hanging around him.  “Listen.  Whatever else… _happened_ , you’ve gotta know he… he was worried— _scared_ , actually, after you went missing.  He was—”

“Don’t,” Amelle said, and the word was pulled from her, sounding too harsh, too raw, scraping against the soft crackling of the fire.  “Don’t… tell me things you think you need to tell me because you think he’s going to die, Varric.”  She took a breath and smoothed her hands over Fenris’ unrumpled coverlet.  “Don’t… tell me his story while he’s still alive.”

His answering look was too shrewd, too knowing by half.  “Let me guess.  You also don’t want me telling you the story about the idiot dwarf who let himself get knocked on the back of the sodding head and was lying on the ground like a sack of potatoes while his friend got kidnapped.”

Amelle blinked.  Not so much at the vitriol loading down Varric’s words, though she could hardly overlook that, but his word choice itself.  She’d spent so much time thinking of her sister’s friends as _her sister’s friends_ that she’d never given any consideration to the possibility that they might’ve been _her_ friends as well.  And she, theirs.

“No,” she said quietly, but with enough force to make Varric look up with a start.  “I don’t want to hear that story either.  And I don’t want you telling it, because it’s an even bigger pile of crap than your usual tales.  Hard as it is to admit, she had us fooled.  We none of us knew what she was up to—none of us knew she _wasn’t_ an ally.  So forget that one, too.”

Varric let out a breath that sounded as if he’d been holding it a long time, slouching forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  “Didn’t realize my audience was so picky,” he said, a ghost of his old tone coming back.

“Selective,” Amelle corrected him.  “Discriminating.”

“So what’s the selective, discriminating reader reading now?” he asked, chuckling when Amelle held up the book of tales.  “Let me guess: ’The Shepherd Prince’?”

“It seemed to suit,” she said with a shrug.

“Yeah, until the part where the prince turns _into a wolf_ and eats the girl because she can’t save the lambs and then finds out too damn late that she was a princess who’d run away from her magic-hating kingdom.”

Amelle scowled.  “ _That’s_ not the version I was going to _tell_ him.”

“Firefly,” Varric said, loading as much gravity into her nickname as possible.  “How many times do I have to tell you to leave improvisation to the professionals?”

 Her scowl melting into a smile as amused as it was affectionate, Amelle arched an eyebrow at Varric.  “All right.”

“All right what?”

Amelle gestured grandly at Varric, tossing him the book.  “You’re the professional.  _Improvise._ ”

It took a moment or two of thought, but after that time had passed, Varric set the book aside, leaned back in the chair and got comfortable, picking up the story where Amelle had left off.

_“Know that if you fail,” the prince told her, “your life is forfeit.  I will devour your heart and soak the earth with your blood.”_

_As luck would have it, the girl didn’t fail, and three lambs were born that day.  The shepherd didn’t make a secret of his dislike for the young woman, but she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain, so he didn’t kill her.  Instead, together they two worked to bury the favored ewe beneath the shade of a willow tree._

_Days turned into weeks, which turned into months, during which time the shepherd called upon the young woman whenever any of his flock required healing.  And she called on him in turn, bringing bread and cheese from the village and spending lazy afternoons with the shepherd beneath the ewe’s willow tree.  Though she dared not speak the words, she was falling in love with the surly shepherd._

_One afternoon, after not seeing him in the village for several days, the young woman went to the shepherd’s cottage.  She found the sheep in their pen; they’d not been let out that morning, and for possibly longer than that.  Worried, she rapped on the windows and knocked on the door, pushing inside when the shepherd didn’t answer._

_When she stumbled into the cottage, she found the shepherd sprawled upon the floor, clutching his chest in incredible pain.  He was dying.  It didn’t take long for the young woman to realize that the spell the wicked mage king had placed upon his son was turning foul.  For, unbeknownst to the young woman, the shepherd had fallen in love with her as well; but there was no room for love in the evil king’s curse, and the wolf’s heart had begun to turn rancid, poisoning him.  It no longer fit in the young man’s chest; every beat caused him pain, and it grieved the young woman to see him in such pain, for she loved the shepherd.  But she did not know what she could do to help him._

_Faced with unfamiliar magic, to say nothing of an unfamiliar spell, using her own magic the young woman drew out half her own heart, placing it in the shepherd’s chest.  His pain eased, and the heart beat.  He was saved, though he could scarce believe it himself._

_“How can you live with only half a heart?” cried the villagers, when they heard the tale.  For the more miraculous the tale, the faster it spreads._

_“I do not,” the young woman told them.  “For as long as my love draws breath, my heart is whole.”_

The story was over, and the room was once again silent, but for Fenris’ wheezing breaths and the fire crackling upon the logs in the hearth.

“I know what they’re saying about this Maker’s Light stuff, Firefly,” Varric told her, easing himself down from the chair and heading for the door.  “But I’ve been around long enough to know that sometimes the things that have no chance of working, the things that _shouldn’t_ work?  Do.  It doesn’t matter what anyone says will work or won’t work or _shouldn’t_ work—you just keep doing what you’re doing.  You’re writing the story now.  No telling how it’s gonna end.”  With a final look back at the pair of them, Varric gave a nod and left.

Amelle looked down at Fenris, brushing the backs of her fingers across his feverish brow.

_As long as my love draws breath, my heart is whole._

“He’s right about one thing, you know,” Amelle told Fenris, situating his head in her lap, then breathing deeply, that hotcold thrum gathering and pouring from her palms in a steady blue-white glow.  Threads of light and magic sunk into the elf’s feverish skin as Amelle poured every ounce of concentration, every bit of her own heart into the work.  “Your story isn’t over yet.  Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Not for two more days, at least.

#

After soaking in the bath until the water went cold, Cullen dragged himself through his ablutions. He glanced at the bed, and decided he was still too… no, even with Amelle found— _alive, thank Andraste, alive!_ —and the crisis averted, he knew sleep would prove elusive. When he closed his eyes, he saw Fenris crumpling to the ground, and the arrow going through the heart of that plain man in his plain clothes, and the feral look on the healer Jessamine’s face. In some ways the last haunted him most of all. He’d kept expecting something awful—some demon, some abomination—to burst forth and make sense of the _hate_ but Jessamine was only a human woman with human hates, who’d pushed everything into madness. _But it’s not just mages, Knight-Captain,_ Hawke had told him once. _All_ people _have the capacity for evil; they just aren’t as obvious about it._

She’d been right. Of course. Things were never as simple as mages and templars, flaming-sword-breastplates and magic-imbued-staves. He just hadn’t realized it. He’d never dreamed of seeing such a wretched example with his own eyes.

And then he’d _lied_ to the Revered Mother. Even now, his mouth burned with the falsehood. _Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Maker._

He was beginning to understand why friendship with mages was so frowned upon by the Order. Oh, it started innocently enough with laughter and standing up to obnoxious uncles and afternoons spent hunting Andraste’s Grace, but then it became abandoning one’s post, haring across the country, and telling bold-faced lies to local Chantry leaders.

And the worst part of all was that he knew he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

He needed a drink. A very stiff drink. Perhaps even two of them. At the same time.

Once he was clean and dressed and more or less put together again, he found his way to the mess hall. It was boisterous and loud, filled with men and women rejoicing the lives they’d kept, even as they mourned those whose lives had been lost. The Order… frowned on such rowdiness, generally, but he’d seen it before. Adrenaline ran high after a battle; it was better to release it than let it explode later.

Before he could find a drink and a table of his own, an arm slipped through his and he jumped, startled. It was Isabela’s laugh he recognized, even before he looked down and saw her arm looped through his. “You look like a man who needs to drown some sorrows,” she said lightly. The lightness, he noted, did not quite reach her eyes. “Come on. We’re practically… _bosom_ companions now, Handsome. Surely you wouldn’t refuse to have a drink with a _bosom_ companion.”

Even with all the time—had it only truly been a week? A little more?—spent in Isabela’s company, and even with all her teasing, he still couldn’t help the slight blush that rose to his cheeks at the way she lingered on the word _bosom_. It was nigh impossible to keep his gaze from straying down to the one she displayed so… flagrantly. She laughed again, as though reading his thoughts. Perhaps she could. She was a bit… scary. He wouldn’t put much past her abilities.

“Ahh, and I can still coax a blush,” she mused. “The others have been all but immune for years. We may have to keep you, Handsome. If only for the novelty. Come on then. Varric’s always the best at sniffing out the good liquor. Let’s see what he’s found, shall we?” 

He thought back to the days on the road, feeling included because Amelle was there to smooth the rough edges for him. _Oh, Amelle._ “I would not wish to interrupt—”

“Blushes _and_ he’s polite. Definitely novel.” Her tone remained light, joking almost, but her gaze missed nothing. He wondered, a little, how many people took Isabela at her tone while completely missing the rest. The faint lines at the corners of those eyes said she was more worried than her words admitted, and more relieved. The former for Fenris, he supposed. The latter for Varric.

 _Oh, Amelle. Oh, Fenris._  

As if called by these thoughts, Varric appeared, bottle of something in hand. “Oh, look,” he said dryly. “You’ve found a stray templar.”

“Be kind. Handsome and I are—”

“Yes,” Varric interrupted. “Bosom companions. I heard.”

Isabela snorted. “I’ll have you know we made an excellent team this morning.”

“He stood like a post and you poked a girl in the back?” Varric asked, arching an eyebrow. He swiped at a nearby table with his sleeve before setting down his find. “Now _Bianca_ and I? I’ll have you know we fought off a dozen of that madwoman’s puppets. At the same time.”

Isabela gave him a skeptical look. “Mmm, yes. A dozen. A pity no one but _Bianca_ was there to witness it.” She nudged Varric with an elbow almost playfully, but the creases at the corners of her eyes deepened. “And your bloody heroics nearly got you—”

“Hey now,” he said, in as serious a voice as Cullen had ever heard from him. “None of that. Look at me. Fit as a fiddle.”

“It was damned close.”

Varric smiled faintly. “And don’t I know you’ll be calling in that ‘remember the time I saved your ass by dragging you through the battlefield’ favor.”

The smile she smiled was a genuine one. It almost stole the grief from her eyes. “How about I call it in now? Share that bottle with Handsome and me? With minimal complaining? I know that’ll be the hard part.”

Varric sighed. “You know how I feel about drinking with Chantry-types.”

“You can’t be that against it, Fuzzy. I see you brought three glasses.”

“You and your strays, Rivaini. The third glass was for Bianca, but I suppose she’s feeling magnanimous enough to share with the Turnip.”

Cullen sighed, thought about holding his tongue, and then asked, “What’s with the nicknames, anyway?”

Isabela waved her hand dismissively before reaching for the bottle and pouring three _very_ stiff drinks. Cullen eyed the one she pushed his way warily and didn’t immediately lift it to his lips. “It used to be all ‘kitten’ and ‘sailor’ and ‘whore’ with me, but Varric’s much better at nicknames. He’s enlightened me as to their… usefulness. Now I think they’re quite fun, and usually we only use real names when we’re mad at someone. Handsome.”

Varric glowered. “Turnip.”

Isabela grinned, bumping shoulders with Varric. “Handsome. He’s got pretty eyes. And there’s something about the mouth. I can hardly _stop_ myself from ruffling his hair. It actually _pains_ me.” Cullen leaned back, just in case she tried to make good on her threat. She snickered but kept her hands on the table. “I admit, the wounded air of, I don’t know, what is it? Lost hopes and dreams? Combined with that templar stiff upper lip… usually that kind of thing leaves me cold, but you wear it well.” She laughed, lowering her voice suggestively. “ _I’d_ praise your Maker.”

Isabela leaned across the table to fix Cullen with a steady gaze that made him feel immediately uncomfortable. He did his best not to squirm— _she’s just teasing, you know what her teasing’s like_ —reaching for the drink she’d poured him more to have something to _do_ than because he was thirsty. Almost before he realized what he was doing, he’d tossed the entire thing back, and Isabela had poured him a second.

Varric leaned back, turning his own glass of liquor between his fingers. “Look. You did a good thing for Firefly today. Don’t think we don’t realize you’re the reason we’re not breaking her out of templar solitary right now.”

“She’d have done the same for me,” Cullen said. His tongue already felt funny, like it was slightly too big for his mouth. Still, he drank his second drink almost as quickly as he’d drunk the first. His glass miraculously filled itself again. _There’s one for the Maker. Blessed be the always-full glass of… oh, dear._

Cullen didn’t want to talk about templars, though. He was here to drink away the nagging, persistent thoughts about just how much trouble he was about to be in. Instead, he swallowed around his already-thick tongue and asked, “Why doesn’t Hawke have a nickname?”

Varric gave him a look that clearly said the thought Cullen about as clever as a bag of rocks. A small bag of rocks. Small, stupid rocks. “Hawke’s Hawke.”

“But that’s her _name_. Why isn’t she… why isn’t she something else? Like… _Bossy_.”

Isabela burst into gales of laughter so loud people sitting three tables over stopped to look at them, wondering what the joke was.

Even Varric looked amused. “You want to be the one to call her that to her face?”

Cullen gave an exaggerated frown. His third glass was empty—Maker, he hoped it was still only his third glass—and filling again even as he watched. “But she is. Bossy. Isn’t she?”

“Sure. But a nickname isn’t always what you _are_.”

Cullen puzzled this over, but the words didn’t make sense. The world was starting to feel a little fuzzy, to own the truth—and not fuzzy like Varric’s chest but a different kind, a drunker kind—but at least he wasn’t obsessively thinking about the way he’d _lied to the Revered Mother_. He blinked. The world remained pleasantly blurry. “But you call her Hawke. Hawke Hawke. And you call _her_ Rivaini. That’s what she is. And she calls you Fuzzy. That’s what—”

“Yes, yes,” Varric interrupted. “I see your point. But Firefly’s not a real firefly and Daisy’s not a real daisy.”

“Some days I had my doubts Blondie was even a real blond, come to think of it,” Isabela mused. Cullen had no idea whom they meant, but feared asking. Instead he drank. But slower. _Sips._ “Ooh! And Choir Boy. You were kind of being mean with that one.”

“I didn’t like him so much back then.”

Cullen frowned. “And you don’t like me. So. Turnip.”

Varric snorted.

“ _I_ call him _Princess_ ,” Isabela said conspiratorially. “Because, you know, he’s a prince. And he _hates_ it. But he’s got such pretty eyes and eyelashes like a girl.”

“You and the pretty eyes, Rivaini.”

She grinned. “I appreciate a pretty arse, too. As you know. But nothing tops the magnificence of your chest hair, Fuzzy. Even _if_ jealousy does _not_ become you.”

Instead of getting angry, Varric only chuckled. “This one would’ve made a decent Broody, I think, if Broody wasn’t already taken.”

As soon as he’d spoken, however, a sadness swept over Varric’s expression. Cullen saw it mirrored on Isabela’s face.   

Isabela refilled all their glasses. Then swallowing hard, she raised hers. “To Broody.”

They clinked their drinks over the table—Cullen spilled quite a lot of his drink doing so—and drank heartily. _He fell so hard and lay so still. And Amelle. Oh, Amelle. I am so sorry._

“How’s kitten doing?” Isabela asked, sliding her glass around in a circle on the table.  Cullen was about to answer that he hadn’t spoken to Amelle yet, but it was Varric she’d asked, made plain by the way he heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, tapping one finger in a slow rhythm against the table.

“Holding it together,” Varric replied, shrugging one shoulder.  “Yelled at me for being out of bed.”

“Warned you,” Isabela replied, refilling the glasses again.  Cullen found himself surprised there was room enough in his glass for any _more_ liquor, but it had somehow been drained without his knowledge.  “So what else do we know?”

Varric pulled a small leatherbound book from an inside pocket, flipping it open and setting it down flat on the table.  “Well, I can tell you the guy guarding Firefly isn’t much of a talker, and I think he’s scared stiff of her, but he’s no turncloak, so that’s something.  Lots of people are talking, and most of them saying different versions of the same thing.”  His expression turned wry.  “ _Lots_ of people insisting they knew Jessamine was no good from the start.”

“Of course they did,” muttered Isabela.  “Not that anyone did anything about it. Isn’t hindsight grand?”

“And I really don’t like what I’m hearing about this Maker’s Light stuff.”

Isabela’s eyes darkened.  “And I don’t like what I’ve bloody well seen of it.  No antidotes?  No recipes for antidotes?  No—”

“Nothing,” Varric supplied with a glower.  “For that matter, I haven’t heard a peep about Broody that didn’t have to do with…” his mouth twisted sourly over the word he was about to spit out, “ _preparations._ ”  He picked up the bottle, as if to refill their glasses, then winced.  Without a word, Isabela swept the bottle from Varric’s hand—he reached up to rub at his sore shoulder—and filled their glasses again, as if somehow they could anesthetize themselves against the subject.

“I’ve heard much the same,” Isabela declared, setting the bottle down firmly.  “And plenty of whispers about Hawke and Princess.  Turns out that bitch wasn’t lying about one thing.  Everyone in the bloody palace suspected _something_ was going on between them.  People were placing _bets_.”  

Varric snorted. “Well. They never were very subtle.”

A very faint smile played about Isabela’s lips. “Worst rogues.” Then she leaned forward on one elbow and continued, “Let’s just say _some people_ were happier about it than others _._   And,” she added when Varric rolled his eyes, “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear it’s mostly the highborn who were less than thrilled at the prospect.”

“Let me guess,” Varric drawled.  “Highborn ladies of a certain marrying age?”

“Got it in one, Fuzzy.”

“Look at me, so surprised.”

“What about,” Cullen began, trying to take care to pronounce the syllables properly, “Amelle?”

“Split down the middle, from what I can tell,” Varric told him.  “There’s a lot of people yelling she should be under lock and key, and others who aren’t so sure, given what they saw in the square.  Firefly probably helped her popularity with the local color, what with the life-saving and all.  But, all in all, folks don’t sound as rabid as they could be, finding out they’ve got a real live mage in their midst.”

“The only thing everyone can agree on,” said Isabela, holding up her glass and knocking the last inch of liquor back in one gulp, “is that no one knows what’s going on _or_ what’s going to happen.”

“At least the water’s not poisoned,” Cullen muttered, staring into the bottom of his once-again empty glass. And though it wasn’t funny—shouldn’t have been funny at all—he couldn’t help the little bark of laughter that escaped. _Oh, Fenris. Oh, Amelle._

“Speaking of water,” Isabela said. Cullen didn’t miss the look she and Varric exchanged.

“I think I will… take my leave,” Cullen said, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. “Thank you both for the—for the conversation.”

He ignored the way he slurred conversation. Thankfully, so did they.

“You sure you’re—”

“Indeed,” Cullen interrupted. “Good day to you both.”

As he walked away, he heard Isabela say, “Isn’t the politeness adorable?”

“I suppose,” Varric added. “And not bad at keeping up with the drink, either, for a Chantry boy.”

#

Kiara didn’t know what she’d done to annoy the Maker, but it had to have been something serious indeed. She was still sniffling away the last of her tears, Kinnon’s handkerchief long since soaked through, when she turned a corner and nearly walked straight into Lady Aileene Caddell. The tall brunette’s cool gaze swept over her from head to heel; Kiara knew the woman missed nothing. She noted the rumpled dress and the handkerchief and the tearstained face, certainly. She probably noticed the bruises left from the morning’s fighting, and the way Kiara carried herself a little tenderly because of them.

Kiara stood frozen, willing the woman not to speak, to simply walk away. A faint, cruel smile pulled at Aileene’s lips. To an outsider it might have looked like sympathy, but Kiara saw behind the mask to the satisfaction beneath.

“My lady?” asked Kinnon. “Shall we go?”

Aileene laughed a light, tinkling, false little laugh. “Oh, you mean _her_ , Ser Kinnon. How charming.” As if Kinnon’s words had broken the spell of silence, Aileene turned her piercing gaze back to Kiara and said, “If the tales we hear are true, you _have_ had quite the morning.” Aileene’s eyes lowered pointedly to the handkerchief still clenched tight in Kiara’s fist. “And _such_ tales! Your sister, a mage. That’s a terrible taint on a bloodline. Isn’t that what kept the Amells from attaining the Viscountcy in Kirkwall only a generation or two back? Pity.”

 _I’m going to kill her. I’m actually going to rip her face off with my bare hands, and they’ll put me in the cell next to Jessamine._ Kiara swallowed hard.

“Lady _Aileene_ ,” Kinnon snapped, without even a hint of his usual good humor. “Such discourtesy is beneath you.”

“Courtesy is earned, Ser Kinnon. She deserves none from me. You would be wise to consider your own place here. Perhaps she was worth defending when she had something to give in return, but with a mage sister and—”

Whatever Aileene was going to add after the _and_ disappeared in a squeal and a thud as she crashed to the floor in a thunderclap of white light.

Kiara whirled, her hand already reaching for the jeweled blade at her belt. Cullen stood behind her, eyes bloodshot, staring at the heap of blustering lady on the floor. “Thought I heard someone say mage,” he explained.

“Was that a _smite_?”

“Only… only a little one.”

“I didn’t even know it _affected_ non-mages.”

Cullen shrugged, wavering slightly on his feet. “We’re not exactly s’posed to use it on people. Non-mage people. I, uh, didn’t mean to imply—”

All at once, Kiara put together the wobbling and the reddened eyes and the way Cullen definitely slurred the word _supposed_ and gasped, “Cullen, are you _drunk_?”

Lady Aileene was struggling to her feet, her hair frizzy about her flushed face and her clothing in utter disarray. “I will have you… I will… the Revered Mother will hear of this! I will not rest until you are driven in shame from the ranks of the Order! I shall send a letter to the _Divine herself_!”

 Kiara almost grinned, but settled instead for a very mild smirk. “And are you a child, then, still hiding in your nursemaid’s skirts, unwilling or unable to speak for herself, to fight her own battles?” 

Aileene flushed an even deeper shade of crimson when she realized it was her own words being parroted back at her. “Impudent—”

“I _know_ ,” Kiara said, with an exaggerated groan. “Impudent, over-reaching, stupid, foolish girl. I am inferior to you in every _possible_ way. And yet I’m not the one flat on my arse in the middle of a public hallway.” Narrowing her eyes, Kiara fixed the woman with a dangerous look. “Good day, Aileene.”

With a sideways glance at Kinnon, Kiara moved to Cullen’s side and took his arm. He glanced down at her, confused, but seemed to take the hint when she began to tug him down the hallway. When they were safely away from Aileene, Kiara turned another corner and guided Cullen toward her room; it was closer than his, and she didn’t want to risk him either passing out or smiting more bystanders. _Not that she didn’t deserve that and worse, but at least I’m not in prison._ The templar was even more unsteady than she’d thought—he stumbled if they walked too fast, and was muttering bits of the Chant under his breath.

“I knew an Amell once,” he said abruptly. “In Ferelden. In the Circle.”

Kiara smiled gently. “She’s a cousin of mine, I think.”

“Was,” he said darkly. “I suppose they never told you. _I_ never told you. She died… she died being a _hero_. I thought she was a hero, but when they told the story later, they hardly even mentioned her. A… a mage girl, h-hardly more than an apprentice, who died trying to stop… trying to stop a blood mage. He was her friend. The blood mage. Never understood why. He was so bloody _dour_ , so insipid, so… whiny. And she was… she was…”

Kiara didn’t think the templar realized he was crying, and she wasn’t going to bring his attention to it. Her eyes prickled in sympathy. They’d reached her rooms, and on her nod, Kinnon opened the door so she could lead Cullen within. She gave the knight a brief smile and he nodded knowingly, closing the door and returning to his position as sentry outside it. 

Left alone with Cullen, she dragged him to the fire and pushed him gently into one of the seats there. “I’d offer you a drink,” she said lightly, “but I daresay that’s the last thing you need.”

His laugh was broken. “She was _golden_ ,” he said, his voice still tinged with reverence. “She was… and her smile… oh, Maker.”

“Cullen,” Kiara soothed. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“But I _do_ ,” he insisted. “She was… she looked a bit like you. A bit like your sister. An Amell.”

“Same nose?” Kiara asked. 

Cullen’s answering smile was fond. “Same nose. I think… Hawke. I—kissed your sister.”

“ _What_?”

He raised his hands defensively. “It’s not what you—it was like kissing my sister. Uh, kissing your sister was like kissing… but you trusted me, and I—thought you should know. Secrets are so…”

“Andraste’s hairy toes,” Kiara gasped, flinging herself into the other chair and rather wishing for a drink herself. “You kissed my sister.”

“It wasn’t… right. But it did _happen_.”

Kiara reached across the distance between them and patted his hand. It seemed too small a gesture, but she wasn’t certain what else to offer. His pain was wrapped tight around him, like a cloak pulled close against the chill of the wind. “I thought templars… no, never mind. It’s not important.” It occurred to her then to wonder whether his misery wasn’t the product of something closer to home than the girl at the Circle. “But are you okay? With… everything?”

Realization dawned. “You mean Fenris. Of course. She… she cares for him a great deal. _Not_ like a brother. Oh, oh _Maker,_ ” a laugh caught him off-guard; he seemed as surprised by it as Kiara. “I think Fenris kissed your sister, too.”

“Yes, well,” Kiara muttered dryly, “it seems to have been a trend.”

“You chose bad babysitters, Hawke. Though, if it makes you feel better, I… don’t think Aveline kissed her.”

“Thank the Maker for small favors.” 

“It didn’t… it wasn’t right,” he said again, frowning, then he looked at her, and for at least that instant his gaze didn’t waver.  “She’s my _friend_.”

Leaning back in her chair, Kiara looked more closely at Cullen, and the man that sat before her now was such a drastic change from the one upon whose desk she’d impertinently sat, asking him to watch over Amelle (and, Andraste’s knickers, how on earth did kissing even enter the equation?).  The change in Cullen’s demeanor went deeper than the fact that he was quite clearly stone drunk — she’d actually noticed it earlier, after they’d discovered Jessamine’s treachery.

“She is,” she said, “isn’t she?”

“I just… told you as much,” he said, taking care not to slur, but only with limited success.  “Didn’t I? Or was that just in my head?”

“No, you told me.  And I haven’t yet thanked you for all you’ve done today.  Thank you, Cullen, for stopping _me_ before I did anything irreparably foolish, and thank you for…”  Her throat went tight again.  “They’d have taken her if not for you.  I like the Revered Mother, and we’ve had the opportunity to work well together, but even I could see her hands were tied. Thank you.”

The blush heated his cheeks beyond the flush alcohol had provided, but still, Cullen grimaced at her.  “I’d do it again.”

“And yet you look like you’re in horrible pain.”

“I lied.”

 _Oh, dear._   “About what?”

The templar tilted his head back and addressed the ceiling.  “Kirkwall.  My post.  I left my post.”  His head lolled a bit to the side and he peered at her.  “Not Knight-Commander of anything anymore.  Not even _acting._ Not even sure if I’m still a _templar_. According to the Order, I mean. I can still… smite. Had to, though.  She would’ve come alone if I didn’t.”

“She… told me she tried to leave without Fenris.  A lucky thing he caught up.”

Cullen addressed the ceiling again, but not before Kiara saw a flash of guilt upon his features.  “I left him a note.”

Kiara blinked hard, processing this.  _So he saved her life three times over. That I_ know _of. Amelle got a templar to save her life, leave his post, and_ kiss _her.  Maker, what does she_ do _when I’m not looking?_

 _Why, apparently she charms the only individual even_ less _likely to fall in love with a mage than a templar Knight-Commander._

_And he’s going to die on her._

“This poison,” Cullen said, as though reading her thoughts. “Is it—”

“It’s fatal.”

“But Amelle can—”

Kiara sighed, leaning forward and wringing the still-damp handkerchief in her hands. She could feel the tears threatening, but she knew if she started crying for Fenris _now_ , she wouldn’t stop. _Oh, Fenris. My faithful right hand, with your glowers and smashed wine bottles and your complete inability to pass up a game of cards. I’d let you win a dozen games in a row if you’d just smile one of those self-satisfied little half-smiles for me now._ “I know what Amelle can do. Magebane and this Andraste’s Wrath and Maker knows what else… they can incapacitate a mage. It only makes sense there are poisons just as resistant _to_ magic. I’m afraid Maker’s Light is one of them.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, and his face went deathly pale. “It’s… not fair.”

Kiara squeezed her hand around the fabric until her hand cramped with the pain. “Nothing’s fair.”

“Nothing’s fair,” Cullen repeated quietly. “But Hawke…”

She raised her eyes. Cullen was looking past her, at a fixed point somewhere over her left shoulder. “Cullen?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if it were?”

Bitter words tickled the end of her tongue, words about the reliability of children’s stories and fairy tales. She swallowed them down, choking on the bile. “Yes,” she finally said. “It would be.”

Cullen hunched forward, putting his head in his hands. “D’you know what the Chant says about liars?” he asked, his words muffled.

“Yes,” Kiara replied. “It’s said those who deceive others will be judged by the Maker.”

“‘All things are known to the Maker and he will judge their lies,’” Cullen quoted.

Kiara stood and moved to the side of the room, pouring water into glasses for both of them. When she returned to his side and nudged him with her knee, he looked up and gratefully accepted the cup she offered. “I’m no expert,” she said, pulling her chair close to his and toying with her own glass, “but somehow I think a little white lie told to protect a friend isn’t going to go down as a soul-destroying offense. The Maker might even approve.”

“Blasphemy, Hawke,” Cullen murmured, with a hint of the steely faith she remembered. Then, bleakly, he added, “It’s how every liar starts. One thing leads to another.”

Kiara winced. _No, no ritual. Just mix the ingredients up and… boom. Justice and I are free. And we can take our rightful place among free mages._

The worst part was the truth hidden within the lie.

_Boom._

“You—you’re too hard on yourself.”

He huffed a weary laugh. “Meredith always said I wasn’t hard _enough_. She nearly had me flogged, that day I didn’t bring your sister back to the Gallows with me. Oh, she _wanted_ to, but I was too close to the top. Insubordination in one’s Knight-Captain might look ill for the Knight-Commander in charge. Instead I was subjected to the Wounded Coast patrol for six months. Every time I came back to Templar Hall still alive, Meredith looked disappointed.”

Baffled, she blinked at him. “I didn’t know.”

He shrugged, his expression terribly weary and terribly sad. “No reason for you to know. We weren’t… it was a choice I made. I’d make the same one again. For Amelle and for you.”  Cullen looked at the glass he held between his hands and drank from it again.  

Kiara drew in a deep breath and let it out again, and began to wonder if maybe she hadn’t misjudged him a little.  He was a templar, and though they’d fought on the same side more than once, she could not look at the flaming sword upon his breastplate and _not_ remember a bright summer afternoon in Lothering when she and her sister hid in a ravine, Amelle’s magic hands burning her skin while templars searched the brush above them.  She had never truly considered Cullen the enemy _,_ but neither was he a friend _._   He’d always hovered somewhere in between. Trustworthy… but somehow never _quite_ enough to bring into her fold of misfits and miscreants.  

On more than one occasion, he’d been nothing more than a tool for her to make use of. She felt oddly guilty about it now.

“It occurs to me,” Kiara said, tilting her own glass of water so very carefully and slowly the surface remained perfectly level as it crept up one side of the glass and then the other. “It occurs to me that saying the Maker will judge our lies is not quite the same thing as promising He will rain damnation down upon any who speak less than the truth.”

Cullen peered blearily at her, as if struggling to follow a particularly complex theological argument.

“But—”

Kiara held up a finger, silencing him.  “Did you lie for Amelle because you’d kissed her?”

Indignation pierced through the haze of drink as he straightened in his chair.  “Most certainly _not._ ”

“Good.  Then tell me why you _did_ lie, Cullen.”  He opened his mouth to speak, but only snapped it shut again.  Kiara looked more closely at him.  “Was it… because you’d been fond of our cousin?”

He gave his head a weary shake.  “No.  Not even that.”  Cullen considered his glass again and drank the rest, setting the empty vessel aside before clasping his hands together, almost as if in prayer.  “She’d been through so much already.  You didn’t… you didn’t see what she did in Kirkwall.”

“She told me what happened,” replied Kiara somberly.

“Did she tell you how many nosebleeds she gave herself?  I’ve never seen that, you know — a mage focusing so intently their body actually produces a physical reaction.  Did she tell you how many times she drained her mana to the point of collapse?  Did she tell you how many babies died, Hawke?  How many children?  How many tiny bodies she had to wrap in tinier shrouds only to be burned upon tiny pyres?  Did she tell you she went too often and too far without food or rest because she truly _was_ the only healer in Kirkwall, and every time she tried to sleep, tried to replenish her mana, she was summoned to the clinic to find another child had died, or another adult had succumbed to madness?”

Kiara stared at Cullen for a full minute, feeling strangely lightheaded.  “I… I must confess, she…”

“Left that part out.  Witness my shock.”  He sighed hard and rubbed at his forehead, then made a move for the empty glass, as if to drain it again.  Kiara got up and refilled it, handing it back to him wordlessly.  He accepted with equally silent thanks and drank deeply.  

“The kiss was… ill-conceived,” and he spoke those words slowly and carefully, as if mindful of not mumbling them.  “We spent an entire afternoon searching for some stupidly elusive bloody flower for a potion—one, I might add, that turned out to be useless.  Amelle had only just realized you’d likely been affected by the very madness she was trying to find a cure for.”

Kiara could picture that all too clearly, and felt the sting of tears prickle her eyes.

“She was…”

“Distraught?” Kiara asked.

“Panicking.  And it… she was so… _alone_.  The only mage, the only healer, the only one who could do… what needed to be done.”

“And you wanted to let her know she wasn’t alone.”

“And I thought…” Here, he blushed and admitted with a grimace, “I rather can’t believe I’m _confessing_ this to you.  But yes.  I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.  That… someone cared.  She was _afraid_.  Afraid of failing.”  For a moment he appeared to be in actual pain, such was his discomfiture.  “And… yes.  I thought her beautiful.  Intelligent, dedicated… I… yes.”

“And then you…” Kiara gestured.

“And it was…”

“—Not what you’d expected.”

“As I said.”  He looked suddenly perplexed.  “Why are we talking about this again?”

“We’re talking about why you lied for her.”

“Ah. Yes.”  He rubbed hard at his face, pressing fingertips against his eyes.  “When Jessamine’s letter arrived, it carried the very news she’d been afraid of.  She worried it was the illness you’d carried with you to Starkhaven, worried you _had_ been in the Fade too long, worried… about you.  Would’ve had to smite her into oblivion to get her to stay. So I went with her. Didn’t… didn’t even think twice, really. Then it all turned out to be a trap.”  He closed his eyes and blew out a breath.  “I don’t care what anyone says — she was doing the Maker’s work in Kirkwall.  Healing a man someone didn’t want healed and caring too much about her sister aren’t crimes.  She’d been—I don’t _want_ to think about what she’d been put through while she was missing.  And then she…” he shook his head slowly and there was sorrow and grief in his eyes.  “I could not let her reward be… that.”

“But, Cullen,” Kiara said softly, “what will your reward be?”

“I have sins to atone for,” he replied. “Perhaps the new Knight-Commander will be forgiving.”

Kiara didn’t want to think about what forgiveness would look like for a templar who fully admitted to lying to keep an apostate free. “Cullen—”

“No,” he said. “No, Hawke. I know the way of things. The Order gave me my second chance in Kirkwall; I will not get a third.” He pushed himself to his feet and put a hand to his head. “Keep—you must keep your sister close. They will say she corrupted me. I will deny such charges, but the Chantry will not listen—they would rather believe the lie of the wicked apostate than believe the truth of an acting Knight-Commander who went against his indoctrination.”

“You see,” said Kiara with a frown, “now that’s the kind of thing I think the Maker would frown on. But you’re not leaving _now_ , surely?”

He shook his head, wincing. “After,” he said. “Amelle will be… I will go after.” He peered at her searchingly, and for a moment she forgot the blood-shot eyes and the scent of whiskey— _not funny, Isabela, not funny_ —and saw only the troubled man beneath. “Her name was Solona. Your cousin. Solona Amell. Perhaps she wasn’t at the eye of a storm, like you, but she deserves to be remembered.”

Kiara nodded weakly.

“Don’t pity me, Hawke,” he said quietly. “Not that. I know what I’ve done, and I did it all with my eyes open. Don’t pity me.”

She forced herself to smirk. The expression felt odd on her lips, like a mask, but it made Cullen smile. “You mistake me, Cullen,” she said with forced brightness. “I was only thinking I’m so grateful I could kiss you. But since Amelle’s already taken care of that…”

But it was a lie. She did pity him.

“You always were a terrible liar,” he replied. “But thank you. For… listening. For everything.”

“Thank _you_ for smiting Aileene Caddell into next week.”

Cullen’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Oh, _Maker_. _Oh, Maker_. I _didn’t_ … oh, sweet Andraste. That was a foolish thing to do.”

She grinned, and this time there was nothing forced or fake about the expression whatsoever. “Foolish, maybe. But still the most fantastically _satisfying_ application of a holy smite I’ve ever seen in action. Come on, templar. I’ll make sure you get back to your room in one piece. You’re going to want to sleep this one off.”

“Maker,” Cullen breathed. “I am in so much _trouble_.”

Kiara snorted. “If I know drunkenness—and I do—your hangover tomorrow will be punishment enough for any discomfort you caused Aileene Caddell.”

Cullen only groaned.


	80. Chapter 80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note from the both of us to everyone reading: we're going to be taking about a week off of posting to get some editing and polishing done. Yes, I know, we probably couldn't have chosen a worse point in the story (actually, now that I think about it, we absolutely could have chosen worse spots). You all know we wouldn't take extra time if we didn't need it, and we do. 
> 
> ANYWAY. 
> 
> No new updates until next week (2/28 or thereabouts). See you then!!

Kiara woke with the kind of headache that could only be borne of battle and stress and a devastating number of tears. She lay for a time contemplating the canopy above her, wondering if anyone might notice if she chose to spend the day in bed. After their… conversation, she doubted Sebastian would seek her out. Amelle might be concerned if she knew, but Kiara was fairly certain her sister would not leave Fenris’ side. Tasia would frown and cluck and make vague threats, but Kiara did not think the maid would follow through on any of them. Not after yesterday.

Kiara rolled to her side, pulling a pillow close. It was a weak substitute for an embrace, but the coolness of the fabric felt soothing against her cheek. No cool pillow could soothe the memory of the day before, however. When she closed her eyes she saw again and again Fenris running and glowing and _falling_. She saw Maisie’s defiant eyes, Kinnon slumping boneless to the ground, Garreth’s misguided attempt to be a hero and Elias… _He was an archer, not a swordsman. Oh, Elias, what were you thinking?_ She saw the bravery that had almost cost Joff his life.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she mumbled into the pillow. “You’re alive. _Do_ something.”

Her headache didn’t abate as she rose. Tasia seemed surprised to see her up and about, but the wide eyes and lifted eyebrows almost instantly returned to a polite neutral. _She must be bloody worried about me._ Kiara was grateful when Tasia, for once, worked in absolute silence. Her head was in no mood for gossip or arguments about attire. Kiara drank three cups of very strong tea, but did not touch her breakfast; her stomach, it seemed, was nearly as put out with her as her head.

Kinnon was waiting in the hall. She didn’t protest when he fell in with her; after yesterday she was surprised it was only the one guard. “Don’t you sleep?” she asked, aiming for amused but not quite reaching it. Her own voice sounded too drained and weary to sustain anything like genuine amusement.

Kinnon blinked at her. “My lady?”

“It seems like you are on duty _all the time_.”

The knight shrugged. “Monterly and Garvis watched your door last night, my lady. I slept.”

She noted the dark circles under his eyes and arched a querying eyebrow.

“I _tried_ to sleep,” he amended, his ears going pink. “Yesterday was…”

“A bad day,” Kiara finished. “And a good day. Battle is always like that.” She frowned. “I suppose you were too young to… have been much involved when the mercenaries came.”

Kinnon closed his eyes and shook his head. “Old enough. I was newly knighted, my lady. Maisie and I both.” The smile that twisted his lips was bitter; it looked sad and wrong on his face. _A bad day. And a good day._ “But we were not on duty. A lot of… a lot of good people died that night. More died the next day when they refused to bend the knee. I would have been one of them, if not for Captain Elias. And Maisie.”

She wanted to ask, but she didn’t want to push. After a moment, Kinnon continued. “The old Captain was killed defending the prince. A lot of the swordsmen were. Elias… well, he stepped into the breach, my lady. He said… he told us the usurpers would kill us all if they had to, without hesitation. Our blood wouldn’t bring back the dead Vaels, but if we lived we could still protect _Starkhaven._ So he told us to bend our knees, but to think of Starkhaven when we did it. Maisie knelt first. I couldn’t let her do it alone.”

“You care for her.”

Kinnon swallowed hard and scowled. “We grew up together, my lady. Joined the guard together. Trained together. As far back as I can remember, Maisie’s been my best friend. I thought I knew her. Turns out I didn’t know anything.”

“People make bad decisions.”

Kinnon crossed his arms over his chest, and all trace of his usual good humor slid from his face, replaced by hurt. And anger. And no small amount of betrayal. “No, my lady. I beg your pardon, but no. I thought about what you said. About blame. Flirting with the prince’s lady in front of him? _That’s_ a bad decision. Siding with a traitor and plotting against someone who’s done you no harm? Turning on your friends and comrades? That’s _betrayal_.”

“Yes,” Kiara said softly. “It is.”

They were most of the way to Fenris’ room by the time Kiara said, “Flirting with the prince’s lady, hmm? I suppose that was the reason for the punch?”

“I told you I deserved it.”

She huffed a brief laugh. “I should thank you, Kinnon. It turns out a jealous Sebastian is ever so much more forthcoming about his feelings.” And then she _remembered_ and pressed her hand to a heart suddenly beating too hard and too fast.

Kinnon pressed a handkerchief on her as the tears began, and she gave him a watery smile.

“You’re murder on a lad’s supply of handkerchiefs, my lady,” he said lightly.

Scrubbing at her face, she gave a thin chuckle. To her credit it _almost_ sounded more like laughter than a sob. “I’ll see you’re well compensated, ser.” His jest, however, was enough to stop her crying, and she was even more grateful for _it_ than for the cloth to dab her eyes.

She stopped to check in on Amelle and Fenris, but found her sister slumped in the chair, asleep again, one hand still covering Fenris’. Amelle was snoring softly, lips parted and head resting against her shoulder. She looked so terribly young it nearly broke Kiara’s heart. Part of her wanted to cover her sister with a blanket, but she knew Amelle well enough to know she’d only wake and refuse to sleep again, so Kiara blew a silent kiss her sister’s way, sent yet another desperate prayer Fenris’ way, and retreated back to the corridor and Kinnon.

Kiara had never been to young Lord Grayden’s rooms, so she had to defer to Kinnon’s expertise. “All we do is walk the halls, my lady. Halls, walls, gardens, gates. I should hope I have a serviceable map of the place in my head.”

No immediate answer came when she knocked on his door. She tried a second and third time, and was just about to turn away in defeat when the door opened a crack. “Lady Kiara, I—” Garreth managed before the tears started and whatever he meant to say drowned in them.

Kiara nudged the door open with her foot, and pulled Garreth along with her into the sitting room. The room was a strange blend of boy and lord, she noted: weapons in disarray, books on every surface, piles of correspondence, fine clothes scattered in a manner that would’ve had Tasia in fits, several trays of uneaten food. Evidently he’d sent his servants away. 

“Sit,” she said. When he gazed at her in tired confusion, she led him to a chair and gently applied pressure to his shoulder until he collapsed into it. Then she strode to the window and threw open the curtains, blinking in the sudden brightness. The fire had been allowed to die, and the room was too cold, but before Kiara could remedy this by making a fire, Garreth said, “What are you doing here, my lady?”

“I’m still Kiara,” she said. “And I would have come sooner, but yesterday was… complicated.”

“Are you come to see me arrested, my lady? Kiara?”

“Maker’s balls, Garreth, for _what_?”

“W-when I woke up. They told me. A-about the Captain. That’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t—”

She raised a hand to forestall him. “Garreth. No. What you did was rash, reckless, and ill-conceived, certainly. It was also brave. And noble. You were fighting for what you believed in.”

“But Captain Elias—”

“Elias stepped in because a woman under his command had gone rogue, Garreth. He had to try to stop her. He felt it was his responsibility.”

_He was an archer. She’s a swordswoman. It was never going to be a fair match._

Garreth still looked sick and miserable. It reminded her how very young he was. “Garreth, listen to me. Elias wouldn’t want this. You’re a good lad, and you’ve a world of potential. The prince will need men like you at his back. You mustn’t let this get the better of you. Do you understand me?”

Garreth’s face crumpled, but he managed to keep from crying again. “She was toying with me.”

“She didn’t want to kill you. You’d done nothing to her. She let you live, just as she let Kinnon live, when she could easily have killed you both.”

“She could have let Captain Elias live.”

“She didn’t. That’s her burden to bear, though. And she will be punished for it.”

She knew even as she said it that Garreth, too, now had to carry a burden he’d not had before. Starry-eyed youth had met harsh reality, and those worlds could not mesh comfortably. She remembered that well enough herself. _We waited for the reinforcements at Ostagar. We waited for the beacon on the tower to light. We waited for victory to come in a flood of glory._

The girl who’d enlisted in King Cailan’s army dreaming of holding back a Blight and emerging a conquering hero had died at Ostagar. Harsh reality always killed starry-eyed youth when they clashed. Always.

Kiara clapped a hand to the young man’s shoulder. “Come on, Garreth. Up you get. We’re going to the practice yard. You’re going to spar with Ser Kinnon until you can’t lift your arm.”

“It’s not the falling off your horse that counts. It’s the getting back on after you’ve tumbled,” Garreth said softly, almost to himself. “The prince said that.”

“Just so,” Kiara agreed, empty stomach lurching painfully at the thought of Sebastian. “Only instead of horses we’re doing swords.”

Garreth got to his feet wearily, but he did rise. His dark eyes were still haunted, and she feared it would be a while yet before his sweet smile returned, but he rose, and that was always the first step. “Come on,” she repeated. “We survive, Garreth. That’s what happens after something like this. We live, to honor those who didn’t.”

When the boy turned abruptly and wrapped his arms around her, she held him close and whispered soothing platitudes into his tousled hair. They all had demons to fight, after all, and ghosts to lay to rest. Better to do so in the company of friends.

#

From the way Fenris’ eyelids twitched, Amelle knew he was in the Fade.  He was there, and here she was, forced to sit and wait and watch and do nothing but split her time between sending wave after wave of healing magic into his body, willing her power to fight the poison that had entrenched itself within him, and pressing cool compresses against his feverish skin while she let her mana recover.  

Amelle soaked a fresh cloth in the cool water, squeezing the excess moisture free and folding it, carefully wiping away the perspiration glistening upon his brow.  Memories of that night surfaced mockingly in her mind, when he’d lain with his head in her lap mere moments before she’d undone the magic that had wiped his memories.  Her gut wrenched and she leaned down, brushing a kiss against Fenris’ burning forehead.

“I’m still here,” she whispered.  “I’m not leaving you.”

The soft, hesitant sound of a throat clearing made her start and sit up.  “Sebastian,” Amelle said, wiping quickly at her face.  If the prince’s expression was any indication, however, he was suffering too. Not that she expected less, given everything.  “I didn’t—I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t…” Sebastian shook his head, adding, “I do not wish to intrude.”  

“It’s hardly an intense debate we’re having,” she replied, trying so hard for levity, cursing the way her voice shook through it.

Sending her an almost pitying glance, Sebastian walked in and looked around briefly before settling in the chair by Fenris’ bedside.  “How does he fare?” asked Sebastian, quietly.  And she saw there, in his face, beyond the worry for his friend, something more — something weighing on him as heavily as this.  Amelle didn’t know, but she could guess.  _Oh, Kiara._ She looked down at Fenris again and pressed the damp cloth against one flushed cheek, then the other.

“He…” The words wouldn’t come and she bit down hard on her lip, trying to maintain her composure.  “I haven’t detected any change.”

Sebastian bowed his head.

“He has two days left.” _I have two days left.  I still have two days._ “If hope is all I have, I must hope, and I must _try_.” And she let out a soft, broken laugh.  “And I will keep trying.  It’ll be a miracle if he’s not glowing blue with healing magic by the time I’m finished.”  Another tear squeezed free and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to rid herself of it.

“He _is_ in the Fade, then.”

Amelle gave a shaky nod, her fingers drifting through Fenris’ hair, carding through the fine, pale strands.  Sebastian looked at her a moment, then turned that pensive gaze to Fenris.  “And you have not…” he gestured a little, awkwardly.  “Can you not go in after him?  As you did me?”

“It’s different,” Amelle replied on a sigh.  “There was no reason for you _not_ to wake up.  You were keeping yourself there.  Punishing yourself.”  The smile she sent him was faint.  “You needed a push.  But Fenris…”

“The nature of the poison prevents you?”

“Partially.”  Amelle said nothing for a long moment, then let out a shuddering, long-held breath.  “In your dream, you had reconstructed Kirkwall. I had a reasonably good idea where I might find you. Fenris’ version of the Fade could be _anywhere_ , and if I drop down in the middle of Minrathous? I could try to find him. I might even get close. There’s no guarantee.”

“And yet you do not.”  Sebastian didn’t sound like he was condemning her, but he did sound puzzled.  “You went in after me and…” Here, he gave her a gentle smile. “I dare not think I have ever been dearer to you than he.”

“Don’t mistake my not making the attempt as my not _wanting_ to go.  I do want to, very badly, as it happens,” Amelle explained, as carefully as she could.

“So why…?”

Amelle’s smile was a grim one, brittle around the edges.  “When a demon whispers the thing you want most to do is a wonderful idea and, yes, you should do it right away and very quickly, it is best to refrain, no matter how badly it hurts to do so.”  It took Amelle a moment to realize his sharp look was _worry_ and not disapproval, and she looked away with a shrug.  “Yes.  I hear them.  Even in this case—perhaps _especially_ in this case—I hear them.”

“Now?”

She grimaced and shook her head.  “Not _right now,_ thank the Maker.”  After a moment, Amelle took Fenris’ hand in hers and held it, fingertips tracing the lyrium markings.  “Usually when it’s… when it’s dark, and quiet, and the palace is asleep, and his breathing’s the loudest thing in the room.”  She shrugged and looked away.  “That’s… when doubt creeps in, after all, isn’t it?  But… yes, they have tempted me,” she said, not looking up, “urged me on when I was trying to decide if it would truly be helpful, or whether my efforts would be better spent doing what I’m doing now.”  

“What… what do they…”

Amelle’s head jerked up and she stared at Sebastian, feeling herself on the cusp of anger.  But he had asked so tentatively, and he was watching her with a look so hesitant and respectful, she bit back the retort poised upon her tongue and inhaled deeply.  Was this not what she’d wanted?  What Anders had complained of so frequently?  People never caring to understand what the mage’s connection to the Fade _meant,_ only fearing and condemning it?  Sebastian, she saw, was trying to understand _._   She met his gaze unflinchingly.

“They tell me he is lost and searching for me.  They tell me I must find him, that they will take me to him.”

He arched an eyebrow.  “And you are certain these are demons speaking?”

“Yes.  They make—”  Sudden heat rushed to her face and she swallowed hard.  “They make _promises,”_ she said, and prayed Sebastian would not ask her to elaborate.

“You resist the temptation then.”

Bowing her head as she let out a dry chuckle, Amelle said, “Maker, it sounds so pious when you put it that way.  I’m just—I have to consider the consequences of my actions. When I went into the Fade to help you, I genuinely felt you were keeping _yourself_ from being healed. I thought I could reason with you. I did it because I could not bear the thought of telling my sister you had perished.”

That brief mention of Kiara made Sebastian flinch and look away.  When he finally spoke, the words sounded as if they were being torn from his throat. “If I could have traveled into the Fade to aid your sister after her poisoning, I would have.”

Amelle couldn’t help but smile. “My, you _have_ changed, Sebastian.”

“What about…” Sebastian trailed off, stopped, shook his head. “When your sister went after Feynriel. You accompanied her then, but she could have gone without you. If you fear the demons will tempt you, could not someone else—could not Kiara or myself go for you?”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said. “But you—”

“Are a different man, as you said,” he interrupted. “And would not have you think I’m unwilling to do what I’m able. For Fenris. For you. For… I would not sit idle if I can help instead.”

Amelle reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Even if I thought it would help, I’m no Marethari.” She lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug. “I wish this kind of battle could be fought with blades and bows, or mucking about in the Fade. It would be much simpler.”

The shadow that passed over his features reminded her that the last battle of blades and bows had cost him a great deal, and she pressed his hand in hers again. She heard him murmur a prayer under his breath. That, she supposed, was a way to fight, too. 

Fenris drew in another struggling, wheezing breath and she looked down, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead.  “Beneath the sweet, false promises, there’s a… there is a softer voice, whispering to me as well.  It urges me to remain by his side, to stay with him and care for him on _this_ side of the Fade.  It makes no promises, offers no bargains. It pleads with me.  I am doing all I can for Fenris right here.  Whether it will be enough remains to be seen.”

Sebastian nodded, and after a moment or two of thoughtful silence, he cleared his throat and turned a sterner look her way. “The maids who tend your room say you haven’t been there.  I hope,” he said pointedly, “you are taking proper care of yourself.”

“Maker, Sebastian,” she said on a laugh, “ _this_ room is more than large enough for me to stay in while I’m watching over him.  The bed itself has got to be at least as large as Varric’s suite at The Hanged Man.”  She sent what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  “I am taking care of myself the best I can right now.  I promise you. I wouldn’t risk…”  The smile faltered, and she looked down at Fenris.  “I wouldn’t risk compromising myself foolishly.”

“I… I believe you, Amelle,” replied Sebastian, his words tight, his voice strained.  “Is there anything you _do_ require?”

She pushed a hand through her hair, thinking.  “I’m running low on lyrium potion,” she admitted.  “I brought what I had from home, but my own stores had run low.  If you… know of anywhere I might get more, that would be useful.”

He nodded.  “I can make no promises, but I will see what I can do.”  Then, frowning, Sebastian strode to the open window; the breeze coming through was cool, bordering on crisp.  “The weather’s just beginning to turn,” he said, fingering one of the fluttering curtains.  “I’ll have some extra blankets brought in as well.  The last thing anyone needs is for the daft healer to catch a chill.” Despite the shadows under his eyes and the worry creasing his forehead, there was no mistaking his affection woven into his words. 

Amelle’s smile was grateful.  “Thank you, Sebastian.”

He rested his hand on top of her head for a moment, gently mussing her hair. “Be it faith in the Maker, or faith in the gifts He bestowed upon you… your faith is strong. I find myself bolstered by it. I will pray for him, Amelle. And for you.”

As Amelle watched Sebastian turn and leave, closing the door softly behind him, she hoped faith would be enough.

#

As doors went, it was a good one: well-crafted, heavy, with a solid, shining doorknob.  It was not locked, so far as Cullen could tell, but he hesitated.  He had a reasonable idea what awaited him on the other side of the wooden barrier, and still he found himself unprepared for it.

Holding his breath, Cullen lifted his hand to knock, but only once, and softly.  Barely a heartbeat passed before he heard her muffled voice bidding him enter.  When he opened the door, he first registered the vast, lushly furnished room, with its marble floors and gilt accents.  The bed itself was enormous, and on it lay Fenris, feverish and still, the scratching wheeze of his struggling breath the only sound.  Light streamed in from open windows, and the curtains and drapes were pushed aside, Starkhaven spread out below.  The view was impressive, though he doubted Amelle had noticed it, or cared to.

She sat upon the bed, her back braced against the headboard, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.  One hand stroked Fenris’ hair back, while the other held a book.  When she looked up, however, a strange, unreadable look flashed across Amelle’s face right before she smiled at him, and promptly hid the book in the folds of her skirt.

“Coming to check on your charge?” she asked lightly, unwittingly reminding him of the lie he’d tried to drink out of his memory and Cullen grimaced.  Reading his expression for what it was, Amelle’s own turned contrite.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have—”

But Cullen cut her off with a wave of his hand.  He wasn’t about to place another weight upon Amelle Hawke’s shoulders.  He also knew her well enough to know that if she teased him, it was fondly done and without malice.  “If you must know, I was coming to see how you were doing.  But, it hardly does our, ah, cover story any harm in either case.”  He settled into the chair that had been pulled up to the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.  “So.  How _are_ you faring?”

There was another ripple in her expression, eyes flickering down to the man who lay by her side.  “I’ve… been better,” she answered honestly.

“Nosebleeds?”

She laughed a little, softly, and it was such a tired, wrung out sound that Cullen reached out, resting a hand on her forearm.  “No.  No, I can’t afford to push myself like that now.  He doesn’t have the time for me to be reckless.  I need to be smarter.  Lots of small, intense bursts of magic, with time to recover in between.  I don’t have a lot of lyrium potion left over from what I packed.  I have to… ration it. Sebastian’s got people looking for more, but… well. This is Starkhaven.”

Cullen wasn’t sure whether Amelle meant she had to ration her potion or her mana, and decided it didn’t much matter. “I am relieved to hear you’re being cautious.”

“Saves you having to come in here and smite some sense in to me?” Her smile said she was jesting, but Cullen vividly remembered the lady in the hallway and felt a flush of shame creeping up his neck. “Cullen? I _was_ joking.”

He coughed to clear his throat. “I know,” he replied. “I—it’s nothing.”

Amelle looked amusedly aghast, the expression at war with the exhaustion in her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve been running around smiting other people behind my back. I don’t know if I could bear it.  You might break my heart.”

“Amelle… you are japing about a very powerful _divine_ ability.”

“You’re the one who smote me in your sleep. I feel that earned me the right to poke fun as much as I like.”

He sighed, but before he could speak, Amelle leveled a more penetrating glance his way. Setting her book aside and swiveling around on the bed, she reached out, taking his chin in her hand, and frowning her healer’s frown. “Speaking of sleep, and not getting any, do you want to tell me why you look like you got kicked in the face by an angry mule?”

“It is nothing to concern yourself over…”

Without warning, she raised her other hand and lit her palm with bright fire—too bright. He winced as his sensitive eyes sent a lance of pain hammering through his skull. Amelle’s snort was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Sweet Andraste, Cullen. You think I don’t know a raging hangover when I see one? Have you _met_ my sister?”

“I am perfectly—”

“Hungover,” she interrupted. “Hold still.”

He tried to pull away from her, but she had all the leverage and he was stuck in a chair. He felt the familiar resistance to her power, but after a few moments of hotcold onslaught, the headache behind his eyes began to fade and his nausea disappeared. He didn’t want to admit—even to himself—how overwhelming the sheer _relief_ was. When the glow of her magic dissipated, she punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“You didn’t have to—” he began, but she waved a hand dismissively.

“I have become so proficient at hangover cures they hardly use any mana at all.”

He frowned at her little lie. He knew very well that _any_ magic—beneficial as it might be—was a challenge when wielded against a templar. Years of training and lyrium-abuse lowered magic’s effectiveness drastically. “Amelle…”

“ _Was_ it Kiara? I… she’s been known to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle, and yesterday was…”

“Not your sister,” he replied. And then, with some rancor, “It was Varric. And—”

Amelle’s laugh was so abrupt she clapped a hand over her mouth and rocked back. “And Isabela.  Maker, you drank with Varric and Isabela?  _Alone?_ ” On his grimace, she added, “I didn’t know you for a man with a death wish, Cullen.”

“It seemed…”

“Like a good idea at the time.  Yes, that sounds familiar.”  She sighed, still laughing a little and squeezing his hands.  “That’s usually how some of my worst hangovers come into being.  Even _Fenr—”_   She stopped suddenly and swallowed hard, and when she smiled again it was more brittle, false.  Her hands had gone cold and Cullen found himself rubbing them gently between his own to warm them.

“You were saying?” he asked, as conversationally as possible.  Best not to call undue attention to the lapse in what he was now utterly certain was a facade. Even so, it took a moment for Amelle to shake off the emotions that had blindsided her.

“…Even Fenris did—doesn’t mind making use of my little cure, and he’s at least as distrustful of magic as you are.”  She breathed in deeply and let it out, but Cullen had seen the crack and was not fooled when the mask of serene confidence settled into place.  “So, what brings you here?”

“As I said, I merely wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m…”

“Amelle Hawke, Maker help me, if you say _I’m fine,_ I _will_ smite you where you sit.”

That was enough make her start and sit back, blinking at him as if she’d never laid eyes on him before that moment.  “Andraste’s knickers, cure one little hangover for a templar and he gets awfully bossy afterward.”

Cullen closed his eyes and let out a sigh.  “All I ask is that you don’t lie to me.  I know perfectly well you aren’t _fine_.  And I am… worried about you.”

She looked down at their hands and was silent a long while.  “I’m not going to turn into an abomination.  It’s… I’m not—I swear to you, I’m _not._ ”

“I… I know.”

She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her bangs.  “You know?”  When he shrugged, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.  He knew how she felt; he’d been puzzled for a long while now.

“I only thought you might…”  Cullen frowned and swallowed hard, looking over at the unconscious Fenris.  “I thought,” he began again, “you might want to—to talk.  Perhaps.”

Amelle followed his gaze and sighed, her shoulders rounding as she gave a slow nod.  “I don’t know how I’m doing,” she said wearily.  “I’m trying.  I’m trying as hard as I can, not even knowing if I can make a difference.  Just… hoping I can, even if I’m afraid I can’t.”  And then her expression went strangely inscrutable, bordering almost on sheepishness or embarrassment.  “Trying to find… find faith, where I can.”

It was then that Cullen noticed the book she’d set aside, the rich leather cover emblazoned with an embossed sun, glittering with gold leaf he was fairly certain was genuine.  Amelle followed Cullen’s gaze, and he did not think he imagined the pink tint upon her cheeks.  “You probably think I’m being silly,” she said, looking at the book.  

“Amelle,” Cullen blurted, staring at her.  “Why in the Maker’s name would I think you _silly_ for—”

“Apostate,” she reminded him.  “It’s not as if I’m…” she trailed off, struggling. “I mean, I know I’m not…” 

“So help me, if the next words out of your mouth are _I’m not one of the Maker’s children,_ I will _absolutely_ smite you where you sit,” he said, the vehemence in Cullen’s tone surprising even him.  “ _Twice._ How can you possibly _say_ that?”

“Are we really having this conversation?” she asked him, brow quirking.  “You know as well as I do—”

“I know you do Andraste’s work,” he broke in, glaring at her.  “I know _that._   And I’ll hear nothing more on the subject of whether or not you are one of the Maker’s children.  _‘Foul and corrupt are you who have taken My gift and turned it against My children,’_ ” he quoted sternly.  “Now, maybe I don’t have the right of it, but this certainly doesn’t look as if you’ve turned your gifts _against_ Fenris.”  

Amelle grimaced, but did not argue.  A first, perhaps.  “Mm.  I thought not.”  A second or two passed and Cullen settled back a bit in his chair.  “Though I hardly think you’ve been reading Transfigurations to Fenris,” he mused lightly.  “It’s very dry.”

“No… the Canticle of Trials,” she said, running a finger over the book’s spine.  “Less dry.  _‘Maker, thought the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light.  I shall weather the storm.  I shall endure.’_ ”

 _“‘What you have created,’”_ Cullen finished for her, _“‘no one can tear asunder.’_   There is nothing silly at all about finding solace in faith.”

“He missed the antidote window,” she said quietly.  “I know that.  I know that Maker’s Light is resistant to magic.  But I also know, with just as much certainty, that I _cannot_ sit by his bedside and weep and fret and give him a three-day-long goodbye.  I’m going to do all I can, until there is nothing more I can do.  If that is faith…” she trailed off with a shrug.  

“Might I ask… why have you not turned your efforts to crafting an antidote yourself?  I realize the recipe is lost, but surely you could use the poison’s recipe itself to… to…”

“Use the poison to recreate the antidote—or _any_ antidote?” she asked.  “Something better, maybe?”

“Yes.  Exactly.”

Leaning back and bracing her arms behind her, Amelle fell silent, looking down at her lap.  “Like I tried to do in Kirkwall.”

“Yes.”  Then he looked at her more closely, narrowing his eyes at her choice of words: _tried to do in Kirkwall._   “Surely you aren’t—you aren’t avoiding that option because the potion you’d crafted… failed?”

“Oh, no,” answered Amelle instantly, shaking her head.  “No, not in the least.  Dragon’s Sight— there was nothing _wrong_ with the potion,” she explained, “it was only the _wrong_ potion for what ailed people.  True, it didn’t work, but that… I don’t think that means the potion _itself_ was a failure.  It probably works incredibly well, when it’s used against the condition it was crafted to fight.  It was just… just the wrong tool for the job, I suppose.  Try to use a hammer to fix a glass lantern, it’s not the hammer’s fault the glass gets shattered.”

“So… Maker’s Light…”

Her expression darkened as she brought the heel of her hand up to rub at a spot between her eyebrows.  “I’ve looked at the recipe already—Kiara sent one of her pages up with not long after I’d settled in here.  Like you, she thought I might be able to work backward and recreate the antidote.”

“And?”

Looking up at him from behind her hand, Amelle’s eyes were dark as she said, “That recipe was one of the nastiest pieces of work I’ve ever seen.”  The disgust in her tone was palpable.  “Magebane, sleeping draught, demonic poison—and those were just the ingredients I’d _heard_ of.  At least half the ingredients are indigenous to Starkhaven, so far as I can tell—I wouldn’t know them if I went out and tripped over them.” Her hand dropped to her lap.  “Even if the antidote window weren’t a factor, it’d take me _months_ to reverse-craft an antidote for Maker’s Light.”

Cullen looked down at Fenris.  “And we haven’t got months.”

“We haven’t got months, and we might not even have research _materials._ The Circle here burned, after all. No library to research in.”  She shook her head and looked away.  “So… I’m doing what I can.”  And then, softer, “It doesn’t feel like much—it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.  But I don’t—”  She stopped and frowned down at the book.  “There’s nothing else I can do but this.”

“But you said—Amelle, you said there was magebane in Maker’s Light.”

Amelle didn’t answer for several seconds.  “…I know.  And I have every bloody reason to believe magic won’t do a damned thing against it.  But… but consider a rock.  Consider a _wall_ of rocks, built specifically to keep…” Amelle flung a hand out as if to grasp for a word, “to keep _water_ out of a place.  Think of… of a sea wall, or a dam.  That structure—that wall, or that dam, or that rock—is resistant to the water it’s trying to keep out.  But over time…”

“Over time, the water wears it away.  Smoothes it down.  Creates… fissures.  Leaks.”  He frowned at her.  “And that is what you hope to accomplish?”

She shrugged her slim shoulders.  “I don’t know if it’ll work—I…”  Amelle looked up, met his eyes and held his gaze; there, in the green depths, he saw determination in the face  of uncertainty, and raw, painful honesty. “I don’t _know._   But in the end, this is what I _can_ do, which means it’s what I’m _going_ to do.”  One hand slid out and captured Fenris’.  “Until I can’t do anything else.”

“We are none of us masters over life and death,” he said, tempering the steel in his voice with something like compassion. “Even your healing is not limitless, as you know. Things may appear bleak, night might appear long, three days may seem an eternity, but hope… hope is never _lost_.”

“You mean to say it’s in the Maker’s hands.” 

He shrugged, leaning forward and clasping his hands loosely between his knees. “At times the words sound trite, I know. It is… it is not the _words_ though, that matter most,” he said, indicating the leatherbound tome with its golden sun. “It is the feeling behind them. You are a creature of _feeling_ , Amelle. And given that you feel things deeply, I would rather see you hope.” He sighed, shaking his head, still fixated on the carpet between his feet. “I no longer recognized myself after everything that happened in Ferelden’s Circle. I had been naive before, and perhaps a little foolish, but also kind and caring and hopeful. Afterward I seethed with hate, with the desire for vengeance, with bitterness about all the things—real and imagined—I thought stolen from me. Thankfully, looking back, I no longer recognize that iteration of myself either.” He paused here, and when he looked at Amelle, he found her listening attentively, her brow slightly furrowed, her head tilted the way it always tilted when she was looking carefully at a problem she was trying to solve.

“Before I came to Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander—Greagoir, his name was—took me aside and told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said, ‘Lad, I’m not going to insult you with platitudes or bore you with quotations from the Chant I’m perfectly aware you already know. It was wrong, what was done to you. It was cruel. It was evil. But you survived. No one can change the past and no one can foretell the future, so the best thing you can do is learn to live in the now. This moment right here is the only one you can control, and even then nothing’s guaranteed.’ It didn’t… I won’t pretend it made everything better. Words don’t, you know. But later, even when I was still hurting and bitter and angry, when I thought of those words I felt… something almost like peace.” 

He glanced past Amelle to Fenris, so still and so damaged. “We neither of us can change what happened to him yesterday. But neither can we know what will happen to him tomorrow. For today he is still here, still breathing, still alive.”

“To be honest, I think I rather prefer your way of it.  I cannot change what happened.  And if I do nothing, he will most certainly die.”

“Whereas if you do all you can…”

“Then I will know I’ve done all I can,” Amelle answered simply.  “And if… _if_ such a thing… if he—” she swallowed hard, unable even to say the words.  It mattered little; Cullen knew what she was _trying_ to say, and that was good enough.  “If he does.  Then I must consider why I got to live.”

His frown must have been evident, for even before Cullen tried to object — survivor’s guilt was a fruitless path — Amelle held up her hand.

“I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t mean it that way.  But if Fenris perishes and I live, then it is up to me to discover why.  Because if the Maker allowed an apostate to walk away from certain doom…”

“He must have plans for her?”

“Maybe.”  Amelle lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and twisted around to look down at Fenris.  “Though, to own the truth of it, I’d rather he survive.”

“Suppose he does survive.  What then?”

“I suspect the first thing I will do is get very, very drunk.”

The groan escaped before he could swallow it, and Amelle kicked at his shin lightly with her slippered toes. “Is the pain too fresh? I suppose I won’t force you to drink with me, then. Though…” she paused, squinting at him. “Would it be horrible to admit I find myself _most_ curious? Putting the words ‘drunk’ and ‘templar’ to say nothing of ‘Cullen’ all together never occurred to me before today.”

“You missed very little.”

She arched an eyebrow and ran her fingers through Fenris’ hair. For a moment her magic turned the white hair blue-silver, and then it faded again. “Why don’t I believe you? Oh, because I _know_ what drinking with Varric and Isabela is _like_ , that’s why. Did they make you play cards?”

“No!” he exclaimed, only to remember something else, something _worse_.  “Oh, Maker,” he breathed. “I… I smote a noblewoman who was being wretched to your sister. Sweet Andraste, and then I cried on her _shoulder_.”

“The noblewoman’s?”

“No,” Cullen gasped, scandalized, “your _sister’s_.”

Amelle gasped, poking a finger abruptly into his sternum. “ _Cullen_ ,” she said warningly. “What did you say to her?”

This blush did not stop at his neck. Amelle’s eyes widened and the second kick she aimed at his shin was anything but gentle. “I… am not… entirely _sure_.”

“Cullen!”

He winced. “There may have been… oh, Maker, it’s all muddled.”

“Tell me you didn’t… you know, the _garden_.” He didn’t have to speak. Whatever she saw on his face earned him a third kick. “She’s going to be insufferable. I should _not_ have healed your hangover — I’ve half a mind to give it _back_ to you now!”

“It—I didn’t—it didn’t seem like a good idea, keeping _secrets_ —”

But Amelle was covering her eyes.  “Oh, Andraste’s lacy underpants…”

“I told her there was nothing—”

“No.  No, _no_.  You do not know my sister.  She’s—she’s going to think—I don’t even _know_ what she’s going to think! Probably that I bloody well seduced you in the viscount’s garden if you were crying on her shoulder over it.”  She tilted her head and looked at him queerly.  “Why were you crying on her shoulder over it?”

This time it was Cullen’s turn to look affronted, which earned him both a scowl and another kick.  “I was not crying over what transpired in the garden, Amelle.  And I made quite clear—I-I _think_ I made it quite clear what occurred was entirely innocent.”

“You _think.”_

“I am very nearly certain.”

“And yet you were crying on her shoulder.”

“Well, not _literally._ And not anything to do with you, truly.”

She was still frowning at him.  Much as he hated to admit it — and as much as he was certain a bruise was going to turn up on his shin sooner rather than later — Amelle’s glares and pert retorts were a world of improvement over sadness, grief, and the looming threat of loss.

“Well…?”

“I believe you needn’t worry about my telling her what — what happened.  I — your sister is laboring under no misconceptions that I am carrying a torch for you.”

“Andraste’s _arse_.  Dare I ask how you managed that?”

“I… I _believe_ I may have told her it was… er.  Rather like… kissing my sister.  If I had one.”

And again she went for the shin. “Ew. _Maker_ , Cullen. That’s horrible. Clearly you do _not_ have a sister, or you’d know how _creepy_ that sounds. As far as I’m concerned, the question of _anything sibling related_ should be left out of kissing entirely.”

Scrubbing his hand through his hair—and resisting the urge to check for tenderness at his shin—Cullen caught her meaning and blushed even hotter. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t quite think—”

She shot him an arch look but didn’t kick him again, for which he was grateful. “ _Evidently_. Couldn’t you have said it was like… I don’t know… like kissing a _friend_?”

He rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Well, yes, when you put it _that_ way I see how it might have been a better option. With less… creepiness.”

“ _Thank_ you. Ugh.” A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, tinged with the kind of impishness that was rapidly making him fear for his shins. “I can tell you one thing for certain.”

When she didn’t immediately enlighten him, he raised his eyebrows in silent question.

“I am now _beyond_ intrigued. I am going to _have_ to see you drunk at some point. To satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else.”

“I swear to you, Amelle Hawke, I am never drinking again.”

She snorted. “I’ll make sure to let Varric and Isabela know. They do love a challenge.”

Cullen glared at her. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might,” she replied airily, swinging her slippered feet. “Depends entirely on how intolerable my sister is, having been given such potent ammunition.”

“It was… it was just a kiss. A chaste one!”

Amelle rolled her eyes, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Yet more proof you don’t have siblings.” And then, in an instant, the aggrieved annoyance melted into a fond smile and she tilted her head.

Cullen felt himself grow wary.  “Yes?”

The smile stayed in place, though had gone slightly lopsided.  “I _know_ what you’re doing, Cullen.”

Yes, he rather imagine she _did_ know.  All the same, he straightened his shoulders and sent her an arch look of his own.  “And what is that?”

“It’s bearing a striking resemblance to cheering me up.”  Her brows quirked together quickly and she added, “Interspersed with disgusting me beyond comprehension.  But mostly… cheering me up.”

“I would rather see your smiles than your sadness any day, Amelle.  And I would rather you be hopeful than not.”  He cast a glance at Fenris, then back to Amelle, hesitating just a moment before he stood.  Amelle got to her feet as well and he sent her a smile of his own.  “We cannot know what will happen, but… I suspect you will be happier knowing you did all within your power while you could.  Do what you must, just remember—”

“I know, I know: no nosebleeds.”

He chuckled then and nodded, letting Amelle hug him and, perhaps more surprisingly, letting himself return it.  “No nosebleeds.”

“Deal.”


	81. Chapter 81

After he left Amelle at Fenris’s bedside, Sebastian found himself at loose ends. What he wanted was to find Kiara and make her see sense, beg her to reconsider, _plead_ , if pleading was what was required. He made it as far as the practice yard. She was there, of course, as he’d known she would be after a day like yesterday, but she wasn’t alone. He’d expected her to be planting arrow after arrow into distant targets, but instead she was directing a practice duel between Ser Kinnon and Garreth Grayden. Even from a distance, he could see how drawn she looked, how pale. He’d put good money on a bet she’d not slept at all. Still, Sebastian did not step into the yard. He watched for a moment before turning away, heart heavy, careful she should not see him. It seemed impossible, _impossible_ , he’d been hiding in this very doorway not a week ago, thinking how well she fit in.

Soon she would be gone. That seemed an impossible thought, too. One he could not bear to linger on. Not now. Not until after it was done.

He was most of the way back to his office—the last place he wanted to be, truly, but probably where he was needed most—when a voice halted him. “Your Highness?”

Sebastian turned, expecting Elias. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes, giving his head a brief shake. _Not now_. The guardsman who’d called out to him was not quite of an age with the dead captain, but his hair was certainly more salt than pepper, and his expression somehow managed grimness and concern at the same time. “Ser Hannis,” Sebastian greeted, blinking to banish the memory of Maisie’s steel sliding so Maker-forsaken _effortlessly_ through Elias’ leathers. Hannis had been on the list of knights Elias had trusted most; Sebastian knew the man had stood night-guard over Kiara’s chambers on more than one occasion. Still, Sebastian found he could not be completely easy. Elias had trusted Maisie, too. “Is there trouble?”

The guard shifted slightly, his armor creaking. “No, my lord. Not… not as such. Or, rather, not that we think. It’s just… it’s after luncheon.”

Sebastian’s brows quirked. Food was the very last thing on his mind, but he supposed the hour was right. “Indeed, it is.”

Hannis inclined his head. “It’s… time for… court, Highness.”

Sebastian took the man’s meaning at last and blinked, startled. “You mean to say they’ve brought me a mage? After yesterday?”

Hannis shook his head. “See, that’s the strange part, Highness. They’ve got no supposed mage with them. They heard you’d listen if they spoke. Apparently they’ve things to say. I—honestly, my lord, we weren’t sure what to do. After yesterday.”

Searing irritation swept through him, so violent it nearly turned his stomach. Did they not _realize_? Fenris was dying. Sebastian had a score of traitorous guardsmen in his dungeons, awaiting punishment. Every minute his blighted aunt and her son lived was another minute his reign was unstable. The casualties might have been mitigated by Amelle’s presence, but his guard-captain was dead, and with him half a dozen loyal soldiers, and nearly a score of townsfolk. It was hardly the appropriate time for _complaining_.

Guilt followed hard on the heels of these thoughts, however. Was he not complaining, himself? About Kiara? About having to attend to the stacks of unpleasant duties awaiting him in his office? “I suppose I ought to be glad they trust me enough to speak,” he said at last. “Very well. How many?”

“A dozen or so, my lord.”

“Very well. Send for K—” Sebastian halted mid-syllable, choking on the word he would have spoken even as his temples began to throb.

“Highness?”

“C-Corwin,” Sebastian managed, though it wasn’t the name he’d meant to speak. “Send word to the Steward to let him know where I’ll be. If it’s only a dozen, perhaps we needn’t use the great hall. There’s no sense pulling as many guards off their regular duty as we’d need to in order to see that room properly defended. Not for a dozen. See these townsfolk comfortably to one of the antechambers, and I’ll meet with them shortly.”

Hannis offered a brief bow before turning on his heel and departing as quickly as his armor would allow.

Sebastian made his way more sedately, gathering his thoughts and taming his exasperation as he walked. By the time he turned the final corner, he felt almost himself again. At least he felt enough himself to be relatively certain he wouldn’t snap or snarl unduly.

When he pushed open the door, followed by his guard, the people within all rose. Hannis had overestimated slightly, or several had chosen to return home rather than meet less publicly, because only eight people were within, and two of those were children holding hands as they hid behind their mother’s skirts. The younger, probably only four or five, turned to the elder at his entrance, and whispered to her sister, “He don’t look like a prince. Where’s his crown?”

Sebastian smiled a small but genuine smile as he reached up and touched his bare brow.

The elder sister scowled. “You be quiet or we’re all gonna get our heads cut right off.”

“But he don’t have a sword neither.”

The elder sister glared. “His _knights_ have swords, stupid.”

“Girls,” hissed their mother, with at least as much exasperation as Sebastian had been feeling not twenty minutes earlier. The girls gazed up at their mother with identical expressions positively screaming _we didn’t do nothing, Ma_. Sebastian’s small smile widened.

“Ma,” whispered the littler one, “where’s the princess? You said—”

“I said hush, sweetling,” the mother said, even as she lowered herself into an awkward curtsey. The little girls, still holding tight to each others’ hands, tried to mirror her, but mostly succeeded only in tripping over their own feet.

Sebastian glanced around, taking in the others. A young couple, also holding hands. The girl looked nervous; the lad defiant. A middle-aged elven woman watched him from beneath a wary brow. Beside her, a very old man, forced to rely on a cane to keep himself upright; for a moment Sebastian thought it was Farmer Perkins, but a second look revealed the error. At the old man’s side stood the final of the room’s occupants. He, too, made Sebastian look twice, because his loose blond hair and hunched shoulders immediately put him in mind of Anders. When the man glanced up, however, Sebastian saw his eyes were green, and though skittish, he did not have the drawn, haunted look he so often remembered Anders wearing.

Sebastian gestured for them to return to their seats. The old man did so at once, sighing happily as he sank into the well-padded armchair nearest the fire. The blond man moved to stand behind this chair, but did not sit himself. The young couple perched close together on a divan, and the middle-aged woman took the far end. The mother sent her children to play in the corner, but remained standing, and, having the distinct impression she was acting as mouthpiece, he faced her, clasping his hands loosely behind his back. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mistress,” he said lightly. “My guard said you wished to speak with me?”

“ _We_ may be a slight overstatement,” said the blond, without raising his eyes and with just a trace of sullenness. Sebastian could clearly see the whiteness of his knuckles on the back of the chair, however, and the line of his shoulders was tense. Fear, he realized, and discomfort. _Curious._

“We did,” the mother said. One of the little girls started laughing, and soon the other joined in. Their mother took a deep breath, and when she continued, it was with her voice pitched low. “You can leave if you like, Landan. We’re none of us forcing you to be here.”

The blond said nothing, bowing his head. The old man leaned back in his chair, reaching up and patting one of the younger man’s clenched hands. After a moment, the mother said, “Your Highness, I’m First Enchanter Nadiah. Of the Starkhaven Circle. What remains of it.”

Sebastian blinked. He heard the shift of steel in a scabbard behind him and thrust out his hand to halt Hannis before he did anything foolish. Swallowing his surprise, Sebastian said, “The Circle in Starkhaven burned more than seven years ago.”

Nadiah nodded. “And most of the mages died, fled, or were relocated to Kirkwall. We… didn’t.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows, utterly in disbelief. “You mean to say you simply… _stayed_? As if nothing had happened?”

A shadow crossed her face, quickly replaced by a calm sort of mask. “Not precisely.”

For a moment, he thought about calling for Kiara after all—she was _good_ at these complicated sorts of conversations. More than that, she was good at making friends and putting people at ease. Sebastian was horribly afraid he’d say the wrong thing or irreparably put his foot in his mouth.

Then he wondered if he shouldn’t, perhaps, send for Cullen.

Instead, he sent a glance over his shoulder. Hannis’ jaw was tight, and his hand still rested menacingly on the hilt of his blade. “Ser Hannis,” he said, “there’s no need. I believe if they’d meant me harm, it would already have been done. And you are no templar. There’s little enough you could do. At ease.”

Sebastian heard the man’s teeth grind, but his hand left his blade. His eyes, however, remained wary. “Then perhaps I should—” Hannis began, clearly about to echo the thought Sebastian had just banished from his own mind.

“Ask the servant to fetch refreshments, if you would, Ser Hannis. I will be certain to ask, should I require anything else. Please wait outside, when you return. I am safe here.”

The guardsman blinked at him before giving a slightly jerky salute.

When he turned back, Nadiah continued to regard him with a calm levelness, but Landan was staring. Evidently whatever reaction he’d expected had not included refreshments. Or trust. Sebastian pulled another chair close and sat, and this, at last, induced the First Enchanter— _First Enchanter?_ —to follow suit. After sending a brief look over her shoulder to make certain the children were still playing, she folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the circumstances surrounding the fall of the Circle here, Highness,” she said slowly, picking her words with care. “I know you were in Kirkwall then.”

“And had been for some time, yes. I must own I know little enough. It was a fire, I believe?”

Again she nodded. “It was a fire. Magical in origin, of course; it would take magical fire to burn that hot and that hard, even with other mages trying to douse it.” Her hands clenched briefly in the fabric of her skirts before flattening again. “As you are doubtless aware, factions are always in play. In the case of Starkhaven’s doomed Circle, one of those factions took matters into their own hands. Many lives were lost. Many were destroyed. I suppose a scant few found the… the freedom they were so longing for. Myself, I believe the cost came too high.”

Sebastian closed his eyes, remembering the red light filling the skies of Kirkwall. Red light followed by blood, and death, and a rain of stone.

“Yes,” Nadiah continued. “I expect you do understand. Kirkwall’s chantry was your home. Starkhaven’s Circle was mine. And once it was… once it was taken, I found I did not want to leave the place that had been so familiar to me. I… forgive me, I certainly had no desire to go to Kirkwall. I suspect none of Starkhaven’s mages wished it—we heard rumors even here about the way that Circle was run.”

Worrying his lower lip, Sebastian frowned. “You are… young to be First Enchanter. Are you not?”

“I am. I was. We were so few in the beginning. Enchanter Anric claimed he was too old for the position.” She smiled slightly, and the old man chortled. 

“So I am, lass. So I am. You always did have a good head on your shoulders for organization. I hardly remember my pants most days.”

Her smile turned wry. “I was chosen for my administrative abilities, as you see. And, I suppose, my ability to remember my pants. Landan was newly Harrowed, then, and Teneril—” The elven woman inclined her head, “—had no desire, though she was—and continues to serve—as a Senior Enchanter.”

Sebastian pushed a hand through his hair and was about to ask how in the Maker’s name they’d managed to remain unknown for so long when the younger child bounded over and launched herself into her unprepared mother’s lap. Nadiah pressed a kiss to the little girl’s brow.

“Is she—?”

Nadiah shook her head, her expression taking on a faint shadow. “These are my daughters, Nessa and—”

“I’m Loralie,” said the little one. She held out one hand, all the fingers raised and the thumb tucked closed to her palm. “I’m four.”

On a wry smile, Nadiah said, “She’s Loralie. She’s four. And she’s going to run along back to her sister like she promised, isn’t she?”

The little girl pouted for a moment, employing the saddest, biggest blue eyes Sebastian had ever seen, but to no avail. Nadiah only kissed her again, and whispered in her ear. Loralie nodded distractedly, giving Sebastian a thoughtful look. “Do you have ponies here?” she asked, clambering down from her mother’s knees.

“I do.”

Longing overspread the girl’s face. Exasperation overspread her mother’s. “Lucky.”

“You can visit them if you like.”

Her eyes widened. “ _Really_?”

“Of course. Perhaps you may even go now, while your mother and I talk. You have to take your sister, though, and you have to promise to be on your best behavior. Can you do that?”

She nodded, and looked a little like she was going to faint. Sebastian smiled, noting the shadow of fear on Nadiah’s face. Kiara would have known how to put the woman at ease. He had to suffice with a smile he hoped looked bolstering and not like he intended to hold the woman’s children hostage. He supposed she came by her fear honestly enough—First Enchanter of a secret Circle she might be, but the Chantry still took children away from mages. The thought made him uncomfortable. 

He was saved having to speak further by the arrival of the refreshments. Sebastian sent the servant to fetch Tasia, because what he really wanted was to send for Kiara. When the maid arrived, she gave him a strained look, but curtsied. 

“Tasia, meet Loralie and her sister Nessa. This is their mother, Nadiah. The girls would like to see the stables.”

Tasia wrinkled her nose slightly. “Certainly. Do you want me to fetch my lady?”

The words were uttered innocently enough, but Sebastian heard the underlying tone loud and clear. “She’s with Lord Grayden, I believe, and Ser Kinnon. I wondered if _you_ might have an hour to spare in her place?”

Tasia curtsied again, her eyes rather defiantly never leaving his. “As you wish, Highness. Come along girls. I’ll give you a tour.”

“Ponies!” Nessa cried, clapping her hands.

Tasia extended her hands and the girls immediately clung to her. Loralie, never losing her wide-eyed wonderment, gazed up at the maid. “Are you the princess?”

“Certainly not.” Tasia shot him another pointed look, which he ignored.

Loralie’s disappointment was plain. “But you’re so pretty.”

Tasia smiled, shaking her head. “Thank you very much for the compliment, sweetling, but I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.”

 _There’s more to it than that._ Sebastian inhaled deeply, and when the children departed, taking their chatter and youth and brightness with them, the air felt heavier, the room darker, though nothing had changed. _Isn’t that the truth of it?_

“Are they mages?” Sebastian asked.

Nadiah ignored the refreshments, squeezing her hands tightly together in her lap. “They’re too young. It will be years yet before their magic shows, if it’s there. Their father is—was—their father was not a mage. I… I met and married him after. He knew, of course. He knew everything.”

The grief was fresh, and so raw Sebastian felt his own breath catch in sympathy. Before he could ask—or deflect—the old man explained, “Lad thought it was her they had yesterday and went tearing off for the square. Or so we were told later. By the time he realized it wasn’t his Nadie, it was too late. One of the arrows.”

Sebastian could see the resemblance. Nadiah was older than Amelle, but her short, dark hair was not yet greying, and her figure was similar enough to cause confusion, especially from a distance. And if her husband had believed his wife truly about to be killed—

He swallowed hard, remembering Kiara dying on the floor of the great hall, while he faced the pretender and all the forces of Starkhaven because it was all he knew how to do to try and save her. His story had had a happier ending, perhaps, but it was borne of the same initial desperation.

Nadiah surreptitiously wiped at her tears with the back of her sleeve until Sebastian reached across the distance between them and offered a handkerchief. She stared at it a moment before accepting it.

“How did you survive so long undetected?” Sebastian asked.

This time it was the elven woman, Teneril, who answered. “Anric’s brother. He has a farm. Not too close to either Circle or city center. And they’re old. Few—if any—remembered the family connection.”

“Perkins?” Sebastian choked, thinking again of the resemblance he thought he’d seen. Anric’s lips lifted in an amused smile.

“Nothing wrong with your memory, lad.”

Sebastian smiled faintly. “Nothing wrong with my eyes, perhaps. You know he was here on the first day of the courts? You… share a resemblance.” 

Anric snorted indelicately. “Aye, we’re both _old_.” He tapped the side of his leg with his cane. “And dependent on our sticks.” Shrugging, he added, “It was easy enough to convince folks I was a cousin come from the country with my grandchildren and our housekeeper.”

Teneril rolled her eyes. “Always the elf who has to play housekeeper.”

Anric smiled fondly. “Now, Ten, we never made you clean a thing and you know it. People see what they expect to see. Otherwise you could’ve been a granddaughter, too. Andraste’s arse, they believed Landan and Nadie were siblings and they don’t look a bloody thing alike.”

Sebastian shook his head. “You were the only ones who stayed?”

A shadow darkened Teneril’s expression, but she explained, “In the beginning it was just the four of us, yes. We… decided to stick together. Safety in numbers, and none of us wanted to be alone. An apostate’s life is a lonely one, and… not what any of us wanted.” She gestured toward the young woman sharing her divan. “We found Clara a year after the Circle burned; she came into her power late, and we became her Circle. Clara wasn’t the last to come to us, though and—”

“You’ll not take her to the templars,” declared the lad sitting at Clara’s side, still holding her hand tightly, glowering at Sebastian as though he expected him to produce templars from thin air. “She’s my wife now. We married last spring. She belongs here. She belongs with me. They’ll not have her.”

“No one’s taking anyone,” Clara replied, and though her voice was soothing, her eyes were frightened and they seemed to silently plead with him, even across the distance of the chamber.

Sebastian wanted to reassure her, wanted to say they’d always have a safe haven in his city, but he could not bring himself to form the words. The Revered Mother had allowed Amelle her freedom with strings; he could not count on the same happening with these mages. Amelle’s words rang in his head: _When a demon whispers to you that the thing you want most to do is a wonderful idea and, yes, you should do it right away and very quickly… it is best to refrain, no matter how badly it hurts to do so._

As far as he knew, these mages had refrained for more than seven years.

Surely that had to count for something.

Taking a deep breath, he asked, “How many mages call Starkhaven home? I assume you’re not the lot.”

Nadiah found her voice again in time to answer, “There are a few others… apprentices, children, but most we sent away when the recent… trouble started in the city. We all… we had reasons for staying, and thought it would be… too obvious, otherwise. They are safe where they are. Safer than… they’re safe where they are.”

“Another of Serah Perkins’ holdings?”

She smiled weakly and nodded. “He has accumulated a fair bit of land, over the years. All told, this Circle numbers a little more than a score. Ten Harrowed mages. A half dozen nearly ready for their Harrowings. Another half dozen apprentices.”

Leaning forward, Sebastian rested his elbows on his knees, folding his hands loosely. “You’ve lived in secrecy for years, First Enchanter. Why come to me now? Why reveal yourselves? You… you must know the climate toward mages is hardly… favorable.”

Nadiah regarded him calmly, carefully, for several long moments, hardly blinking. He could still see her grief writ plain upon her face, but he thought he saw hope there, too, and perhaps even something like trust. “Yesterday, that mage was allowed to go free.”

Sebastian winced. “With the caveat that she be under guard, I hope you recall. Templar guard.”

Again Nadiah nodded. “Your Highness, I was brought to the Circle when I was seven years old. I nearly burned my family’s house down. My ma? She didn’t want me to go. She didn’t want to give me up. But I couldn’t control my power—children _can’t_. Do I think it’s entirely fair, the way things are run now? No. I don’t think children should be taken from their parents, and woe betide anyone who attempts to take mine from me. Do I think a Circle can be a home? Do I think the right and proper _place_ of a Circle is to teach and guide those too young and frightened to know what to do with the massive responsibility the Maker has—for whatever reason—heaped on their narrow little shoulders? I do. I also believe templars were not always _jailers_. More than one templar lost their life trying to protect the innocents being burned; they do not have to be our enemies.”

Sebastian nodded, and then shook his head. “And what would you have of me?”

Nadiah glanced at her companions before continuing, “The worlds of politics and faith and magic are meant to stay separate, Highness, but your position… your position is a unique one. We hoped you might speak with the Revered Mother on our behalf. Her actions yesterday were… hopeful.”

“Her hands may be as tied as mine, should the Divine intervene.”

Nadiah tilted her head, her gaze sharp, missing nothing. “And if the Divine should order you to turn over your lady’s sister?” Her smile, small and sad, stole the sting from her words. “I thought not. You have already taken steps to ensure Starkhaven’s climate—toward mages, and toward cooperation between factions that do not always see eye to eye—changes for the better, Your Highness. I suppose in the end, that is why we’re here. We are not criminals, Your Highness. We are tired of hiding. We want to help.”

Amelle’s words came back to him then. “Do you—I don’t suppose you have lyrium potion?”

Whatever Nadiah had thought he was going to say, clearly this was not it. She blinked. Anric said, “I imagine she did run herself dry after the show yesterday.”

“Her—the elf who tried to save her. She is attempting to heal him, but—”

“Maker’s Light,” Teneril said softly, “is a recipe that ought to be burned. Burned and forgotten. It resists magic. Surely you know this. Surely she does. All the healing magic in the world—”

“Teneril,” Nadiah interrupted. “Hope is potent. It is not our place to steal it from those who need it most.”

Teneril glanced down at her folded hands. “Despair is potent too, Nadie.”

“We have some stores of lyrium,” Nadiah said. Her voice broke a little, and Sebastian knew she would have sat at her husband’s bedside pouring magic into him if she’d been able to do it. Even if the underlying belief was that it would be futile. “We are none of us healers, but we do have potions.”

“It would be nice,” said Anric, “to have a healer again.”

“I cannot speak for Amelle,” Sebastian said. “I do not yet know what her plans will be when… when everything is said and done.”

_She will leave with her sister, with Isabela and Varric, with Cullen._

Swallowing this bitter thought, he added, “I will contact the Revered Mother as soon as I’m able, and if you would send someone with the potions—”

“You’re not going to keep us here?” Landan blurted. “Nadie said—”

“We came here willing to remain as… a token of good faith,” Nadiah added. “We understand the position knowledge of our existence places you in, Your Highness. We know we must be considered apostates and treated as such.”

Sebastian rose, pacing to the hearth, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. As far as diplomatic nightmares went, this was a fine one. _I want to see Starkhaven a place of peace, a haven,_ Kiara had said to him. _I want to see you rule over such a place._ “You came to me under a flag of friendship, First Enchanter,” he said at last. “I would not insult you by treating you as anything less. I would not see your Circle made prisoner. We must start as we mean to go on.”

Nadiah inclined her head, but not before he saw the relief cross her face.

“Then, for now, we shall continue as we were before, Your Highness, and trust you to arrange a meeting with the Revered Mother. Perhaps after the trial?”

“Indeed,” he agreed.

He only hoped Illona would be as amenable to a healing of the rift between Chantry and Circle. To friendship.

He only hoped the Divine would not see them all in chains for daring to dream of such healing.

#

Kiara couldn’t help glancing toward the palace. Again and again she caught herself doing it, always when it was too late to check herself. Again and again she chastised herself for looking. If she’d been the one practicing with sword in hand, Kinnon would have defeated her handily several times over. Even Garreth would have won without much trouble. Still, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to look up and, like she’d done a week ago—only a week? A lifetime—see Sebastian watching her with a smile on his face. 

Once, for just a moment, as Kinnon allowed Garreth to warily circle and hesitate and strike, Kiara almost thought she saw the familiar flash of sunlight on white clothes, glinting in auburn hair, but then she blinked and the echo of color was gone, leaving only barren grey walls under a barren grey sky. Her heart sank. She cursed her heart for sinking.

“My lady?”

She didn’t realized she’d stopped paying attention altogether until she shook her head slightly and saw Garreth and Kinnon both staring at her with equally concerned expressions on their faces. Kinnon was hardly winded. Garreth, on the other hand, wavered on his feet, leaning heavily on the wooden practice sword, sweat dripping into his eyes from the ends of his dampened hair. Kinnon clapped a hand to the lad’s shoulder and gave him a brief, companionable shake. “Off to the bath with you, I think, my lord,” the knight said. “I’ll see the lady Kiara back to her rooms.”

“I… I can…” the young lord said, but when he blinked it took too long for his eyes to open again. “Perhaps I…”

“You did well,” Kiara said. Neither mentioned her lack of attention. “Perhaps… perhaps tomorrow we’ll work on your bow.”

Garreth’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but nearly. Close enough for her to feel some relief. “Best give it a couple of days, my la—Kiara. I am reasonably certain I won’t be able to move tomorrow.”

She wanted to assure him they had plenty of time. She couldn’t. It was the second day of Fenris’… it was the second day. The third day couldn’t be thought about, not yet. Not now. Jessamine would die a few days after that.

And then she’d leave. She’d _have_ to leave, or she’d never go at all.

After… no. She would think of none of that until after the third day.

After too long a pause, she said, “Find me when you’re ready. I’ll… find me when you’re ready.”

Garreth nodded, looking relieved, but Kinnon’s expression remained shadowed, and she couldn’t pretend to ignore the way his eyes watched her so carefully. Like she was going to break if he looked away. Like he could protect her from that breaking if he just watched closely enough. Perhaps he wasn’t so very far off the mark. He knew what Garreth did not, after all. He knew everything. And when the young lord had tottered away on wobbling legs, Kinnon laid a gentler hand on _her_ shoulder.

He didn’t say anything at all.

Kiara bowed her head, closing her eyes and breathing deep. It was too much. Fenris. Amelle. Elias. Maisie.

Sebastian.

Lost things. Broken things.

On a sharp inhale, she lifted her chin and shook her head sharply, as if shaking might clear it of the pain of grief. “I need to get out of here,” she said fervently. “I need to _go_.”

Kinnon’s fingers tightened briefly. “Now, my lady? Al-already?”

She blinked to keep yet more tears from falling. “No. Not Starkhaven. Not back to Kirkwall. Not yet. I just… I look around and I…”

She couldn’t continue.

“I understand, my lady.”

Kiara met his gaze and looked at him, truly. Hidden in the furrow of his brow and behind the concern in his eyes, hidden in the set of his shoulders and the weight of his hand, hidden in the way his lips twisted and in the shadows beneath his eyes she saw he _did_. He understood completely.

His Starkhaven had changed, too. And it would never be the same.

Kiara caught sight of a pair of ladies moving through the practice yard. Neither of them wore archery dresses, she noted, and even at a distance she was fairly certain the taller of the pair was Aileene Caddell. Kiara suspected only something particular would bring Aileene into the practice yard. The ladies paused, tittering behind their raised hands, their eyes fixed on her. _Something very particular indeed._ It took a great deal of restraint to keep from lifting her bow and putting an arrow through one of the other—or both at once!—of their ridiculously impractical hairstyles.

Kinnon sighed when he saw where her eyes were turned; sighed and then rolled his eyes. “Where’s a drunk templar when you need him?”

Kiara almost laughed.

“Very well,” Kinnon said, turning his back on the giggling intruders. “It’ll mean my head if we’re caught, my lady, but I have an idea.”

#

Kiara hated helmets. She always had. She’d earned many a lecture from Amelle—and Carver, for that matter—when more often than not she forwent them altogether. Carver had always grumbled and shouted, and on one memorable occasion—just before the battle of Ostagar—forcibly jammed a boiled leather cap over her hair. “You don’t have to give them a shining bloody target,” he’d muttered, even as she caught the faintest echo of fear in his eyes. So she’d worn the blighted thing. That time. Amelle’s lot was not to grumble, and she didn’t have Carver’s brute strength. Amelle _wheedled_. She pleaded. Begged, even. Amelle was always hard to resist when she begged, and she _knew it_.

But in spite of it all, Kiara rarely wore helmets. Much as she could appreciate the way one might keep her from getting brained on the battlefield, she couldn’t abide the way they interfered with her line of sight, or how heavy they were, or how constrictive.

In this case, she supposed the irritation of wearing one was a necessary evil. Still, the heavy helm was a far cry even from the leather caps she would occasionally be persuaded to wear on particularly unpleasant missions. She and Kinnon were scarcely ten minutes away from the palace before her neck began to ache abominably. She had to turn her head completely—bloody helmets—in order to see Kinnon striding along beside her, his own face concealed by a similar helm.

She couldn’t fault the disguise, however. Clad in the armor of the palace guard, no one gave them a second glance (Kiara suspected the set she wore had, at one time, belonged to Maisie; she and the disgraced guardswoman were of a size and Kiara didn’t ask when Kinnon mysteriously produced a full uniform, complete with armor, that just _happened_ to fit). They might as well have been invisible. Other guards nodded at them, but no one stopped them, and no one asked questions they’d have been hard-pressed to answer.

It had been a very long time since Kiara had been able to traverse streets without being recognized. 

It was almost like freedom.

At first she let Kinnon set the pace and the direction. He took an unfamiliar path, down toward the docks. She noticed how careful he was to avoid the chantry, and the courtyard that had nearly been the end of so many things the day before.

The courtyard that _had_ been the end of so many things. When she blinked within the safe confines of her helmet, she felt hot tears spill down her cheeks. Fenris, running toward the platform. Fenris, startled as he looked down at blood seeping out between his fingers. Fenris, with his hand—no, she still couldn’t bear that thought. Fenris, falling.

Sebastian, confused.

No, she couldn’t bear that thought, either.

Amelle was alive. Heartbroken, perhaps, or about to be, but alive. Kiara held tight to that, to the knowledge that Fenris falling— _oh, Maker, Fenris falling_ —had not been in vain. Everything could have gone so differently, so _poorly_ … so much worse. It twisted her gut to think of it in such terms, but she couldn’t help it. Amelle was alive.

Everything else might be broken, but at least Amelle was alive.

Swallowing hard, Kiara forced herself to step away from that darkness, to look out instead of in. Though she was familiar with the city by night, she found herself surprised to see how different Starkhaven appeared by day. The ugliness of what had been done in the city’s streets hadn’t been completely erased by the events of the day before, or by the bounty courts that had put an end to the monstrous burnings, but still Kiara saw a marked difference from her first impression. Once-shuttered shops were once again open for business. Townsfolk nodded and met each other’s eyes and even murmured greetings. If the nods were slight or the greetings subdued, at least they _existed_. She took some hope from that. She had to.

Turning a corner, they entered a fountained square positively bustling in comparison to the rest of the streets they’d traversed. Kiara’s breath caught as she was overwhelmed by the sound of voices, and above the voices, shrieking cries. Half expecting a wooden platform or torches raised, it took a moment to realize the voices were loud but conversational, and the high-pitched cries came from the laughing throats of children playing a game that seemed mostly comprised of running in circles and using whatever they could find—fountain, market stalls, tall adults—as defensive barriers.

One such child nearly bowled Kiara over completely—and Maker, if she _fell_ in this armor she’d probably never be able to get up again—as he darted behind her and yelled something incomprehensible at one of the other children chasing him. He laughed, breathless.

Kinnon, of course, was instantly on alert, but before he could say anything, or, worse, _do_ anything to dissuade the child from his game, Kiara put out a hand and shook her head. Or at least she _tried_ to shake her head; she wasn’t certain how successful the gesture was, given the bloody weight on top of it. She met his dark gaze and tried to convey her amusement with her eyes. After a moment she heard him snort lightly, and then the little boy was off again, shrieking with laughter.

“Children,” Kinnon muttered, but with laughter in his tone.

“Maker bless them,” Kiara said. “Would that we all could heal as they do.”

Even she could hear the tone of longing in her own voice, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from saying more, from revealing more.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Kinnon whispered, just loudly enough she could hear but no one else would be able to. “This isn’t helping, is it?”

“On the contrary, Kinnon,” she replied, watching the children run and laugh and play and heal. “I believe it is exactly what I needed to see.”

“Then, do you think… perhaps you might—”

She shook her head again. Or tried to. “Kinnon.”

“We don’t want you to go, my lady. That’s all. It might take time, but eventually—”

“Sebastian doesn’t need eventually. He needs security.”

“That’s what he has guards for, my lady. Begging your pardon.”

Kiara sighed. “It’s more complicated—”

“I think you’re making it more complicated,” he said. “What’s healing but learning to adapt?”

She bent her head, the weight of the helm heavy. One of the children darted behind her again, screaming. “Come along,” she said. “I… I’d like to check on Joff before we head back. Make sure he’s okay.”

“My lady,” he said, ostensibly agreeing, but she heard the reproach in his tone. And just for a moment, privately, she let herself consider that he might, in the end, be right.


	82. Chapter 82

At one time, solitude had been fairly easy for Sebastian Vael to come by.  Even in Kirkwall, teeming with people, if he’d wanted or needed privacy or quiet, Sebastian had always known where to find it.  And while he did not regret the decision to choose prince over priest, he did miss that solitude.  It was far more difficult to come by in his new life.

Particularly now.

He wasn’t yet free to walk about Starkhaven proper without a complement of guards, which rather defeated the purpose of going for a walk at all, if being alone was what he wanted _._   And with as many people as were in the palace at any given moment, solitude — true solitude — could only be found behind locked doors. But he was tired of locked doors, tired of sitting, tired of biding his time, tired of waiting.

He had far too much on his mind to remain seated and still, so he walked.  Oh, he knew he was still trailed by a guard, though the guard in question was wise enough to keep his distance. And he knew he was watched by Eyes always. But the illusion of walking alone was, for now, enough. 

He walked the palace gardens, he walked length after length of bright, polished corridors, he walked to the practice yard, down to the knights’ barracks and back again.  No one spoke to him.  Indeed, the whole palace seemed… subdued.  Only a brave few met his gaze and ventured a nod. He thought about stopping to shoot—the familiarity of a bow in his hands would be a blessing, to say nothing of the oblivion to be found in the concentration shooting would require—but knew he would only draw a crowd, and as a crowd was what he most wanted to avoid…

_But what shall we bet, Sebastian? What will satisfy them?_

No. No, he did not want to shoot today. So he walked.

His steps eventually took him to the palace stables — it seemed a wise idea to check on the horses that had carried his friends the distance to Starkhaven, and to speak with the stablemaster about which horses were sound enough for the return trip, and which would be better off remaining behind.  Even once Isabela had her ship back, Sebastian doubted Varric would take kindly to another sea-voyage.  And he knew they would be leaving soon.

 _All of them_ , he thought, as nausea twisted in his gut.

As Sebastian drew nearer the stables, he heard a noise that sounded as if it had come from the depths of the Void itself.  The horrible yowling cry shot down his spine and made him quicken his steps.  It sounded like a small child in agony, wailing despondently for its mother, but when Sebastian entered the cool shadows of the stables he found not a child, but rather the stablemaster and two young grooms kneeling in a stall barren of everything but clean litter and hay, their attention focused wholly on something in the corner.

Curiosity now eclipsed all else and Sebastian stepped into the stall, trying to peer over the three heads bent together as if in quiet conference.

“…Gentlemen?”

The stablemaster—a brawny, dark-haired man named Colin—gave a start and looked over his shoulder.  His eyes widened immediately and he stood, bowing.  “Your Highness,” he said, and the two grooms scrambled to their feet as well.  They seemed torn between remaining where they were and scurrying out of the stall altogether.  Colin glanced at them both and gave a nod; the boys bowed briefly before hurrying off.  

Sebastian watched them go, noting that neither boy seemed to be in any sort of distress.  “Is everything all right?” he asked.  “I heard… I dare not attempt to even describe the noise I heard.”

The yowl sounded again, and Sebastian realized it was coming from the corner.  He stepped closer and looked down to find, of all things, a cat nursing a litter of kittens.

“Sorry about that,” Colin said.  “We have something of a… unique situation this evening, I’m afraid.”  

“So I see,” he murmured, looking down at the four tiny, mewling bodies.  

“My grooms caught some of the other boys in town tormenting the mother and drowning the kittens — three of the litter were already dead when they chased the little hooligans off.  The boys brought the rest to me.”  He rocked back on his heels and shrugged, looking down at the mother cat aggressively licking the head of one of her squirming offspring.  “I can’t abide anyone mistreating anything what can’t defend itself.  And I reckon a barn can always make use of mousers.”

Sebastian crouched down for a better look.  One of the kittens, smaller and stiller than the rest, its tiny body covered in patches of white and grey, wasn’t quite able to push its way forward and claim its meal like the rest of the litter.  It lay curled against its mother, eyes closed, struggling to breathe.

“What about that one?”  

At Sebastian’s question, Colin’s mouth turned downward. “That one the boys pulled out of the well.  Half-drowned.  I don’t expect it’ll make it, but better to give it a fighting chance than leave it to drown with the others.”

Watching the kitten struggle to breathe pulled at him. With its white markings and grey fur… he wondered if it would one day have green eyes. For another long minute Sebastian watched the animal’s thin sides heaving. 

“Nothing more can be done?”

Colin shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s still just a wee babe, Highness. If it can’t take milk from its mother…”

“Could… could someone feed it?”

The stablemaster sighed. “If a person had naught but time. I’m—I hate to see a creature suffer, my lord, but in the stables we’ve none of us time like that to spend. Not when there’s the horses to care for and stalls to muck.”

_All we require is a little more time._

Sebastian closed his eyes briefly. Though he _remembered_ the Fade dream, whenever he tried too hard to grasp onto any particular memory, more often than not the details slipped away from him. He knew Amelle had come after him during the darkest days of his recovery. He even remembered _why._   In his mind he caught glimpses of a white building in a city he somehow knew was cleaner and safer and _emptier_ than any city he’d ever known waking. He remembered solitude, and prayer, but neither had brought him peace, though he’d been so very desperate for it.

  _I do have quite a knack for picking up strays. Ask my sister. I was forever bringing home lame animals and nursing them back to health._

There was a cat in that dream. That memory. And a determined young woman he’d hardly recognized at the time. Oh, her face had been familiar enough even then, but when Amelle Hawke had come to the Fade armed only with determination and persistence and love for her sister, Sebastian had realized he’d never _seen_ her before, not really.

_You know us Hawkes, Sebastian—always taking up lost causes._

He remembered only a perfect chantry on silent streets, Amelle’s set jaw, a demon screaming, and a little orange cat.

This cat was not orange, but he wondered…

Hardly thinking, Sebastian unclasped his cloak and wrapped the tiny, pathetic kitten in its warmth. It barely moved and was too weak even to mewl. For half a heartbreaking instant he wondered if he even had time enough to bring it to Amelle. It seemed like to expire in his hands. He shook his head, ridding it of the pessimistic thought. Then, cradling his bundle of kitten as gingerly as he’d have held a newborn infant, Sebastian retraced his steps, past the practice yard. The barracks would take him through to halls, toward the room where he knew he would find Amelle at Fenris’ side, but Sebastian had barely made it halfway to the barracks before he heard someone calling after him.

“Your Highness!”

He turned to spy one of the mages walking with long-legged strides after him, a sack in his arms.  It was the young blond one—Landan.  Odd, perhaps, that he’d been chosen to be the one to return with the potions, given he made no secret of his distrust, but the reasoning didn’t entirely matter to Sebastian, particularly when he spied the tell-tale blue shimmer reflecting off the burlap bag, off Landan’s face, catching the light and twisting it into an iridescent glow.  Sebastian was certain he’d never been so relieved to see lyrium potion before in the whole of his life.

The mage was just as unsmiling as he’d been before, though the dour expression fled into confusion when he glanced down at the bundle Sebastian carried so gently.

“That’s…” he began, brow creasing in puzzlement, “that’s a kitten.”

“Aye,” Sebastian answered.  “And it’s a kitten that’s going to perish in my hands if I don’t take it where it needs to be.”  He nodded at the sack Landan clutched.  “I’ve no available hands to carry that as well.  If you wouldn’t mind following me, the kitten _and_ those bottles are headed for the same destination.”

The young man gave him a speculative look, but fell in, walking ever so slightly behind him. “No need to stand on ceremony,” Sebastian said gently. “You had no trouble with the guard?”

Moving up to walk by Sebastian’s side, the lad said, “They said they were expecting me, Your Highness. Did—do they—”

Sebastian shook his head. “Time and place, I think. I indicated I was waiting for someone who’d be bringing me a package I needed very much. I did not mention your… skill set.”

Landan’s long legs kept easy pace with Sebastian. “Because you don’t trust us.”

“Because up until a few days ago, anyone accused of having those skills was like to see an angry mob,” Sebastian reminded him, gesturing for Landan to follow him up a staircase. The bottles of lyrium jangled against each other, soothing rather than discordant. Sebastian hoped they’d give Amelle new strength to continue on, if nothing else. “Even the best things do not change overnight simply because we wish them to.” Sebastian lifted an eyebrow. “I admit, of everyone in that room, yours was rather the last face I expected to see making this particular delivery.”

Landan frowned. “Nadie was going to come, but she has the girls. Didn’t seem right. It’s—there’s still a risk. As you said. If there’d been trouble with the guard. Or with the townsfolk.”

“Or with me?” The kitten made a tiny, distressed noise. Its heart was racing; Sebastian could feel the struggle to survive. He quickened his pace to a near-jog. Landan said nothing about the change, merely keeping up.

“Begging your pardon, but I don’t _know_ you, my lord,” Landan said. “You seem decent enough, and you made a good impression with Nadie, which counts for a lot. She’s… she’s not wrong about people. You know? I draw the wrong conclusions all the time, but she never does.”

A faint smile pulled at the corner of Sebastian’s lips. “It’s a marvel to behold, isn’t it?”

“My lord?”

“A talent like that. For people; for understanding the heart of people. I envy it. I am… too swift to judge. Often.”

Landan huffed a breathy chuckle. “Nadie tells me the same thing. All the time.”

Sebastian paused at the next turn to get his bearings before choosing the left fork in the hallway. “She downplayed it, of course, but she seems a good leader.”

Landan raised his eyebrows. “You’d have to be, wouldn’t you? When you think about it? She kept a Circle safe in _Starkhaven_ for more than seven years. Grew our numbers. Kept us… we didn’t feel like apostates. Can you understand the difference? She was so careful, but we never felt like prisoners.”

“Ahh,” Sebastian said. “I begin to see why you were so dour earlier. You were afraid she was misstepping? After all that time? Trusting where she oughtn’t trust?”

The young man shrugged, hitching the burden in his arms. Sebastian’s own burden was starting to fail, the tiny heart slowing. They were, however, almost there.

“I mean you no harm, Landan,” Sebastian said. “Though I cannot guarantee how long or how well my protection will last. The truth is, half a dozen years ago I’d have turned you all in to the nearest authority and believed myself doing the Maker’s work. I… I know a woman who sounds a great deal like your First Enchanter—rarely wrong about the true substance of a soul—and she has done a great deal to show me the value of individuals over the importance of tradition and… rules that may or may not be necessary.”

Had the reason for Sebastian’s visit not been struggling for both breath and life at that moment, he might’ve been amused at the look on Ser Braden’s face as he approached.  Surprise led to deference and a brief bow, which then turned to outright bafflement when he caught sight of the kitten.  He barely spared Landan a second glance.  Shifting his cloak and the kitten to cradle in one arm, Sebastian knocked briefly and opened the door, before Amelle had time to reply.

Inside Fenris’ sickroom, Amelle had thrown open every window, and even now the curtains fluttered in the early evening breeze off the river.  The day’s sunlight was waning, but it was hardly evident given the glow her healing magics radiated—so brightly, in fact, Sebastian could barely make out her features at all.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Landan give a start.  Sebastian himself could feel how _different_ the air felt in here, how charged; it only made sense someone sensitive to magic would feel it even more keenly than he.

The light died away with a stutter when Amelle looked up, realizing she was not longer alone.  Her smile, though strained with worry, was still pleased, if a little puzzled, and she stood, shaking out her fingers.

“Sebastian,” she said, standing and coming around the other side of the bed.  She glanced first at the bundled cloak, and then at Landan, her brows quirking.  “Is everything all right?” she asked, green eyes sliding back over to him.

“The prince said you were in need of lyrium potion,” Landan supplied, nodding at the gently clinking sack.

Amelle blinked, startled.  “Lyrium potion?  I… I didn’t even—didn’t dare hope there’d be any to be _found._ ”  And then she tipped her head at Landan, eyeing him shrewdly, but Sebastian could not tell if it was his resemblance to Anders, or if she could tell he was a mage as well that had caught her attention.  “Thank you so much.  You have no idea…” she glanced over her shoulder where Fenris lay, and Sebastian saw the naked pain flash across her face before she shuttered it away again, all in an instant.  “Thank you.”

Now Landan looked between Amelle and Sebastian, his own expression revealing his puzzlement.  “You’re welcome, uh, my… lady.”

A very faint smile pulled at Amelle’s lips. “Amelle will do fine, thank you.”

“Landan and his colleagues knew where some stores of potions might be found,” Sebastian said, then shifted the kitten in his arms.  It seemed suddenly almost painfully frivolous, bringing her such a tiny life to save when she was pouring so much mana into Fenris.  And yet.  “And I’ve… brought you something.  Perhaps—rather, it is my… hope you can help.”  Sebastian coughed, hating the way his voice twitched that last word upwards into a question.

Amelle lifted one eyebrow at him and came closer, peering over the edge of the cloak as Sebastian shifted the small animal in his arms.  When she saw what he held, she breathed in a soft gasp and brought one hand up to run a gentle fingertip across its head.

“What happened to it?” she asked, letting Sebastian transfer the bundle into her arms.

“It nearly met its end at the bottom of a well,” he replied, unable to keep the darkness from his tone.  A lucky thing he hadn’t come across the boys in question — a lucky thing indeed.  “Is there anything you can… do for it?”

“I imagine so,” she murmured, gently easing the small, furry body from the cloak.  “Maker, the poor thing — it’s so _thin._ ”

“Do you need any—” Sebastian began, indicating the bag of potion bottles, but Amelle shook her head.

“I’ve just taken the last of my own—your timing is impeccable, might I add—but this is rather straightforward.”  She smiled at the tiny furry body.  “Not a drop of magebane to be had in this little fellow.”  With that, the light at Amelle’s hands flared to life as she cradled the kitten against her chest.  It took less than a minute, and when the glow of magic and power finally ebbed away, the kitten was still small and thin, but its breath came more easily.  After a second or two, it opened its infant-kitten blue-grey eyes and let out a tiny, plaintive _mew._

Sebastian smiled for what felt like the first time in ages, and was embarrassed to feel the prickle of tears in his eyes. “The stablemaster said it would need to be fed by hand,” Sebastian said quietly, his brogue gone heavier with emotion. Amelle glanced up at him and her eyebrows quirked. “Though if it’s healthier now, perhaps it might suckle. I could take it back to its mother.”

Beside him, Landan cleared his throat; when Sebastian glanced over, he was surprised to see the dour mage looking surprisingly less dour.  “The mother might not take it back into the litter.”

Amelle nodded, giving the kitten a fond look. “Your friend’s right, I’m afraid. There’s a reason I always had to nurse animals back to health myself.”

“It’s… the magic,” Landan explained, setting the bag of potions down on a nearby table.  “My parents had a farm when I came into my powers.”  He grimaced at some private memory.  “The chickens in particular didn’t like me.”

Amelle nodded.  “Most creatures don’t like the residue it leaves behind—I had a devil of a time finding a horse for the journey.  They all seemed to want nothing more than to throw me.”  She shrugged, stroking the kitten’s head. “It’s not quite natural, perhaps. Best send for milk and a rag. And a glove, maybe. One you don’t mind me ruining.” Sebastian supposed he must have looked terribly confused, because Amelle explained, “You poke a hole in the finger and use it as a nipple. Works wonders.” Her eyes remained sad even as her lips smiled. “This isn’t the first kitten I’ve hand-fed, believe it or not.”

“Will it survive?”

She regarded him for a long moment, and though he wanted to turn away, he did not. He had the uncomfortable feeling she was peeling back layers upon layers, and seeing more than he wanted anyone to see. His legs itched with the desire to keep moving, keep walking, but he remained perfectly still.

“Of course,” she said at last, almost cheerily. “A little care and compassion goes a long way.”

At the word _compassion_ , the kitten mewled again, louder, and began to squirm in Amelle’s hands.

He swallowed hard. “Amelle, the trial is set for—”

“For several days from now,” she interrupted.  “Let’s deal with today first, shall we?” Her words resonated with false brightness. “First day of the rest of this little one’s life. It’s an important occasion. Wouldn’t want to rush it.” She ran a fingertip over the kitten’s tiny skull and huffed a breathy laugh when it turned its head, looking to suckle. “Might want to rush the milk, though. It’s clearly lunchtime.”

“I’ll send for it at once.”

Her voice stopped him as he reached for the handle of the door. “Sebastian?”

Turning to look over his shoulder, he raised his eyebrows.

Amelle fixed him with a shrewd look, still running one fingertip absently down the kitten’s ribs. “This wasn’t meant as a… distraction, was it? From… other things?”

Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels slightly. “That hadn’t occurred to me. I just thought—I remembered what you said, about taking in strays and nursing wounded creatures. I thought maybe…”

The shrewdness never left her eyes.  She glanced briefly at Landan before looking back at Sebastian.  “You remember more than I thought you would.”

Sebastian only shrugged at her careful, veiled words, and indicated the tiny kitten, keeping his features neutral.  “Better for this wee one that I did.”

Amelle looked at him and it felt, for a moment, she was looking _through_ him until something akin to surprise registered and she finally said quietly, “Yes,” she said finally.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.”

The silence that followed was an awkward one and Sebastian shifted his weight from foot to foot.  “If there’s nothing else…”

She nodded, but the slight frown didn’t leave her brow. “Actually… might I have you alone for a moment?”

Landan didn’t need to be asked; he simply slipped outside, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Amelle waited a moment longer, pacing to the window and back again. “Where did he come from?”

“Starkhaven’s Circle. What remains of it.”

She shivered. “Not… Grace and her ilk?”

“No, indeed. The opposite, if I understand correctly. It’s a longer tale than we’ve time for, and unfinished yet, but some few mages have remained all this time. They came to speak with me. Saw some hope in what happened yesterday.”

She closed her eyes. “Thank the Maker someone saw some hope in it. Forgive me. I… don’t mean that. I don’t suppose any of them have a talent for—” she waved an absent hand at the bed.

“No healers, I’m afraid.”

Amelle sighed and moved back to Fenris’ side, reaching down to brush the hair from his brow. “I’m in their debt for the lyrium, in any case, and more grateful than I can say.”

“I will leave you to it, then—”

“Sebastian,” Amelle said quietly, without looking up at him, “have you spoken to her?”

He winced as though she’d slapped him. “She said all she needed to say.”

“Right,” Amelle said. “I have no trouble believing _that_. But the question is… did you return the favor? She’s _used_ to making the decisions and expecting them to be followed without question.”

“There is a reason for that. She’s usually right.”

Amelle nodded thoughtfully. “Usually. But not _always_. And I fear in this case her judgment may be… somewhat clouded.”

“I will consider that.” He inclined his head.  “And I will send someone with the milk.”

Outside, Ser Braden was staring at Landan, and Landan was doing his damnedest not to stare back. After speaking with a passing servant to see Amelle received what she required to care for the kitten, Sebastian turned and headed back toward his office, gesturing for the mage to follow him. Landan no longer looked dour, however; his expression had slid entirely into something very much like incredulity. This astonishment lasted most of the walk, before Landan began to speak, half under his breath.

“I’d never have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it myself. Such open use of… no, I’d never have believed it. And the _control_. I’m not sure you understand the _control_. To shift between the amount of power she was wielding when we entered to the amount necessary to heal an infant animal? I— _Maker._ Would that I could ask her all the questions I have.” Landan shook his head wonderingly, then seemed to recollect himself, and his audience. “Ah. Your Highness. Forgive me. Thinking aloud. I, uh. Do that.”

Sebastian nodded, ushering the young man into his office, where he promptly set to work gathering the coin he had readily available. Landan protested, but Sebastian merely closed the man’s hands around the purse. “You’ve done me—and her—a great service. Coin is the least I can do. And… as to the rest, I cannot say. If things… should things turn out well, perhaps she will answer some of those questions. Likely she has some of her own. Having only ever had the one teacher, I imagine she must.”

“One teacher,” Landan breathed. “Maker’s breath.”

The young man was still mumbling his wonderment under his breath as he left. Sebastian sat at his desk, grateful for the silence, shuffling through papers without actually reading any of them, wondering if Amelle might be right about her sister.

Kiara, after all, wasn’t the only good judge of character in the Hawke family.

 _Usually, but not_ always, Sebastian thought, allowing himself a grain—just a grain—of hope.


	83. Chapter 83

Fenris blinked.

The sky was deepest blue, unmarred by clouds.  The blazing sun beat down upon him, but, strangely, did not warm his skin.

“Lazy.”

Fenris lifted his head — should it have been so difficult?  No matter — and squinted up at the voice, but the sun was too bright in its deep blue sky.  Then the voice’s owner crouched down and grinned at him.

Freckles still dappled her sunburnt nose.

_Still?_

“Liaria,” he breathed, her name tasting strange and somehow wrong upon his tongue. For half a heartbeat he thought he remembered a different name, warmer and sweeter, but then it was gone, leaving emptiness and _Liaria_ in its place.  Again he struggled to sit up, settling for pushing himself onto one elbow.  They were atop one of Minrathous’ many hills; this particular one overlooked the arena. 

Warriors fought in the arena.  Fighting was important.  _Essential._   But he couldn’t quite grasp why. He put one hand to his ribs, half-expecting to find his fingers stained with blood, but they came away clean even though a phantom ache lingered.

“Are you still sore from sparring practice yesterday?”

He blinked. She reached out, almost but not quite touching him, and only weariness kept him from actively rolling away from her.

“I got you good,” she reminded him, pointing at his ribs. “Not surprised it still hurts. You let your guard down.”

“I never let my guard down,” he protested.

Her laugh was cold and bright, like the sun beating down upon them.

It was strange how cold the sun was. It was strange how cold her laughter.

“What are you doing here, Leto?  This isn’t like you.”  Liaria flung herself down on the grass next to him and rolled onto her side, still smiling.

He had a _reason_ for being here.  A reason.  What was it?  Fenris squinted at the sky, trying to remember. Above him a hawk circled, hunting prey, its movements somehow precise and effortless at the same time. When it flew too close to the sun, he had to look away from the blinding brightness, and by the time his eyesight recovered it was gone.

“My name is not Leto,” he finally said.  _That_ he remembered.  

Liaria shook her head and smiled.  No blood stained her teeth.  “You’ll always be Leto to me.”

Fenris frowned.  _Blood? Leto?_ All around them, the earth was baked and parched and dry, the grass long since having forgotten even the memory of green. He could not remain here.  There was something he was meant to be doing.  _Something._   He looked down again at the amphitheater.

This time when Liaria reached out she _did_ touch him. Her fingers were cold, colder than the sun, colder even than her laughter. He shuddered under her touch, and she giggled, evidently believing his response one of pleasure. Perhaps it was. He could not remember. Her fingers traced invisible whorls and patterns across his skin, and for a second he thought he would see light where her fingers passed. The sun flashed like lyrium burning, and the heat was so abruptly intense he sat upright, pulling himself away from Liaria’s wandering hands. She made a displeased sound deep in her throat.

“I fought for these markings,” he said. “I killed for them.”

Liaria giggled again, the sound eerie and disingenuous. “ _What_ markings, love? I see only the same old scars, the same old memories of battles fought and won.”

He glanced down at his arms, but she was right. Where he expected to see ghostly white lines, only the occasional mark of silvered scar tissue—this, from his battle with Dericus; that, the time Meria nearly ended him in the arena—met his gaze.

He raised his fingers to the hollow of his throat, but instead of the familiar ridges of the necklace his mother had given him—Elgar’nan, God of Vengeance—he felt only smooth skin. Smooth, _warm_ skin. All around the tiny patch of warmth his skin was cold—his fingers were _freezing_ —but there, _there_ it was all warmth. The warmth of a mother’s love. The warmth of a lover’s kiss.

He glanced sideways at Liaria. Though her lips were still smiling, ever smiling, her eyes were narrowed. He _knew_ that look. He’d seen it before. On the battlefield. _Before I killed her._

He shook his head and the memory fled, taking the warmth with it, leaving cold in its place.

“Come back with me, love,” Liaria pleaded. “Your mother’s been expecting you. She has missed you so much. We’ve all missed you. Come back with me.”

Again he shook his head, inching away from her.

“You can rest there.”

He was so weary. Weary to his very bones. His body _ached_ with weariness.

“No,” he said. “I cannot.”

_Live. Fight._

The sky above him was blue, blue like…

And there was the bird again, still circling, still hunting.

“I am looking for someone,” he said suddenly, but grasping onto the thought was like trying to keep a hold on sand.  “She needs me.”

Liaria’s full lips turned down in a pout. “What about me, love? _I_ need you. I’ve been waiting here for ages. What about your mother?”

He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut as hot and cold overtook him, searing through his veins, fire chasing ice and ice circling back on fire. Liaria grabbed his wrist, her fingers like claws— _he didn’t have time to remove his clawed gauntlet; the pointed fingertips tore into her chest and he hoped he was not doing more damage than good_ —and she pulled at him with all her warrior’s fierceness, all the strength born of training and desperation.

He was still stronger than her. _As rain coursed down his face and neck, he_ pushed _.  Her body gave against the blade, and he felt rather than heard — the crowd had exploded into chaos and noise; it was_ loud _, so impossibly loud — the snap of her spine._

It wasn’t raining, but the sun was hot again, and when Fenris felt the fingers drop away from his wrist he opened his eyes to see Liaria sprawled beside him.

The sunburn on her nose was fading.

Her teeth were stained with blood.

“I must go,” he said. It was not an apology.

“No,” said a voice behind him, a voice he knew, a voice that chilled him once again to the very soul. “No, my little wolf. You must come with me.”

Liaria was gone.  Sunburns and freckles faded to dust and bone,  because of Danarius.  Gone forever.  Cold.  Cold as the ice in Danarius’ blue eyes.  Cold and dark.  It was dark.  The sun was gone and only a sliver of a moon shone above — high above the trees.  They were lush and tall, casting shadows in darkness.  He could smell the cloying scent of flowers, the tang of the ocean.  Seheron.

“Idiot girl,” sneered Danarius.  “The foolish thing thought she _knew_ you.”

Moonlight leeched the color from Danarius robes, but his eyes glowed in the dimness.  Cold blue eyes.  Seheron was always hot, never cold, but Fenris felt a chill deep within his bones.  

He clutched at himself to ward off the chill.  “She did know me.”

The magister’s voice frosted over and Fenris felt his words like a blade, “She did know me… _what?_ ”

He knew the answer, knew what he was meant to say, but the word hesitated on his tongue all the same.  He could not make it form.  The jungle was closing in around them and the scent of flowers had gone rotten and fetid as his ears filled with the clacking sounds of insects, the buzzing of wings.

“ _Well,_ Fenris?”

“…Master,” he whispered, but the word tasted like sand and ash in his mouth, a foulness from which he would never be free.  _Free._ Perhaps… perhaps he’d been mistaken.  “Master,” he said again, but the taste of the word didn’t change.

No, that wasn’t right either.  Fenris’ breathing quickened and his lungs began to burn as they protested the strain.  He would be free.  _Was already_ free.

A tiny light appeared in the thick shadows before him, barely permeating the darkness.  It glowed gently as it bobbed and dipped, floating unevenly through the air, coming to rest upon the top of his hand.  A firefly.  He stared at it as its tiny light glowed, strangely warm.

_I am not a slave!_

“Much better,” Danarius purred.  “And she couldn’t have known the _real_ you — she never thought you’d kill her, my wolf.  But then, that’s where your skill lies, isn’t it?  Such an _effective_ weapon, such a predator.  That’s all you’re good for.”

“Yes, Master.”  

_No.  Never._

Fenris wasn’t sure how it was he was able to move at all.  He felt like he was being crushed from the inside out. He could barely breathe the air was so close and damp.

“And speaking of your… _considerable_ skills…”

Light flashed from Danarius’ fingertips; it was not pure light but dim and red-tinted, lengthening the shadows and reminding Fenris too much of blood — blood spilled by his own hand, blood spilled for Danarius’ filthy magic.  And then, bathed in that red light, he saw bodies.  Countless bodies sprawled all around — the broken and bloodied bodies of the Fog Warriors who had taken him in, who had shown him such kindness, who had allowed them to be one of their own.  Even in the shadowy red light, he saw each and every one of their twisted forms.

“ _You_ killed them all,” whispered Danarius.  “Every last one.  Every last _friend._   Killed them because I _ordered_ it.  And you will do it again and again.  Whatever I tell you to do, you will do it.  That is what you are — a killer, a weapon, a wolf _._ ” 

Shuddering, Fenris tried to look away from the carnage he knew he’d wrought, but Danarius’ light surrounded him, closed in upon him, forcing his gaze.  Fenris blinked hard and looked down to see the tiny insect crawling across the ridges of his knuckles, giving off a soft light despite this sea of red.  Breathing in though it hurt _,_ he curled his hands into fists and saw the twisting, twining white lines gracing his arms and traveling, he knew, down the whole of his body.  They hadn’t been there before, but he knew them now.  Knew how badly they’d hurt.  When the light came, as he’d somehow known it would, it coursed blue-white fire through his veins, burning him with cold and heat all at the same time.  

_I am not a slave!_

He almost said it aloud, almost gave voice to the words that would rain down punishment the like of which he’d ever known, but then the cold and the heat faded away, leaving only weariness in their wake. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, and when the faint eddies of Danarius’ power began to curve and curl and twine all about him, he found he did not have the energy left to fight them.

The energy became vines, heavy and powerful and old as the earth, wrapping first around his feet and ankles, and then slowly rising to his waist, always tightening, tightening. “N-no,” he gasped.

“No? You have grown intractable, my little wolf. Intractable and insolent. You know what happens to those who disobey their masters.”

“M-master. Please.”

“Please? Please what?” Danarius sneered, as the magic squeezed and squeezed and _squeezed_. “Put you out of your misery? Allow you to join these… brethren you slaughtered?”

Fenris swallowed hard, his throat parched even though the air around him was moist and heavy with humidity.

“No, Fenris,” Danarius said firmly. His tone brooked no argument. The vines continued their sinuous path, a mockery of the markings seared into Fenris’ skin. The world was closing in, the dark was all around him.

The tiny flare of yellow-green light startled him, somehow reminding him he’d not yet completely gone under. _I am not… I am not…_ Fenris fixed his gaze on the tiny pinprick of light, afraid to blink lest he lose its glow. _I am not…_

“Slave,” Danarius commanded. “This is my enemy. Kill it. Kill it, and things will go back to the way they were always meant to be. All this will be forgiven.”

_Forgotten._

He blinked. The _enemy_ was a child. She sat quietly amongst the bodies of the Fog Warriors, her too-pale face framed by dark curls, her green eyes wide and unblinking. She looked sad, but not terrified.

 _You should be terrified_ , he wanted to tell her. _You do not know what I am. You do not have the first idea._

When he looked closer, he realized she was already _wounded_. The right sleeve of her dress was darker than the rest, and blood oozed from a wound to her shoulder.

“Master, she is only—”

Pain. Pain. Pain like he had never known. Pain like he’d never dreamed was possible. It seemed impossible to experience such pain and not die of it, but the pain went on and on and on, and he did not die. “You would _defy_ me, slave? I _made_ you. I can _destroy_ you.”

Fenris looked past Danarius— _he will kill me, he will kill me for this_ —and met the gaze of the little girl. Fat tears ran down her face, illuminated by the fireflies dancing their elegant dance around her head. Very slowly, she raised the hand of her wounded arm and placed it over her heart.

“Here,” she said, in a voice too old for the child who spoke it. He _knew_ that voice, knew it like he knew his own, but when he tried to put a name to it the pain stole the word away.

_You do not know what I am._

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I trust you. Do it. Now.”

“Do not listen, Fenris. She is the enemy. My word is law. Kill her.”

A different pain—hot and cold dancing together so tightly he couldn’t tell one from the other—chased the other pain away. He felt the vines loosening around him, ever so slightly. It was enough. He pulled free of them and stumbled forward, crawling toward the little girl. To kill her. To save her. To kill her. He didn’t know. 

No matter how many steps he took, she never grew closer.

To save her.

“I am not a slave,” Fenris whispered. “I am not a slave. I am not a slave.”

And then she was gone. He fell, rolling to his side and pressing one of his hands to his own heart. He could feel it thudding beneath his fingertips, too quick, too uneven. The firefly flashed once again before his eyes, and then flew in an open window. He could hear laughter within, and shouting, and something meant to pass for music. A sign above him had a picture of an upside down man, and words he could not read.

“Fenris,” called Danarius, far behind him but not far enough, “come back, my little wolf. Come home.”

 _I am not a slave,_ Fenris thought, and through the pain— _oh, oh the pain_ —he forced himself to rise, and to push open the door.  It gave suddenly and he staggered in, barely catching himself as he landed hard against an empty table.  The door slammed and Fenris shut his eyes tightly, straining to hear Danarius’ voice beyond the door, but the voices in the tavern filled his head, drowning out everything else. _Dreams. Just old dreams._  

One voice cut through the din.  “Hey, Broody.  We figured you for a no-show.”

Fenris pried one eye open, then the other to find Varric holding court at a large table in the corner, Isabela on one side, Hawke on the other. Sebastian, Merrill, and Aveline took up the remaining chairs, save one. A pile of coins and trinkets in the center of the table glinted welcomingly in the lanternlight.  The cards had already been shuffled and dealt.  Bottles of wine and rum had been opened and poured.  A glass full of dark red liquid sat on the table in front of the empty chair, waiting for him.

“Well, sit already, Fenris,” Hawke said over her cards.  “Your seat’s getting cold and your wine’s getting warm.”

He looked down at himself, expecting to see blood.  He’d shed so much blood already.  Could they not see it?  But no, his hands were clean.  They shouldn’t have been clean.  He’d shed too much blood not to have any on his hands.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” Isabela drawled, winking at him.  “You know I’m always glad to take your money.”

“You’re always glad to take everyone’s money,” Sebastian remarked dryly, cocking an eyebrow at the pirate.

Merrill rearranged the cards in her hand. “Well, she is _frightfully_ good at it, isn’t she?”

Isabela tossed Merrill a wink.  “Lots of practice, kitten.  _Lots_ of practice.”

“Too good for it to be just practice,” Aveline grumbled, tapping her fingers on her mug of ale. Isabela snickered.

It took more effort than Fenris would have expected to push to his feet and walk the short distance to the waiting chair, but once he took his seat, warmth began edging in around him.  He picked up his cards — an excellent hand — and sipped from his glass — an excellent vintage.  He relaxed into comfortable warmth as the dreams of Danarius and the small child with the wide green eyes faded.

The banter wrapped around him like a blanket, fading into a fuzzy blur of sound.  Hawke refilled his glass, over and over again.  When he looked up to find it full once more, he took it into his hand and drank deeply, feeling warmth cascade down his throat as he looked around the table.

But something wasn’t right.

“Someone is missing,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes and trying to focus on each face, trying to pick out who wasn’t there.  There was an absence, he was sure of it.

Varric heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.  “You know Blondie, Broody.  He’s in a mood.  Didn’t feel like coming.”

Sebastian snorted and rearranged his cards.  “Hardly a surprise.”

“When _isn’t_ he in a mood these days?” Isabela asked, making a face.

“It wouldn’t be so dreadful if it wasn’t always such a _bad_ mood,” Merrill said glumly.

“Better he’s not here,” Hawke said, tossing in her bet.  “I’m not fond of the games he’s been playing lately.”

“No,” Fenris heard himself saying.  “They won’t end well.”

Aveline scowled, shaking her head. Fenris didn’t think the frustration was because of her hand. Sometimes he forgot she had once been married to a templar. He knew he was not the only one glad of the missing face over Wicked Grace.

He sat back and tried to be satisfied.  It was true, the mage was nowhere to be seen, but there was something more _._   Something else, and it was pulling at him.  But the velvet warmth of wine tickled the edges of his mind.  

Someone was missing.  A mage.  

Did it matter?  Fenris wasn’t certain it did.  He took another drink and felt himself slip further into surcease.  What was one mage, more or less?

“Your bet, elf.”  Varric’s voice pulled his attention back to the table.  Fenris squinted at his cards but couldn’t read them.  Finally he gave up and tossed coins onto the pile.  It didn’t matter; Isabela was going to win the hand anyway.  She always did.

They played round after round. Fenris lost count of the bottles he drank. The pile of coins on the table in front of him shrank. The fire was too hot, and the breeze blowing through the open window was too cold. “But Hawke,” he found himself saying, almost remembering, “where is…”

“Long day, Fenris?” she asked, brow furrowed in mild concern.

_Endless._

“Shall we make this the last round then?” Her voice was soothing. Kind.

He didn’t deserve her kindness.

He nodded as much as he was able; his neck was oddly stiff. It took a great deal of effort. Too much. He gazed longingly at his half-full wine glass, but knew his limbs would never cooperate enough for him to actually lift it.

“Then you can head home and get some rest,” Hawke said softly.

“Right, just Broody and the corpses,” Varric said on a laugh. Then he scraped all his coins toward the already-large pile in the center of the table. “All in?”

 _Everyone_ went all in. Fenris blinked down at his own tiny pile of coins. All he had to do was push them.

“All you have to do is push them,” Hawke insisted.

His head was too hot and his fingers too cold. He blinked, and the table took too long to right itself. His body refused to obey him; blinking took more energy than he could easily spare.

But he jumped when the cat landed in his lap. It was small and slender, mottled grey and white. When it balanced on its hind legs, front paws on Fenris’ chest, he saw its eyes were a bright, somehow intelligent green.

_Green._

The sky was blue, bluer even than the healer’s robe.

Her eyes were so green.

“What’s going on?” Hawke asked, not quite able to hide her disappointment. “Fenris, there’s no time. We have to finish the game. Everyone’s gone all in.”

The cat’s razor-sharp claws dug into the flesh of his chest, just over his heart, the sudden pricking pain slicing through the drowsy warmth of wine.  He blinked and lifted one hand, surprised how much effort it took, how _heavy_ his own limb was.  He ran his hand down the cat’s spine as its claws dug deeper.  The pain was different, somehow, from the crushing pressure of wine and warmth — this was sharper, _clearer_ , chasing away the heaviness that had only moments before threatened to overwhelm him.

An icy wind blew in through an open window, chilling him even as it made the fire in the hearth leap and dance, putting off even more heat.

“Someone close the sodding window,” Varric groused.  “Come on, Broody.  We’ve gotta finish the game.  Can’t finish it without you.”

Fenris looked up and frowned at Varric, trying to piece together what the dwarf had said, but he only looked back at Fenris, fingers tapping impatiently against the table.

“It’s not polite to keep a lady waiting,” Isabela murmured, winking at him.  “Put in your coins and we’ll finish up.”

“Come on, Fenris,” Aveline sighed, knocking back the last of her ale.  “We haven’t got all night.”

“It’s that sodding cat,” the dwarf grumbled.  “Someone get rid of—”

The cat removed its claws from his skin and turned around in his lap, fluffing up to twice its size as it flattened its ears against its head and _hissed._

Another icy blast came from the open window and snaked down the back of his neck as the fire burned hotly in the hearth, basking him in heat.  Ice and heat both sank into his flesh, flooding his veins, _pushing_ away the comfortable warmth and leaving only the thrum of something at once too cold and too hot, and it _hurt._  

Someone was missing.

The cat looked back at him, blinking wide green eyes as ice and heat warred beneath his skin, pushing — always _pushing_ — pushing away the contentment, the blur of wine and company, the promise, the escape, the _release_ of it all.  

The Hanged Man grew blurry as the corners of his mind grew sharp, everything thrown into sudden focus, too bright, too clear, too _sharp_ —

Sharp like cat’s claws digging into his skin.

He pushed to his feet, clutching the cat against his aching chest.  “Someone is missing,” he ground out.  It hurt to stand, and he barely believed he _could_ with the fire and ice pulsing, pushing through him.

“No one is missing,” Sebastian told him, but his blue eyes were hard.  Too hard.

_The healer’s robe was blue.  Bluer than the sky._

“Sit down, Fenris,” Hawke soothed.  “Sit down and finish the game.  It’s almost over.  It’s almost ended.”

_Red blood spattered against blue robes._

“I will _not._ I must go.”  He turned and staggered toward the door, holding the feline close, bearing it like a shield.  “I must find her. I must _look._ ”

“Who?” cried Hawke, standing up and knocking her chair to the floor.  “Who are you looking for?  _There’s no one there._ You can’t—”

— _her eyes too wide, too bright with tears as her lips formed his name—_

The rest of Hawke’s words were lost as the door to The Hanged Man slammed once more behind him, sending him tumbling into darkness.  When he landed, he fell hard on his forearms and his whole body ached with the impact.  He lifted his head to find the cat sitting primly in front of him, its tail curled tightly around its body.  It meowed once.

The sky exploded. A sheet of fire—fire, but not fire, so much worse than fire—expanded through the air, like the rings left when a stone was thrown into a pond.

Arms reached down, tugged him to his feet. Hawke looked sad and serious, her eyes filled with shadows. “Are you coming?” she asked. “You don’t have to. You’ve fought a good fight. We can handle it from here.”

He tried to shake his head, but his neck was so stiff. The little cat wound its way in and out of his legs. Hawke didn’t seem to notice. She was already looking past him, toward the ever-spreading pool of fire in the sky. They were at the docks, somehow. He didn’t remember moving. Hadn’t they been at The Hanged Man?

Hadn’t someone been missing?

Hawke let go of his arms, stepping backward into the boat to the Gallows. Everyone else was already in it. No one looked at him. 

No, not everyone.  Someone.  _Someone_ wasn’t there.

He looked behind him, forced to twist his shoulders as his neck ached and fought the movement.  Fenris was sure what lay behind him ought to have been exactly what lay in front of him—red skies filled with so much falling ash, screams filling the air—but that was not the case.

“Haven’t you fought long enough, Fenris?” Hawke asked. She didn’t sound quite like herself.

The skies were blue— _bluer than the healer’s robe_ —dotted with white clouds, and the grass soft and green— _greener than her eyes?_ —that went as far as he could see, stretching into rolling hills darkened in patches with dense woodland.  Only a blurry trail in the soft grass, bruised and worn down, indicated the path of those gone before him.  Fenris did not know where it led; nowhere, perhaps.  Or everywhere.  Anywhere he needed to be.  He stared hard at the blue sky with its white clouds, stared hard at the green grass and rolling hills and the gently worn path.

He’d fought long enough.

He turned again.  The boat bobbed impatiently on the choppy water.  A cold, wet breeze brought with it the sounds of clashing swords, of bellowed orders, of battle.

The cat meowed, paused, tilted its small head at him, and leapt into the boat after Hawke.

No.  He had not fought long enough.  Steel clashing, grinding against steel, called to him, pushed him forward.  One unsteady step after another, Fenris’ feet echoed hollowly along the boarding plank until he stood upon the deck with the others, bouncing and bobbing with the waves.  Hawke said nothing; she looked over his shoulder, her expression inscrutable.

“You have my blade, Hawke,” he reminded her.

The unreadable look shifted suddenly, brightly into one of Hawke’s most brilliant smiles. She reached up and clapped him companionably on the arm. Her hand was warm. “Always glad to have you.”

He reached up, fingertips brushing the Blade of Mercy upon his back. “Whatever you need, I am ready to assist.”


	84. Chapter 84

Kiara was not accustomed to feeling either useless or helpless.  Throughout the whole of her life, she’d been one to _act_ and _do_ and _work_ , changing the things she could and working to reconcile a way to come to terms with things beyond her ability to affect. It was not her way to sit and wait and wait and _wait_. Yet, on this day, for this occasion, she would not be anywhere or doing anything else even if it meant doing nothing more than sitting, doing nothing beyond watching her sister pull and twist and pour her mana into Fenris. 

Despite all Amelle’s best efforts, he remained unresponsive. And today was the third day.

Kiara slept ill and woke early, dressing herself in her leathers.

She needed to feel like herself. Like the version of herself Fenris knew.

She didn’t want to wear a gown for waiting.

She was not ready to wear one for mourning.

And today was the third day.

The third of three very long days. She hadn’t been able to do much to ease her sister’s burden in those days, and it galled her.

Oh, she spoke with the maids and let the staff know which were her sister’s favorite foods and how she liked her tea.  She did what she could around Starkhaven, checking on those still recovering from Jessamine’s wrath.  All who’d got the antidote had fully recovered by now, and those whose injuries Amelle healed were on the mend and resting comfortably. She’d stopped in to check on Joff and found him remarkably well, all things considered, his children playing around him and wife fussing. She didn’t know how to tell him how vital he’d been to the tide turning; she merely clapped him on the shoulder and insisted the debt she owed would be repaid someday to the best of her ability.

But saying goodbye to a city she’d only just come to love was not the same as somehow trying to imagine saying goodbye to a friend who meant as much to her as family.

As much as Kiara hated waiting, hated having empty, useless hands, she vowed Amelle would not go through this—the third day, the last day—alone.  And Fenris…

Kiara’s breath caught.  Fenris had done all it was in his power to do to save her sister, and whether he’d done so because he cared for Amelle the same way she cared for him, or because he was _Fenris_ , Kiara didn’t know. She didn’t have to. She owed him. She owed him _everything._  

It was the third day. She would sit vigil for him. She would be there for him at the end. It was the very least—the _very least_ —she could do.

With Kinnon close behind, she made her way to Fenris’ room, startled to find not only Ser Braden, but also Cullen standing watch by the door.  Cullen did not bow as Braden did, but he did nod in greeting as she approached, saying simply, “Hawke.”

He did not say “Good morning” or “Good day” or anything remotely to do with the word _good._   She appreciated that. “Cullen,” she replied, “I didn’t expect to… to find you here.”

With a brief look at the door, Cullen said, in an undertone, “Amelle has… invested a great deal in Fenris’ healing. I am not ignorant of it. If the worst happens, I would rather be nearby.”  He swallowed hard, looking troubled.  “Should Amelle decide to vent her grief and anger on the one responsible.”

Jessamine.  Of course. Guards and bars and stone walls could only do so much, after all. Kiara thought of Amelle, her _rabbit_ —a healer, first and foremost—reaching such a point where she would strike against someone in vengeance, and while she was perfectly aware everyone had their breaking point— _Amelle lay still on the sand. Blood trickled down a too-pale cheek. Grace stood smirking above her. And oh, the sound the knife made plunging over and over into that hideous body_ —the knowledge that her sister was so near _hers_ caused something to tear a little in her chest.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she said thickly.  “Thank you.”

With a final nod, Kiara let herself into Fenris’ room.  Much as she’d expected, Amelle sat on the bed, Fenris’ head in her lap, the blue-white glow pouring from her hands, soaking into his skin, light catching his hair.  Perhaps it was the amount of magic Amelle had been releasing in this room, or perhaps it was the strength of it, borne of desperation as time continued running out, but the room all but vibrated with the hotcold thrum.  The hairs upon Kiara’s arms and neck stood on end, like a chill, but _not._   Like music she couldn’t quite hear, or a breeze she couldn’t quite feel, _something_ pulsed off them in waves.

And, beneath all of it, was Fenris’ struggling, wheezing breath, no better for all the magic he’d been exposed to these three days.

Before she could go further than a few paces into the room, the magic flared off and the light receded as Amelle first flexed her hands and shook out her fingertips, grimacing a little as she did.

“Does it hurt?” Kiara asked before she could think not to.

Amelle gave a little start as she looked up.  “Kiri, I—sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Kiara lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug and went to the chair pulled to the side of the bed, fingers coming to rest along the back, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit down.  The urge to move, to do, was still too strong.  “Well, you know.  Rogue.”  Her fingers plucked and worried at the plush edge of the upholstery.  “Sort of comes with the territory.”

Amelle snorted as she twisted around, busying herself with something on the bedside table.  Kiara noticed a tiny white and grey kitten curled into a tiny ball on the pillow next to Fenris’ head, asleep and utterly unbothered by the magic resonating in the room. “ _Hurt_ isn’t quite the word I’d use,” said Amelle.  “Tingly.  Like I’ve been making snowballs without gloves, but hot despite that.  Maybe a little stiff.”  When she turned back around, she held a shallow dish of broth in her hands, reminding Kiara—unintentionally and yet painfully—of a time not so long ago when another life had hung in the balance, when she herself had been the one holding the broth and talking to a dying man.

It was so bloody unfair.

Tearing her eyes away from Amelle as she coaxed broth into Fenris’ mouth, then carefully—no, _tenderly_ , she realized—massaging his throat, Kiara turned her attention to the window.  The day had dawned spitefully clear and sunny, but now, only an hour or so later, dark clouds thickened and gathered, coming in with the breeze off the river.  The wind blowing through the open windows was damp and cool and rain-sweet.  She went to the window, breathing in deep.  Once she’d centered herself again, she looked over her shoulder at her sister.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

Amelle looked up.  “I’m sorry?”

Kiara jerked her chin at the kitten, now very much awake and stretching languorously on the pillow, little kitten claws extending and retracting, its tail curling with the stretch.  “The kitten.”

“Oh.”  Amelle swallowed and turned back to her task.  A few moments later she said, with something that sounded like studied neutrality, “Hasn’t got a name yet.  Sebastian only just gave it to me the other day.”

“I see,” she answered, looking back out the window before her sister could see her flinch.  From behind her, the kitten let out a plaintive mew; Kiara saw in the window’s reflection the kitten was picking its way across the enormous bed, stopping to sit just at the edge of the mattress nearest her.  It mewed.

“It was half-drowned when he found it,” Amelle said. “So he brought it to me.”

Kiara almost smiled.  “Of course he did,” she said softly, turning around and picking up the kitten, cradling it in her hands as she returned to the window.

“Hmm?”

“Going to rain,” she said.

“I suppose we’ll have to close the windows when it starts,” replied Amelle, sounding resigned.

“Depends on how hard it comes down.”  Kiara saw in her reflection the way a tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth.  “Do you remember—do you remember how,” she began, running her index finger along the kitten’s spine, “back when we were small, we used to convince Carver that Papa was making the fire in the hearth spit when it was just the rain?”

Amelle chuckled, shaking her head.  “I thought for sure Mother was going to scold us when she found out.”

“Turned out it was an effective way to keep Carver behaving when Papa was away.”  The rain hadn’t started yet; the windows could stay open a little longer.  This time, when she walked around the bed, she did settle into the chair, setting the kitten once again on the pillow, then clasping her hands and leaning forward, resting her elbows upon her knees; she watched Amelle work in silence, wishing there was something she could just _do_.  Things needed to be done, but they were things that came after the strain of waiting was over, one way or the other.

_Hope for the best while preparing for the worst._

_All we need is a little more time._

A pyre would be arranged; Sebastian would see to that.  If it hadn’t already been taken care of, Fenris’ armor and leathers would need to be mended and cleaned.  Tasia would know; she had taken care of hers, after all.  And though Kiara was certain Fenris would have scoffed at such things, after so many years and all they’d been through, he was a friend akin to family—and it wasn’t as if Varania were near to hand to query about things like pyres and ashes and laying a dear friend to rest, not that Kiara would have _asked her_ , even if she were.  No, this was up to her and Amelle, though if she could spare her sister anything—Maker, if she could spare her sister anything, Kiara would spare her _this._

 _No,_ she decided, _we’ll do it together.  If she’s able to and wants to, then… together._

Oh, _Maker_ —they would have to tell Merrill and Aveline and _Donnic._   She hadn’t written yet out of the most tremulous hope that Fenris would recover.  But now it appeared sharing this news would be unavoidable.

Kiara swallowed hard and pushed her hands back through her unbound hair.

“Do you want—” Amelle began tentatively. Then she shook her head, and, with more certainty, “Do you need a moment?”

“I’m—”

“You don’t have to say fine.”

Tears burned Kiara’s eyes and she willed them not to fall. Not yet. “I’m not fine,” she said. “We’re none of us fine. I was thinking how mad he’d be about the fuss. I was picturing the _exact scowl_ he’d be wearing if he were awake right now. You know the one. It-it’s the… the one when he’s pretending to be upset but he’s secretly touched and he doesn’t want to be touched so a little bit of the being upset is real. That one.” She gulped a deep breath, ignoring the trickle of moisture running down the curve of her cheek. The wind cooled it instantly. “I was thinking I wish I hadn’t taken him for granted. I was thinking about how he’s left half a dozen bookmarks in tomes all throughout my library, and it’s not fair he won’t get to finish those stories. I was thinking I don’t want to give up but the time is just slipping away, Mely, it’s just slipping away.” Kiara pushed the heels of her hands over her cheeks and glared at the ground between her feet. “He would hate this.”

She pressed her palm to her mouth to stop the words, but whatever dam she’d built was washed away, replaced by a flood of memories. Sitting on a patch of unbroken roof at Fenris’ mansion after an evening of cards and too much wine, watching the sun rise in the most companionable silence she’d ever known. The look in his eyes after they’d fought Danarius, like a man suddenly placed on dry land after a decade at sea. The way she’d always known where he was on the battlefield, his blade a perfect complement to her bow. The way he let her hug him because she needed to, the faint smile pulling at his lips.

“You’re right,” Amelle said, and her expression said she was reliving memories too. “He would.”

#

In many ways, standing in the quiet hallway with nothing to do but wait reminded Cullen powerfully of Solona Amell’s Harrowing, and in many ways, it did not.  Oh, the waiting was the same, the constant pressure pushing down on him from all sides, the worry something was going to go wrong—that was painfully familiar.  The feel of magic pulsing gently through the air, tickling his senses—that was familiar enough, too.  But this was Amelle and not Solona, and that was the difference between _Look, I know this’ll sound mad, but believe it or not? You, Ser Cullen, are an answer to prayer_ and, _You will have to smite me from here to the Void to stop me, Knight-Commander, and I still won’t go easily._

Even the feel, the _sensation_ of their respective magics were different, now he thought about it. Something about Solona’s magic had felt akin to a musical beat.  An Orlesian minuet, perhaps.  Something light.  Cheerful.  _Silly._ But Amelle’s was a softer sort of thrum, with a rhythm like a breathing, or a heartbeat.  It resonated softly, but deeply _,_ and he wondered if her being a spirit healer accounted for at least part of it.

So much of his training had depended upon never _befriending_ mages, that learning to _understand_ them was the quickest way to send everything to the Void.  But it was near impossible to ignore that each mage’s power carried differently, as differently as their own voices did.

And Cullen sensed Amelle’s determination, hope, and worry, all twined up in her magic, as clearly as if she’d been speaking to him.  The hallway thrummed with it.  He knew, also, that despite getting a new cache of lyrium potion—and, Maker, he dared not ask her how she managed _that_ —she was still being careful.  It was as she’d said, short, intense bursts of magic, with time to recover in between.  If she had given herself a nosebleed, she’d hidden the matter from him, but somehow Cullen was… confident she had not.

But it was the third day.  The whole of the bloody palace felt weighted down and subdued.  He’d seen little of Isabela and Varric—though the latter had been to see Amelle several more times, always coming out of the room looking more troubled than when he went in.  Cullen suspected if Isabela hadn’t yet stopped by, it had more to do with stubborn hope, or an equally stubborn refusal to face what was looking more and more like a truly dire situation.  He suspected Isabela didn’t want to say goodbye, was not _ready_ to say goodbye, not yet, and he could hardly fault her that.  

Amelle’s magic went quiet soon after her sister had gone inside, and Cullen exhaled softly.  He had not told Hawke his true reason for taking up this post; while it did occur to him that Amelle might be tempted by vengeance if Fenris died, his true fear was that his death would… would _break_ her, would send her so far into grief, into despair and rage, that she would lose herself.  Amelle’s control was admirable, no doubt, but…

_I… accept what I am.  And I know… I know what can happen if—I know.  I don’t want to be a mindless… thing, a thing that would slaughter those I care about without compunction.  Being trapped like that is… it’s worse than death._

_I will not freeze,_ he told himself.  _I will not falter.  I owe her no less._

#

Red sky above the Gallows.  Ash still rained down as the fight raged around him.  Hawke shouted orders as arrows hissed from her bow, sinking solidly into their targets.  The air was thick with the heat and force and stink of the battle, with battle-cries and clashing swords and the smell of blood and death.  

The fight called to him— _sang_ to him.

He was a warrior. If there was nothing else in this world, he knew how to _fight._ He’d fought for his markings.  He’d fought— _killed_ —whenever Danarius ordered it of him, whether he wished to or not.  He’d fought his own circumstances in his search for freedom.  But fighting by Hawke’s side, _with_ her, with _others,_ was a wholly different experience.  He’d never had other people on whom to depend; he did not have friends, comrades, brothers in arms.  The whole of his life, he’d had only himself, and it had been years since Fenris had had to fight _alone._   He did his part, and Hawke and the others did theirs.

But something was wrong.

From the moment he’d stepped off the boat, Fenris’ strength began to fade.  Even now he could barely hold his own sword, could not call upon his markings to aid him.  

Perhaps Hawke was right.  Perhaps he’d fought too long already.  

He looked down at his hands, gripping The Blade of Mercy’s pommel so tightly his knuckles were white.  It was an honor to fight with such a blade; did that mean he was too weak for honor?  Was he somehow undeserving of it?

No, that didn’t seem right either.

The sword grew heavier and heavier still, pulling Fenris down, first to one knee and then to both.  He gritted his teeth, fighting the blade’s weight, but the more he struggled, the heavier it became, until finally the sword hit the stones beneath his feet with a clang that echoed hollowly through his head, through his whole body.  His neck ached, each breath burned in lungs that were too hot, too tight.  

He had no strength to wield a sword, none of the gifts afforded him by the lyrium markings—even breathing and standing upright were beyond him.  Gasping, he buckled forward, forearms braced against the cold stones.

 _I cannot_ , he thought, hands curling into fists. _I cannot._

The distant clicking of boots against stone met his ears.  Different from the scuffling sounds of hurried footsteps, these were slow, measured steps.  The footfalls of one with plenty of time to reach a destination.  When they stopped, Fenris forced his eyes up from the stones, up from the sight of his own clenched fists, to see a pair of plain brown boots.  Bright blue fabric hung down, rippling with color as it brushed the tops of the soft, supple boots.  

Robes.  _Mage_ robes.

This was to be the end of it, then.  The abomination would end him here, now—he could, after all, and there was nothing Fenris could do to prevent it.

“Maker’s breath, what are you doing down _there_ , Fenris?”

When he looked up—he knew that voice; he _knew_ _that voice_ —it was to find Amelle Hawke staring down at him, a bemused smile at her lips and the grey and white cat perched upon her shoulder.  She crouched down and took his hands.  

“Well?” she asked again.  The cat meowed and turned, butting its head against hers; Amelle smiled, but didn’t look away from him.

“I…” he began, looking at where her hands rested against his. We wanted to rise, wanted to stand.  His sword lay abandoned, looking strangely forlorn and forgotten at his feet.  “I cannot fight,” he said, forcing himself to meet her eyes as he said the words.  “I want to fight, but I…”

“I understand.  Maybe I can help?”

And though the battle went on around them, arrows and bolts slamming into armored men, swords and shields clashing and grinding, cries of pain and fury and victory mingling in a familiar cacophony, Amelle held firm to his hand. With the other hand, she reached out and lay cool, gentle fingers against a brow hot from battle and… and…

He couldn’t remember. Other things. He’d been fighting. And searching.

The cat mewed, the sound small but unmistakable even amongst the battle cries around them. He meant to say something, to warn Amelle to pay attention, to be safe, but instead he opened his mouth and said, “I’ve… been looking for you.”

“I know,” she said, bringing a hand up to brush his bangs aside.  “I’m here now.  Let me help.”  Her eyes were warm. Concerned.

_—her eyes too wide, too bright with tears as her lips formed his name—_

“Fenris?”

An answer.  He needed to answer her.  Fenris struggled to nod; the ache in his neck stretched down his back, down his arms, into his lungs.  He felt sure he must have winced, for Amelle’s grip grew tighter.

“Please,” he managed.  

And then came the light.  Blue and white and blinding, ice and fire the likes of which felt as if it could sear him or freeze him.  Bright beams shot outward where their hands were joined, and slowly, _slowly_ the pale tattoos began to lighten and glow, inch by agonizing inch, fire and ice beneath his skin, casting that lyrium flare upon those twining lines.  It continued up his arm—slowly, _too_ slowly—and though Fenris could barely draw breath, Amelle’s grip remained firm, the hotcold thrum pulsing through him.  He felt the burning cold move across his chest, up his neck, down his spine and knew without looking that the white markings glowed every bit as brightly as his arm

Noise _exploded_ around them as the fighting became even more chaotic; blood was smeared across Hawke’s leathers, a bright stripe of it across one cheek, but her smile was bright and fierce and she fought on, as he knew she would—as he knew he must.

_Live. Fight._

He could scarcely breathe.  It hurt. _Everything_ hurt.

Amelle’s lips brushed his cheek, then her voice whispered in his ear, “I can let go. If you want me to, I can let go.”

 _“Do not,”_ he ground out, as the world went black around him.

Do not.

#

Clouds thickened, roiling and turning the sky a leaden blue-grey, throwing Starkhaven’s morning into premature dusk.  The sun burned above, but no shafts of light permeated the thick clouds.  Far off, well beyond the river, came the distant roll of thunder, and as the wind picked up, outside the windows leaves rustled like so much dry parchment.  Fat drops of water splashed and plunked, resounding against the palace spires before each individual drop was lost in the soft rush of water as the rain began to fall in earnest.  Amelle looked up from Fenris and the bowl of broth, and made a move as if to close the windows herself.  But Kiara levered herself out of the chair—anything to be useful, anything to _help_ —and waved a hand at her sister, who settled back against the bed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it,” she said, closing and latching any window the wind was pushing rain through.  In her peripheral vision, she saw Amelle set the bowl aside and lean back against the headboard with a soft sigh, Fenris’ head still in her lap, her fingers drifting gently through the strands.  If Fenris skin wasn’t so very, horribly pale, if his cheeks weren’t burning with fever, and if his breath weren’t coming in such Maker-forsaking rasps, they would have looked… _sweet_ together.  Her rabbit, with her smiles, and Fenris, with all twenty of his different brands of scowl.

He didn’t scowl now.  In fact, despite everything, he looked strangely… peaceful, and that realization brought Kiara absolutely no peace whatsoever.

Taking Fenris’ head from her lap and placing it carefully upon the pillow, Amelle stood and stretched, linking her arms over her head and reaching up until her back gave a series of soft pops.  She turned to a small collection of shimmering bottles and, rolling her shoulders, twisted the cork off one and downed the bottle’s contents in several long swallows.

“Lyrium?” Kiara asked.  “I thought you were out?”

Grimacing at the taste, Amelle shrugged and set the empty bottle down with a clink.  She turned to the window; it was almost perfectly dark outside, and the rain was coming down in a downpour, sheets of water slicking the window.  Drops spat and hissed in the fireplace and Kiara saw Amelle’s smile in the window’s reflection.  “I was.  Sebastian found more for me,” she said quietly.

 _Of course he did,_ Kiara thought, pressing her palm to her chest, willing her heart to stop aching _. Oh, Sebastian. Lyrium potion and a kitten. Only you._

“Maker,” Amelle breathed, trailing a finger across the window, “it’s really coming down out there.”

They stood in silent contemplation, staring out the window. In the reflection, Kiara saw her sister’s raw emotion mirrored, and knew the last thing Amelle wanted was for her to acknowledge it.  Instead, never pulling her gaze from the view before her, Kiara slid an arm around her sister’s shoulders; she felt Amelle’s slow, controlled breathing hitch slightly as she closed her eyes, tipping her head and resting it against hers.

“Mely—“ Kiara began, but before she could say a word, Fenris’ breathing, which had been agonizingly slow and labored, sped up suddenly, erratically. Each breath, now loud beyond a rasping wheeze, sounded strained and… almost _panicked_ , as if he were drowning with no hope for rescue.

 _No,_ she realized, tears burning and blurring in her eyes, _not drowning.  Suffocating._

Jerking away, Amelle spun on the ball of her foot, and any blind, foolish hope Kiara may have had that this was _a good sign_ vanished the moment she saw the look on her sister’s bloodless face.

“No,” she breathed.  _“No.”_   In a swirl of skirts, she rushed forward, kneeling upon the bed, trembling hands checking for any obstruction as she muttered feverishly to herself, looking for any reason—any reason beyond the _worst_ —for such a change.  She tipped Fenris’ head back with hands already aglow with healing magic, supporting his neck as she tried to clear his airway.  But nothing worked; on and on it went, longer than seemed possible, each struggling breath coming faster and faster, a high, thready wheeze that turned his lips blue.

Kiara hugged her arms protectively across herself, standing over the bed ready for any order Amelle might have barked—no matter how impossible, no matter how ludicrous, no matter—

Fenris’ body, rigid for three days now, went instantly, horriblystiff; his head pressed back against the pillow, his back arching as his body fought— _literally fought_ —for every breath.  The muscles in his arms trembled, his hands curled into claws that dragged and caught in the linens, the tendons stood out on his neck as he gulped futilely for air.

“No— _no_.  Don’t you—don’t you bloody well _dare!_   _Fenris!_ Don’t—!”

With one final desperate gasp, he went suddenly still.  Eerily still.  The long, slow exhale was his clearest in days.  The room was silent but for the spitting of rain in the hearth.  He did not inhale again.

The light in her sister’s hands sputtered sharply and went dark.  What little color remaining in her face drained away, green eyes going too wide, too glassy with tears.  She brought one trembling hand to her mouth, but it did nothing whatsoever to muffle the sharp gasp.

“…Mely?” she breathed.  Amelle did not look up.  Did not move.  Did not even seem to breathe.  As Kiara drew in air to say her sister’s name a second time, Amelle drew back, hands clenched, her chest now heaving with breaths both too fast and too deep, a terrible echo of Fenris’ last gasps. “Amelle?”

“ _No,_ ” she said, her voice raw and aching, straining with hurt and heartbreak and something else, something _more_ , and before Kiara could even think to act, Amelle’s hands were alight with magic so intense it was barely blue-white at all.  It was blinding, more white than blue, and she threw her hands upon Fenris’ chest, just over his heart.  With the contact, juddering threads of magic pulsed and spat forth, nothing at all like the gentle bobbing threads of healing magic that seemed to dance above the skin a moment before sinking in.  No, this resembled nothing so much as blue-white lightning, hitching and shuddering with every sob breaking past her sister’s lips.

#

Truth be told, they heard very little in that hallway.  There was the faintest rumble of thunder, audible only because Cullen knew well enough Amelle was keeping Fenris’ windows open.  Conversations behind closed doors were muffled, and though Cullen heard Hawke and her sister speaking, there was no way to tell what was being said.

But the very instant Amelle’s magic seared through the air, the hotcold thrum pulsing hard and ragged and _desperate,_ Cullen didn’t have to know what was being said.  This was no steady, gentle heartbeat of mana; this was raw, palpable grief, and every wave of it shot through him like needles, like knives, like a long, wailing cry.  His insides twisted and clenched as the air crackled _,_ as every breath he drew in was at once too hot and too cold, burning and freezing in his lungs.  The three steps it took to reach the door was too far a distance, took too bloody _long._

It was not, however, too long for Cullen to gather his will for a smite, hoping to the Maker and Andraste, as he flung open the door, he would not have to use it.

The first thing he saw was light _._ It filled the room, pushed back against the darkness of the storm pounding beyond the windows, tiny threads of crackling energy jerking and twitching across every surface—across the floor, up the walls, along the ceiling.  It was a storm of ice, of fire, of the two impossibly combined, and at the very center of it was Amelle, her hands braced upon Fenris’, her body trembling, her face a stark mask of grief.  And though Cullen felt a rush of something that was _almost_ relief she had not succumbed, had not become an abomination, he had never felt this level of power pour out of her before.  Not since the underground spring, at least, and though Fenris glowed with healing magic, his markings, at least, remained dark.

Then, all at once, the light went out.  Though lanterns were lit and a fire crackled in the hearth, the room seemed dark and dim by comparison, and he had to blink to adjust his eyes.

When he did, though, Cullen found nothing had changed. Fenris remained lying still on the bed.  Amelle, her mana spent, fought her trembling arms, staring down into the elf’s face for something, _anything_.  Tears flowed fast and hard, dripping from her chin, from the tip of her nose as she watched him, holding her breath and biting down hard on her bottom lip, watching and waiting.

But Fenris did not move.  

The sudden rush of magic gone, her mana depleted, Amelle’s shoulders sagged, her trembling arms no longer able to support her weight.  With a hitching breath she slowly crumpled, pressing her face against the elf’s chest.  There she began to weep quiet, hitching sobs.  Behind her stood Hawke, her eyes just as bright with tears, her face just as damp, reaching out to run a gentle hand down her sister’s back as she sunk down to sit upon the edge of the bed, bowing her head and bringing her other hand up to stifle the sobs that shook her shoulders.

Neither sister had noticed him, and Cullen, his heart heavy and having no desire to intrude any further on their shared grief, turned to go, to leave them in peace to say their goodbyes.  But as he turned and gave them a parting look, Cullen noticed that Fenris’ brows seemed to be… furrowed.  He straightened, equal parts wary and alert and _hopeful_ , and took a step closer to the bed.  He held his breath, watching.

Fenris’ eyelids twitched, as if he were struggling to open them.  The elf’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

“Amelle,” he breathed, too softly for either woman to hear him.  “Hawke. _Amelle._ ”

At the words Cullen spoke, or perhaps the urgency in his tone, Hawke’s head jerked up as Fenris’ eyes blinked slowly open. The furrow at Fenris’ brow deepened in confusion.  

“Mely,” Hawke breathed.  “Amelle, _Fenris._ ”

Amelle looked up as one shaking hand slowly came up to rest upon her head.  Her eyes widened, though she scarcely breathed, as if she were imagining this, and speaking at all might break the spell.  She brought trembling fingers to his cheek and, evidently finding the skin warm with blood and breath, pressed her palm to that same cheek as her eyes filled anew with tears.

#

He woke to pain.  Unimaginable, indescribable _pain._   So bright, his markings so impossibly white-hot, hotter than any flame and burning like the bitterest winds, the sharpest, coldest ice.  The pain propelled him into waking, though for a moment, for a starkly terrifyingmoment, Fenris had been certain he was dead.  There was nothing but darkness.  Amelle was gone, no longer gripping his hand, no longer his tether.

_I can let go if you want me to._

_No.  Don’t.  Never._

Even as he remembered them, the words slipped away, leaving Fenris bereft.  She had let go in the end, hadn’t she?  Or perhaps _he_ had.  It was so hard to tell, and so much had been blotted out by the brightness of his tattoos.  Ice and fire chased through his veins, twining and twisting, turning in on itself until he’d felt like to crack apart beneath the onslaught.  And then his sword had been in his hand and—

Then silence.  Darkness.

No.  Not silence.  A breath.  Another.  A heartbeat.

Dampness against his chest.  Weeping.

He breathed, slowly, and with every breath, more pieces fell into place.  Fear, followed by rage, followed then by the sharp, slicing pain of a dagger cutting too easily through his leathers, and into his flesh.  And then, as the world seemed determined to slip out from beneath him and fade into blue sky and green grass, Fenris remembered having no trust for the sudden bliss.  He remembered every staggering step he took and Amelle’s green eyes, bloodshot and horrified.

_Amelle._

There had been no time.  No time to remove his gauntlets, no time to explain himself—time only to whisper in her ear before losing his hand in her chest, hoping with what remained of his rapidly diminishing sense that he could save her life.  And then he’d relinquished his grip on consciousness and tumbled back into a blue sky and green grass and memories.  

No.  Not _memories._

He breathed again, tried again to open his eyes, fighting to pry open his lids.  A blur of brown and white and grey met his eyes before they closed again, and he tried again.

The templar’s voice.  Amelle, weeping— _alive_ , not dead, not burned to ash—and Hawke, her face pale, but also streaked with tears.  Fenris lifted his hand, fingertips settling upon short soft hair as she looked up.  Too many emotions crossed her face too quickly—grief and sorrow, then disbelief, _hope_ —as she pressed her warm palm against his cheek.  Fenris leant into the touch; he’d been so certain he would not get this chance again, realizing dimly that her hand trembled against his skin.  Fresh tears slid down her cheeks and Fenris carefully brought his hand to her cheek, brushing away the moisture with the backs of his fingers.

“You’re all right,” she breathed.  “You… you’re…”

“You’re _awake_ ,” Hawke supplied.  “What…” her eyes flicked briefly to Amelle, then back to him again.  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Fenris swallowed hard and when he spoke, his voice sounded dry as dust.  “Battle…” he finally managed, though the memory of one battle mingled with the dream of another and his mind felt too muddy to separate the two just yet.

“Kiri—Kiri, get the water.  He’s—”

But Hawke was quicker than her sister and was already pouring a glass from a nearby pitcher.

Amelle fixed him with an intent, level gaze; whatever else she might have been feeling, whatever happiness and relief he’d seen, she was holding those emotions in check.  “You remember the battle?”

He nodded, slowly, then sighed as Amelle’s hands lit with a gentle glow; a faint rejuvenation spell began to warm him, but the spell stuttered out.  Amelle swore under her breath before reaching out and grasping blindly for the bedside table, unwilling to take her eyes off him.  The Knight-Commander was by the bedside in an instant, wordlessly pressing a bottle of lyrium potion into her hand.

“Try a stunt like that again and I swear to the Maker,” murmured Amelle, twisting the cork free and draining the bottle, “I’ll immolate you where you stand.”  Her hands were aglow again, and the rejuvenation spell trickled through him like sun-warmed honey.  He exhaled a long, deep breath as weakness and exhaustion slowly, gently ebbed away.

Hawke hovered a moment, holding the glass between her hands.  “Are you… strong enough to—or should I…”

“I am able,” he managed, grunting softly as he sat up.  

“Be careful,” Amelle admonished.  “I’ve not poured mana into you for three days to have you drown in your drinking water at the end of it.”

Hawke helped him hold the glass even when he tried to take it from her. A moment later, she eased back and he realized he was glad of the aid she’d given. She shook her head, and her lips formed the words _three days._ Fenris could hardly comprehend it himself. Half-remembered images hid behind his eyelids when he blinked, and his bones ached with a kind of deep weariness no mere wound could account for.

“I should tell Sebastian,” Hawke said. “He’ll—I should tell him.”

“You should,” Amelle agreed.

“He’ll want to see you,” Hawke said.

“He will,” Amelle continued, a strange note in her voice Fenris couldn’t quite place. “But perhaps not _quite_ straight away. If you two need time to discuss anything…”

Hawke bent quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Fenris’ brow. He’d have flinched if he’d been any less startled. “You scared me,” she whispered, low enough he knew the words were meant only for him. “Don’t do that again.”

“I… am still uncertain what I did in the first place,” Fenris said.

“Doubtless my sister will fill you in,” Hawke said, the smile on her face still somewhat at odds with the shine of tears lingering in her eyes. “Just know I’ve never been happier to see that particular scowl, Fenris.”

“I am not—”

Hawke’s smile broadened. “It’s the everyone’s making a fuss and you just want to throw a bottle of wine at the wall scowl.”

“You’re wrong,” he replied, trying to push himself a little more upright against the pillows. Amelle took the glass from his hand, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “I wish to drink the wine.”

“No wine,” Amelle admonished, but at least she smiled.


	85. Chapter 85

Whatever he expected when he rose to answer the urgent knock on his office door, it wasn’t  Kiara herself, dressed in leathers instead of a gown, eyes shining and pale cheeks mottled with tears. He reached for her, then stopped short of actually touching her shoulder or her face or the loose fall of her hair. His fingers twitched, and he let them fall back to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, because he was. He’d been waiting for news—hadn’t wanted to interrupt the sisters at their vigil—but had been expecting Braden or Kinnon or even Cullen, perhaps, to bring it.

Kiara tilted her head, her brows coming together in confusion. “Oh. No. Sebastian.” A smile pulled at her lips, though her eyes were still damp. He couldn’t quite make sense of it. “That’s why I—he’s alive.”

It was Sebastian’s turn to furrow his brow. “It’s been three days.”

She nodded, shifting her weight from foot to foot before sending an uneasy glance over her shoulder. “Could we—can we talk about this somewhere… not out here?”

Because this was the closest she’d come to speaking with him at all since the moment she last walked out of his office on the words _it was folly for me to think I could stay_ , he stepped back immediately, gesturing for her to enter. He almost stumbled in his haste. He heard the sharp inhale of her breath and thought perhaps she’d only just remembered the last time she’d been within. Still, she did not hesitate. She strode past him, chin up and shoulders back, and moved immediately to the chairs by the fire, as if to prove she would not be undone by whatever memory had caught her breath.

She didn’t sit. Resting her hands along the back of the chair, she bowed her head briefly, as though praying, and then turned to face him again. He closed the door and took a few steps toward her, trying to keep his posture open, receptive. Her arms started to cross, but then she lowered them again, leaning against the chair.

“He did die, for a moment,” Kiara said without preamble. “I’m certain of it. His heart stopped. His… his breath. He wasn’t breathing. He didn’t have the antidote. We knew he didn’t have the antidote. It had been three days. Of course the poison killed him.” She shook her head, putting a hand to her temple. “Amelle… I’ve never quite seen healing like it.”

For a moment, Sebastian’s lips parted to question what kind of magic might have such an effect, but then he let his mouth close again as a tangle of half-formed thoughts and memories ran circles in his head.

“You’re wondering if it’s… safe,” Kiara asked, too astutely. She didn’t, however, sound accusatory. He wondered if she hadn’t considered the same question. She had, after all, spent the entirety of her life around magic in spite of being no mage herself. She knew the best and worst of what power could do. “What she did?”

“I was,” he admitted. “And then I… realized perhaps it is not the first time she’s done such a thing.”

She cocked her head. “How do you mean—oh. You think perhaps you…”

“I cannot know. Not for certain.” He took another step nearer, watching to see if she’d pull away in equal amounts, approaching her the way he’d approach a skittish horse. She remained where she was, her eyes not leaving his. “But I know she did the right thing by me, and I believe I have never felt ill effects because of what she did to aid me.”

“She has too much experience bringing people back from the brink of death,” Kiara said. Her hand hovered above her belly, doubtless tracing the scar left by the Arishok’s blade and her own near-death experience.

“And Fenris will recover? Fully?”

“He was already scowling and muttering about wine when I left.” Her expression turned fond, and she lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I imagine complaints about being bedridden and a demand for his sword will follow.”

“You could not have brought better news.”

The faint smile on her face was tinged with sadness. “Indeed. I believe we oughtn’t push our luck, though. We have had more than our fair share of miracles of late. Still, I—wanted to bring the news myself. Amelle will want some time, I imagine, but your visit will doubtless be a welcome one.”

And she began to walk toward the door.

 _She’s_ used _to making the decisions and expecting them to be followed without question._

“No,” he said abruptly, the word echoing oddly in the silent office. _There is a reason for that. She’s usually right._ Startled, Kiara hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. “Wait.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, lightly. His heart tripped over itself and then began to beat twice as fast as normal. He knew—he _knew_ —if she walked out the door now, he’d never have another moment to speak the words he needed to speak. In a matter of days she’d be gone. She’d be gone, and all his unspoken words would lie like stones in his belly.

 _Usually. But not_ always _._

“Sebastian—” she protested, giving her hand a tug.

“No,” he repeated, though he let her go. He would not hold her where she did not want to be. She did not immediately run from him, however. Her hands curled into loose fists at her sides. “Your sister was right. I let you speak your piece last time. You did not let me speak mine.”

“My… sister?” she echoed, baffled. “What are you talking about? Sebastian, we’ve already—”

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing toward the hearth. She raised her chin defiantly and looked about to protest, but whatever she saw on his face silenced her. “Please,” he added, unashamed of the raw note of pleading in his tone. “Please.” 

Biting her bottom lip, she moved back to the chairs by the fire and sat primly in one of them, not looking at him. He didn’t take the other. Instead, he paced to the window and gazed out. He could see Starkhaven laid out beneath him, with its glowing windows and wide, rain-soaked streets. In the distance, the chantry rose, its tall towers reaching toward the clouded sky. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene. _Andraste, give me the right words._ He couldn’t see the river from here, but he could feel the coolness of it on the breeze. “You’re wrong,” he said at last.

“I’m not,” she riposted at once. “I’ve thought about it—”

“You think I _haven’t_?” he shot back, and was both alarmed and oddly satisfied when his words silenced her immediately. “By the Maker, you _will_ listen to me, Kiara Hawke, for once in your life. And you will let me speak my mind the way I let you speak yours, though it broke my heart to do so. Aye, I deserve that much, and will not have you claim otherwise.”

Her brow furrowed and he watched the protest form on her lips. Then she swallowed hard and nodded once. Her eyes shone in the firelight, and he though he knew it might be folly, just for a moment he allowed himself to hope. Looking out at his rain-blurred city a final time, he took a great, steadying breath and pulled the curtain shut.

“I love you,” he said. “I believe you love me.”

“That doesn’t change—” she began. On a muttered curse, she covered her mouth with a hand and watched him as he paced, her eyes wide and wary.

“As I see it, Starkhaven has two choices,” he explained, aiming for patience and still falling short. Settling instead for insistence, he continued, “Their prince must marry; that was never in question. It’s the _who_ of the matter though, isn’t it? On one hand, Starkhaven can have a prince whose princess is the woman he loves. On the other? A princess he will attempt to do his duty by, but whom he will _never_ love. Politically it may bring temporary… _stability_ , that was the word you used, but in the long term… in the long term it will bring coldness and resentment. I can envision no other outcome. Whoever this poor girl might be, she will not be you, and I will never love her. And I will never be able to lie to her. She will _know_ , Kiara, and she will become bitter and resentful as well, no matter how pretty the trappings of this life might be. Is that truly what you’d wish for Starkhaven, knowing— _knowing_ —there is a different option?”

He moved closer as he spoke, and was certainly near enough to see the tears in her eyes. Much as he wanted to kneel at her feet and brush them away with gentle thumbs, he forced himself to stand, to press on.

“You have seen me cold,” he admitted, voice rough with emotion. “You have seen me angry and you have seen me cruel with resentment. I like these pieces of myself no more than you do, believe me, but I am not fool enough to contend they do not exist. I’d like to believe you’ve also seen me loving, and kind, and concerned about the welfare of others. I was selfish, aye, and I know you might think it selfishness guiding me now, but I do not think it is. It’s… preservation. For myself and for Starkhaven. How can anyone watch their heart walk away and retain the best parts of themselves in its absence?”

She closed her eyes and tears ran down her cheeks, glimmering gold in the firelight. He clenched his fingers tight to the back of the chair in front of him and shook his head. “The things you said—the fears you related—those are true things, and they are valid fears. I do not deny it. Some of my court may not love you. Some will scheme against you. The same might be said for any girl I choose. There may be war, or not. There may be struggle, or not. There may be anger, or not. But all these mays and mights and maybes do not shake the one thing I _know_ to be unalterably true: I _love_ you, Kiara Hawke. I will suffer another princess if I must, but I want no one at my side but you.”

She raised her eyes to him again, and he did not wince or falter. She waited until he nodded, and then she asked, “And if Starkhaven comes to resent _your_ choice? What then?”

“Then we deal with it as it happens. Since when do you live your life from unfounded fear to unfounded fear?”

“Since…” she drifted to a halt, brushing at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. The gesture was done in vain; tears still fell unchecked to drip from her chin to her leather jerkin. “I have lived my whole life ready to run. Oh, there were moments of peace, certainly, but the knowledge that I might have to flee at any moment was never far. It’s all I’ve ever known.” She swallowed and twisted her fingers together in her lap. “The night we—the night Meredith died—I was going to run then, too. I was already making plans, formulating plots, considering where best I could lie low.”

“But you didn’t run.”

“You were dying on my kitchen floor. And you were in no condition to go anywhere. Amelle made that clear enough. I could hardly leave you there.”

He tilted his head. “But you could have. I was an enemy. I had declared my foolish war against you. If you were so certain you had to run, you _should_ have left me to die.”

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and she bent her head to rub the tears from her cheek onto her shoulder. This was only moderately more successful an attempt to dry her eyes. He wasn’t sure she realized she was still weeping. “I never let myself love anyone, not really. I never let anyone get too close,” she admitted. “Only Amelle, and—and my family, because I knew wherever I was running, they’d be running with me. Perils of the apostate. But even though you’d—you’d said such horrible things to me, and made such horrible vows… when I saw you pale and bloody on my kitchen floor, I realized I’d slipped. I’d let myself fall in love with you without even _trying_. Before that… I’d never thought the words. Oh, I realized I started asking you to come along on my little missions and adventures more and more often, even when I hardly had need of another archer, even when it might have made more sense to bring Isabela or Aveline, but I put it down to… I don’t even know. I valued your counsel. I appreciated your evenness. I admired your faith, and I admired the way you didn’t feel the need to preach that faith. And then, there you were, bleeding out, and…”

“And you didn’t run.”

“And I didn’t run.”

“Then don’t run now, Kiara. Stay. Help me here.”

He could see her trembling, but still he forced himself to remain behind his fortress of a chair, gripping the upholstery as though his life depended on it. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“As am I, love, as am I.”

She didn’t quite cringe at the term of endearment, but it was a near thing. “Your… your Eyes must tell you. And Corwin. And—people like Aileene Caddell.”

“You give too much credit to Aileene Caddell and her ilk. Let them speak their poison; there will always be Garreth Graydens, Ser Kinnons, young Davins, Tasias, and aye, Corwins, to act as antidote, I have no fear of that. Are you really so blind to it, Kiara? Some hate you, but more rally to you, just as it was in Kirkwall. Let them all speak; I think you would find yourself surprised how much support you actually have.”

“So, what?” Kiara asked pointedly, hugging her arms around herself. “You want to put me on trial, too? Tally up those for and against?”

“No,” he replied. “In the end I care for no opinion but yours. And mine. I want you to agree to stand beside me, come what may. Watching your sister—watching her hope against all reason, all common sense—made me realize I cannot let something as transient as the current state of _politics_ determine the course of my life. There is too much at stake. I cannot bear to lose you. And I cannot bear the thought of you being in the world without me.”

She blinked, but said nothing.

“You must see that love will speak louder words to Starkhaven than any nonsense a marriage of convenience might spout.”

“You seem awfully certain about that.”

“I am,” he replied. “I have thought of little else for days. I guarantee the people of the city already love you better than they love me. All those things that man Joff said—they are true. You are not a burden, Kiara. You are not an encumbrance. You are a complement.”

She froze, and he watched a silent war do battle across her pale cheeks. “I didn’t—I didn’t make my decision to _hurt_ you. I knew—but that was never my _intention_.”

“I know,” he said. “But it is still the wrong decision. I am awfully certain about that, too. No resolution that causes so much misery where there was previously so much joy can be the right one.”

Her breath hitched a moment before her shoulders curled forward, she buried her face in her hands, and she began to sob.

Sebastian didn’t try to stop himself from going to her then. Kneeling at her feet, he let his fingertips skitter down her arms, tentative and gentle. As soon as she realized he was there, she flung herself from the chair and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her weeping face into his shoulder. He ran his hand along her unbound hair and murmured soothing platitudes, rocking her in his arms until her fury of tears was spent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly, her breath catching. “I didn’t mean to—I only wanted—I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to—after Kirkwall—after everything… I didn’t want you to regret _me_.”

“Never, love.”

Expression still pained, she began, “Even if—” but he pressed a finger to her lips to silence her.

“ _Never_ ,” he insisted. “And the rest we deal with, one thing at a time.”

He bent his head to kiss her forehead, but she met him halfway, and was insistent a mere forehead kiss would not do. Desperation fueled the first moments, as her hands caught in the fabric of his doublet and tears still ran down her face. One arm still cradling her, he carded the other hand through her hair. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes, but her breath was still catching on the memory of sobs and after a minute he pulled away. After an instant of disappointment, she settled against him, pressing her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know.”

“Is that what Amelle told you?”

He chuckled. “Amelle didn’t _tell_ me anything. She only reminded me that sometimes you are not as right as you think you are.”

“Cheeky girl.”

“She _was_ right, though.”

He felt Kiara grin against him, and his chest tightened painfully with the joy of it. “She is a Hawke, after all.” Then, after a moment, she added, “Sebastian? I-I _do_ love you. I’m… I know I’m not very good at it, but I love you.”

He bent his neck to press a kiss to the crown of her head. If she felt his tears drop into her hair, she made no comment, but she did squeeze her arms around him more tightly, and Sebastian began to feel—to _believe_ —the worst had finally passed.


	86. Chapter 86

Once Hawke and the Knight-Commander had left the room, the silence was near to overwhelming.  Indeed, the only sounds in the chamber were the storm outside and the fire in the hearth.  Amelle busied herself around the room, but Fenris could see her mind was elsewhere; she picked up bottles of lyrium potion and moved them to another table, then picked up a tray carrying a cold teapot and a covered dish and set it on the sidebar near the door.  Fenris watched her move about in this fashion for several minutes, noting with a pang that she seemed determined not to look at him.

This avoidance, this distance was such a far cry from the look in her eyes when he first awoke, and the memory of that unchecked happiness, that relief and joy, settled over another memory—no, not a _memory_ ; the memory of a dream, perhaps—of Amelle with a cat upon her shoulder, her eyes warm, concerned, affectionate.  He scarcely recognized the woman moving silently about the bedchamber now.

“You—you’ll want to rest, I imagine,” she said awkwardly, coming to his bedside and smoothing the coverlet.  “You ought to rest.  It’s been… you—”  Amelle’s fingers worried the blanket.  “You ought to rest.”

“I have been asleep three days,” he replied, looking up at her.  Finally, after several seconds, Amelle met his gaze.  Pulling her hands up from the bed, she clasped them together tightly, her fingers winding fretfully around each other.  “And,” he went on, “you still have not told me what transpired in that time.”

With a grimace, Amelle sat upon the chair next to his bed.  “I don’t… I don’t know how to tell you.”

“As plainly as possible,” he said, fingers twitching as if to reach for her hand, but then he thought better of it.  “Your sister typically uses an overabundance of words to convey a simple thought.”

Amelle laughed at that, softly.  “You wouldn’t be wrong there.”  After a moment, she took a deep, steadying breath and, with effort—he could _see_ the effort—she met his eyes.  “You… Jessamine poisoned you.  It-it was the blade.  The blade was poisoned.”  Amelle looked down at her hands again before continuing more softly, “We didn’t have an antidote for you.”  She was silent again.  “I… I tried to heal you.”

“I… I knew,” he said softly.  There had been moments of searing, burning-cold pain, of ice-lined fire that had scorched and froze at turns, even as it pulled at him, or made the… strange imagery shimmer like the illusion it was—moments that lived in his memory still.  

“You… _knew?”_   She looked up, eyes wide and searching his face, though searching for _what,_ he did not know.  Either Amelle saw what she was looking for or she did not, for she dropped her gaze quickly to her hands.  

“Amelle.”  When she finally looked at him, Fenris saw the reason she’d looked away so quickly; Amelle’s eyes were too bright with tears.  Her lower lip began to tremble and she pressed her palm over her mouth as if either to stop the movement or simply hide it.  He wanted to reach out to her, to clasp her hand, to reassure her _somehow._   He settled for leaning forward and wiping away the damp tracks down either cheek.  “Tell me.”

Amelle’s palm slid away until just the tips of her fingers rested against her lips.  “I can’t—you—you were _poisoned_ , Fenris.”  The words came out in a broken, trembling whisper.  She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard before saying, tremulously, “You were poisoned, and I was _scared._ ”

Afraid.  She was afraid for him.  She’d shed tears _for him._

“You were weeping when I woke,” he said.

“I thought…”  Amelle rubbed her palm across one cheek and then the other before looking at him with damp, reddened eyes.  “I thought we’d lost you.”  She swallowed hard, then lifted her chin in a whisper of defiance before adding, more quietly, “I… I thought I’d lost you.”

The breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding came out slowly, softly.  “You did not.”  

“It was a very near thing.  Too near.”

After a moment, Fenris placed his hand out, palm up.  Amelle slid from her chair to sit on the edge of the bed, settling her hand over his. Her skin was warm and the lyrium in his skin woke and shivered at her touch; it was such an achingly familiar sensation, reminding him all over again how close he’d come to losing this. Her.

“I was in the Fade,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Am I…” Fenris frowned, searching for the right word.

Amelle slid closer, tucking her legs up under her skirt, never relinquishing her hold on his hand.  “You are not an abomination, Fenris,” she said softly.

“You are… certain?”

“Yes.  And I hope you’ll forgive me if I decline to chase you around with a sword just to prove it.”  She smiled, but there was something broken in it; the borrowed linen tunic he wore was still damp with the tears she’d wept.  Closing his eyes and letting out a breath, he still recalled memories of bright, burning pain, and then… _nothing_ , but it was a peculiar sort of nothing that somehow existed between memories, between dreams and memories.

It was all too clouded, he realized. Fenris could not separate the tangle of dreams, thoughts, and memories.  But as he thought, as he _remembered,_ Fenris became increasingly certain of one thing, however, and he watched Amelle closely for any sign of dissembling as he spoke.

“I died,” he said.  “Didn’t I?”

Her sharp breath told all.  Amelle’s eyes went suddenly wide, and he was _certain_ she was going to try to tell him otherwise.  “Fenris—”

“You forget,” he said, stopping her.  “I was with you in the alley when you called Sebastian’s spirit back to his body.  I was there, even, when you tended your sister after her duel.  You have told me some of what you are capable.”

“I…”

“You did not let me die.”

“No!” she cried suddenly.  “How—how could I have?  I _couldn’t_.  Not—not after—”  She bowed her head, clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline.  As if, he realized, she were afraid he would disappear before her eyes.  When Amelle finally did speak again, it was slowly, choosing every word with infinite care.  “What you… what you have to understand is that what I did—what I can do…” she trailed off, looking intently at his hand in hers, lightly tracing the lyrium lines with a fingertip.  “It’s the spirit, you know.  If yours had passed through the Veil, there’s nothing I could’ve done, no matter how badly I—”  She cut off her own words, biting down hard on her lower lip.  “And it’s not absolute.  If… if you’d _wanted_ to—to go, nothing I could have done would have made a difference.  Same with Sebastian.  Kiara.  They didn’t… _want_ to die.  Their spirits fought to stay as long as they could.”

“But if you had done nothing—”

“You’d have—yes.  The spirit can’t remain tethered to this side indefinitely.  But… You saved my life.”  The words were softly spoken and pulled from her as if every syllable hurt.  “I couldn’t let you…”

“Did you… was this a… debt to be repaid, then?”

In truth, even as he spoke the words, Fenris hoped he didn’t have the right of it.  Never, in fact, had he ever wanted so badly to be mistaken.  And when Amelle’s head flew up and he saw the expression on her face, he’d never been so relieved to be _wrong._

“ _No_.  Maker, no—I…”  Her hands spasmed around his.  “I couldn’t lose you like that.  You…”  Shaking her head resolutely, Amelle said, “You’ve just woken up after three days poisoned.  I think perhaps you ought to rest a bit before we attempt any serious conversations. Any _more_ of them.”

Fenris frowned.  Scowled, if the truth of it were to be known.  “I assure you, I am recovered enough for conversation.”  Before Amelle could argue, and Fenris felt sure she _would_ argue, he said, “I will ask you to remember when I last saw you.  A madwoman had bound you to a stake and was threatening to burn you alive.  You were drugged, insensible, and in pain.”  His voice caught and roughened as he shook his head and added, “If you think I am any less in awe that _you_ are safe and well and _whole_ —”

“You thought I…”  Brow first furrowing and then contorting in confusion, Amelle murmured, “Then what you said—before you… _before_ …” Amelle’s hand laid over her heart.  “You said…”

Fenris nodded once.  “Nothing… can be worse than the thought of living without you.”  It was _different,_ saying the words here, now, in the hearth-warmed hush of the room, thunder rattling the windows as rain pelted the glass.  He’d meant them when he’d spoken them before, when they’d both been in possession of uncertain futures.  But here, _now,_ there was more weight to them, somehow.  “I knew something was… wrong. That I was unwell.  I knew what needed to be done, and… only hoped I was not doing more harm than good.”

“It worked,” she breathed.  “As you can see.”  Releasing one hand, Amelle reached up to massage her forehead.  “Maker, I was so… so _angry_ at you afterward,” she confessed, sniffling.  “You—you’d _said_ that and you’d _done_ that and then, there you were, just—just… _dying_ , and nothing I did worked, and I just kept remembering you’d said that.  And I…” She laughed and shook her head, more tears squeezing out as she did.  “I wasn’t ever going to get the chance to…”  Biting down so hard on her bottom lip, Amelle reached up to cradle Fenris’ face in her hands.  Her eyes were bloodshot, her face blotchy and tearstained, but her smile, though hesitant, was true.  “I wasn’t ever going to get the chance to ask if you meant it.”

Pressing against the warmth of her palms, Fenris met her gaze.  “Every word.”

She closed her eyes and tipped her head forward, until her forehead rested against his.  “I… don’t want to live without you, either,” she whispered.  “I came too close—”

“I am here.”

A shudder wracked through her, but Amelle pulled away, nodding and rubbing her palms against her cheeks, scrubbing the tearstains away, attempting to recover herself enough to speak.  “I’ve been wanting to—to apologize to you for days, you know.  Longer.  Since—since that night.  I…” reaching out, her fingers skated across his forehead and lingered at his temple.

“The night you restored my memories.”  Amelle nodded, and Fenris said, wonderingly, “How can you think you would have to apologize for _that_?”

Her laugh was sudden and bitter.  “I had no right—I never should have done it, and when you left—”

As her words sank in, the night in question flashed vividly through his mind.  The warmth of her hands upon his head followed by wave after wave of near-ticklish magic.  And then the sudden sensation of _something_ snapping under too much pressure, followed by an overpowering rush of memories—of sights and sounds and smells—things he’d yearned to remember and things he’d been happy to forget.  

“You…” 

“I had no right,” she said again.  “I don’t blame you.  I don’t blame you at all for—”

“You believed I left,” he broke in, cutting her off, “because I was… angry?”  Shifting against the pillows, Fenris sat up carefully, the better to turn and meet her eyes.  However much he didn’t want to believe it, Amelle’s words made far too much sense, particularly given the aftermath.

She swiped the tears away, flicking the moisture from her fingertips.  “Magic spoils everything,” she said in a voice so small and unsure that Fenris hated himself for ever having uttered a thing to begin with.

“Amelle,” he said. When she did not look at him, he repeated himself with more urgency. 

She sniffled, wrinkling her nose and blinking rapidly.  “Yes?”

“You are aware we would not be having this conversation if not for your magic.”

“You wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place if I wasn’t a mage.”

He closed his eyes, remembering. Again, remembering. The hot sand under his feet and his hands sticky with blood. How he’d fought, with everything he was. The freckles dappled across a sunburned nose. “I fear you are… laboring under a misapprehension. It was not your magic that distressed me that night. I was not angry with _you_.”

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better about it,” she told him, arching a wry eyebrow. “I was there. I remember. I was… _the arrogance_. The sheer bloody _arrogance_.” She wiped furiously at her face, but the tears were coming too hard and to fast to be stopped. “I—I thought I could just—just _wiggle my fingers_ and you’d be _grateful_ for it.”

Fenris reached out, lifting her chin with a finger.

“I was not angry with you,” he repeated. “I was angry with _myself_. More than that, I was disgusted. Part of me… remains disgusted. When you released those trapped memories, it was too much too quickly. I left because I was overwhelmed and… I did not come back to you right away because once I’d realized all I’d done, I was forced to acknowledge how unworthy I am of you. I know well enough why I left that night and why I stayed away. At the time, I could not bear the prospect of confessing such a thing to you.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he said quietly, his thumb swiping away the tear tracks from one cheek, then the other, “I cannot bear to think you believed me angry with you for so long.”  Fenris met her eyes then.  He wasn’t quite prepared to put a name to what he _did_ see, but censure and reprisal were both absent.  

Just then, from somewhere on the floor below them there came a tiny mew.  

“Oh, _Maker_ ,” Amelle breathed, pulling back and casting about briefly before sliding off the bed.  She crouched down and when she rose again she held a tiny kitten, its coat a patchwork blend of white and grey.  “The poor thing.  That was quite a bit of magic it was subjected to earlier—it must’ve been hiding under the bed.”

Fenris found he could only stare at the kitten.  It was tiny enough to fit in one of Amelle’s hands, and its downy fur and too-large ears gave it a perpetually startled appearance, but beyond its size, there was something… something almost _familiar_ about the animal’s markings.  Still cradling it carefully, Amelle once again sat upon the bed, running one finger back and forth along its skull for a moment before gently setting it down upon the coverlet.

“Who is your… beast?” he asked, staring intently as the kitten picked a path across the blanket.  It was small—an infant—and yet.  _And yet._

“Beast?” Amelle snorted.  “You don’t mean the tiny baby _kitten_ , surely?”

“Does it not have a name?” he asked, picking it up carefully and holding it at eye level.  The kitten’s eyes were blue-grey and it blinked them at him once, solemnly, before mewing again.

She shrugged, rolling her neck to peer at him. “Not yet.  Sebastian only gave him—or her; I don’t know that yet either—to me a couple of days ago.”

“Sebastian gave it to you.”

“Well, I suspect he was trying to distract me, no matter what he says. I was… singularly focused. I think he was more worried than he let on.” She sighed. “It’s been one great unpleasant cycle of worry, Fenris. He worried about me and I worried about him and we both worried about Kiara and everyone worried madly about you.”

The kitten gave a yawn and stretched its tiny body, dropping its head and butting it against the fleshy part of his palm. “It is small.”  

“Yes, well. Baby.”

“It should have a name.” The kitten sat back, tail twitching, watching him. “All things are deserving of their names. It is fierce and proud. It should be…” Fenris paused here, frowning at the kitten, who stared back at him, unblinking. “Bellator.”

Amelle groaned, and Fenris pulled the kitten close, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks. “Maker, a mabari called Killer and a kitten named… what? Arcanum for warrior?”

Fenris nodded.

“Can’t it be something like… I don’t know. Muffin?”

“You wish to name the beast after… a pastry?”

Amelle threw up her hands, smiling. “Fine. No food. And no fighting. Something in between.”

Fenris thought about this a moment, and then said, very softly, “Spero.”

Amelle arched an eyebrow. “And what does that one mean? Blood-thirsty, magister-hating hero?”

“No,” Fenris said, not quite able to meet her laughing green eyes. “It means hope.”  At his words, the amusement in Amelle’s eyes softened somewhat.

“…Spero.”  She leaned against the pillows—closer to him, he noticed—and, moving hesitantly, almost uncertainly, Amelle rested her head lightly against his shoulder, peering at the kitten.  Resting upon his abdomen, it kneaded intently at the coverlet.  “I think I like that.”

The kitten was truly tiny.  Undersized.  With the pads of his fingers he could feel the faint ridges of its ribs, each tiny notch along its spine.  Spero, however, seemed not to care one way or the other and tumbled onto its side, purring, eyes closed in bliss as Fenris petted it.

The longer he held the animal, the more acutely he became a ware that he was using it as a means to avoid saying things that still needed to be said, and the unvoiced words hung more heavily around his neck with every moment that passed.

“There… is more,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the kitten.

Amelle, who was by now curled up next to him, legs tucked up under her skirt, head resting more heavily now against his shoulder, went still.  “You don’t have to—”

“I do.”  He cleared his throat.  “Varania spoke truly.  I did compete for these markings.  Not only did I compete for them, I ignored everyone who urged me not to fight for them.  I wanted their power, Amelle.  And… not only did I compete for them…” Fenris paused, hesitant to say more, but the truth had gone unspoken for long enough.  “I killed for them.”  

Amelle whispered a curse under her breath, but did not move away.  He clung to that. Her hair was soft against his neck and the warm weight of her head resting against him was something he believed he’d never feel again.  The moment he realized she’d left Kirkwall without him, the ghosts of  strained silences around campfires, all faded beneath the warmth of her so _close_.

“There was a… a young woman,” he went on.  “Liaria.  Another slave.”  The words came out haltingly; though it had all transpired so many years before, the memories were fresh and raw and painful still.  “She was dear to me.”  As Fenris spoke, he focused entirely on the kitten and the warm circle of warmth now resting against him as it slept.  Slowly he related Danarius’ scheme, piece by piece.  He told Amelle about the boon, about the final match, of Danarius changing the rules at the last moment, demanding Fenris kill Liaria or be killed himself.

Throughout the tale, Amelle did not move, scarcely breathed, and was every bit as still and quiet as the slumbering Spero.  She had not, however, moved away from him, and that fear had simmered beneath his skin with every word he spoke, every sliver of restored memory he shared.  After a moment, she reached out to his hand, petting Spero’s head with her fingertips.

“He—he actually made the two of you _fight_ ,” she breathed.

“He did.”  His mouth twisted with the bitterness upon his tongue.  “Do not tell me you are surprised.”

“No, I… no.  That part doesn’t surprise me.  “But—Fenris, Liaria knew enough to warn you _away_ , but… she didn’t withdraw from the contest herself when she knew you had no intention of backing out.”

“Such markings were coveted by every eligible warrior in the Imperium,” he replied with a shrug.  “Including Liaria.”

“So _she_ would have killed _you_ to get them.”

He sent her a sidelong glance.  “That hardly makes it forgivable that I killed her first.”

Propping herself up on one elbow, a strange, pensive look on her face, Amelle took her hand from where it rested against his, petting Spero gently, and reached up to run her fingertips over the markings on his chin, and then down his throat to where they disappeared at the neckline of the loose tunic he wore. He swallowed. She wasn’t actively using her magic, but still the lyrium in him responded to her, flaring ever so slightly beneath his skin. Or perhaps it was only that _he_ responded to her; he still wasn’t sure where the line was drawn. “Amelle…”

“Shh. I’m thinking.”

He hushed, watching her face instead of the path of her hand. Her fingertips continued, ghosting along his bared arm. When she touched the sensitive skin at the bend of his elbow, he couldn’t help shuddering. She smiled at that, but didn’t linger. When she reached his hand, and the veins of white winding down his fingers, she paused. Then she entwined her fingers with his and let out the breath he hadn’t noticed she was holding.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Before he could protest, she added, “Forgive me, that—that’s not what I meant. I mean… I’m…” she swallowed hard.  “I’m glad you’re here.”

“…Amelle?”

She squeezed his hand. “If things had gone differently—if you’d never fought, if you’d stayed Leto-the-slave, if you’d let Liaria kill you, if you’d been anyone other than who you are—I wouldn’t _know_ you. You wouldn’t be here. Maker, Fenris, you’ve saved my life—and Kiara’s life—dozens of times over. Maybe we’d both be dead by now. I don’t know. But I do know that Isabela once told Anders we’re made by our mistakes. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I’d never unmake you. I wouldn’t _change_ you. Not even if I could.”

He didn’t have words to answer her right away, but she didn’t seem to mind. She kept holding his hand, running her thumb over the skin of his knuckles. Finally, in a voice as hoarse with emotion as it had earlier been with disuse, he said, “Then I’ll abide no more talk of an Amelle without magic.”

Her thumb stopped. Then she huffed a breathy laugh. “I suppose that’s only fair.”  Then she tipped her head at him, confusion contorting her brow.  “But I still don’t understand—how does any of that make you a hypocrite?”

Looking down at the hand that held his, watching the hypnotic back and forth motion of her thumb across his knuckles, Fenris said, in an undertone, “While it was the memory of what I’d done that sent me away, it was… another memory that left me hesitant to return.”  Amelle didn’t speak, she only watched him intently, silent and patient.  “Varania was not the only member of my family who possessed magic.  It was… a trait passed down from my father.”

“Your father was a… a mage?”  At his nod, she settle back against the pillows, but did not pull away from him, as he’d been so sure she’d do.  On the contrary, she settled her head against his shoulder, her lips settling into a thoughtful line.  “…And you thought I’d think you were a hypocrite.”

“I did.  I _am._ ”

“No,” came her firm reply.  And before Fenris could argue, Amelle brought a hand to his cheek, cupping his jaw, stroking gently before her thumb trailed down to the twin white lines of lyrium, coming to rest beneath his chin.  “I refuse to hold you responsible for thoughts you never had because someone else had prevented you from having them.  If your father was a mage, that doesn’t… erase or excuse the things Danarius did.  Those things still happened, and it was wrong that they happened, but don’t lose sight over the things you can and cannot control.”  She paused then, her expression inscrutable for barely a second before she met his eyes and said, so quietly, “Live in the now, Fenris.”

Live in the now.

Insofar as the _now_ was concerned, everything that had happened before was too far away to truly matter.  Fenris was too acutely aware of the fact that this moment was a gift he’d never expected to receive.  Amelle was safe, and he was alive to treasure it. _That_ was the now.  And beyond _now_ , nothing else mattered.

Fenris pulled her hand close to his breast, pressing the back of it to his heart. Her eyes widened, their color strange and luminescent for a moment as lightning flashed outside. “Amelle, I want—”

But he didn’t get a chance to finish. She closed the breath of distance between them—the kitten mewled its displeasure at being so rudely awoken—and kissed him first.

Fenris was aware—however distantly, for he was lost in the warmth and softness of Amelle’s mouth—of Spero squirming out from between them as Amelle pressed more insistently against him.  The kitten’s tiny claws pricked lightly at his skin as it scrabbled for purchase up his sleeve and climbed again to his shoulder, then picked its way down the bed where it would run less risk of being crushed.  The animal’s absence, however, also gave Fenris room and opportunity to pull Amelle closer until she was pressed entirely against him.  As he did, her mouth went from warm to hot; he shuddered the moment her tongue glided across his lower lip, followed by the lightest teasing scrape of teeth.  He knew instinctively what she was asking and he answered, parting his lips as he buried one hand in short, soft hair, pulling her so close he was certain he felt the beating of her heart against his chest.

Beneath the rush of—Maker, he dare not _name_ it—was relief, _immense_ relief, his gamble had paid off.  Amelle was not dead, not burned to blistering skin and ash.  She was alive and warm and wrapping her arms around his neck kissing him with the same sort of relieved wonder and gratitude he felt.

It had been a very close thing: they could have died believing the very lies each had told themselves, never knowing, never dreaming the truth.

_Our mistakes make us who we are._

It was true, he thought (even as his ability to maintain rational thought struggled beneath the pressure of Amelle’s mouth, the pliancy of her lips, the heat of her tongue), for they had both made mistakes and, through either accident or divine grace, were being permitted to move forward and allow the time for those mistakes to shape them both.  At the moment, the lesson had left them both thankful.

Amelle let out a soft groan, her hand skidding across the material at his chest, barely-contained power in its wake.  He shivered, hard.

 _Very_ thankful, indeed.

The kiss broke, but neither of them moved away, and when Amelle spoke, he felt the tickling brush of her lips against his, the warmth of her breath.

“Sweet Andraste,” she breathed, and the tenor of it made him want to pull her close all over again, pressing her back against the bed, sealing his mouth over hers as they both sank into soft pillows and smooth silk.  She rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes as she tried to slow the rapid breaths.  Then she opened her eyes and looked at him a long moment before speaking.

“You know, I _am_ sorry,” she murmured, her hands traveling up his arms, roaming ever upward until she was cupping his cheeks.

“Amelle.”  Her name came out nearly a growl.  “Have we not already—”

Her fingers pressed against his lips and once he fell quiet they trailed downward, past his chin, down his neck, ghosting across his collarbone.  “I’m sorry I left you behind,” she whispered.  “That I jumped to conclusions.  I _am_ sorry for that.”

“Consider yourself forgiven.”  And on that last syllable he pushed against Amelle, rolling her easily onto her back, and looked down at her.  Firelight flickered across her features, and the sudden ferocity of emotion that welled up in his chest was so strong, so true, and burned brighter than his light and hers combined that he went perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

“You’re going to be getting visitors soon,” she murmured, and though Amelle’s face still showed evidence of her earlier tears, there was a smile at her lips.  “Perhaps I should take my leave.”

“Stay.”

Amelle arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ve stayed three days already, you know.”

“I was not awake to appreciate it then,” he countered.  “Do not go.  Not yet.”

_Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you._

It had been true the moment he’d said it, and it remained true now.  Perhaps he wouldn’t have to find out after all.

 

 

 


	87. Chapter 87

Kiara didn’t sleep the night before the trial. She tried. For hours she lay in her soft bed, on her silken sheets, and she tossed and turned. Her thoughts raced, but when she tried to pin them down, to make sense of them, they fluttered away from her on the sound of mockery and laughter.

Finally, when the crack between the draperies at the window had shifted from black to pre-dawn-silver, Kiara rose from her rumpled bed. She even tried to make it, but as she pulled the sheets taut on one side only to have them end up hopelessly off-kilter on the other, it became clear why the job was always tackled by at least two of the hummingbird maids in Tasia’s flock. Somehow, when she finally gave up, it looked even worse than it had when she’d first risen.

It was Jessamine on her mind partly, but not entirely. Kiara didn’t doubt Sebastian’s justice. She knew Jessamine would pay for her crimes. Even if Sebastian disregarded the strange grey area of crimes relating to one apostate mage, Kiara knew very well the woman was guilty of high treason. She would be sentenced to death. And the madness would end.

_Will it end? Or will someone else pick up her torch? In six weeks or six months, will we be facing the same thing? It will not be loudmouths like Aileene Caddell. It will be the friend with a kind smile, waiting for the opportune moment. It will be knives in the dark or poison in the wine. There will always be something._

Kiara was used to danger. She was used to fighting. She was even used to people wanting to kill her.

She was also used to fleeing. Oh, she’d stayed in Kirkwall long enough, but every day she’d woken thinking she could go if she wanted. She’d almost fled after her mother died. She’d almost insisted they flee after the Arishok, and Cullen’s aborted attempt to take Amelle away. She’d almost fled a dozen times, more, but then she’d imagined starting over somewhere foreign, somewhere new, and she’d stayed.

But she had always known the escape route was available. Like her father had taught her all those years ago, she always knew where the exits were, and she always knew how to reach them. 

And she knew if she stood next to Sebastian Vael today and allowed all of Starkhaven to see her in the place he’d asked her to occupy—in his realm, in his life—there would be no going back. Her escape routes would be lost, and her exits would be closed. He hadn’t said so in as many words, but Kiara knew today was more than Jessamine’s trial… it was hers. Stay or go. Raise your chin or bow your head. Bend or break. Refugee or princess.

_Everything about today is a decision._

Sitting before her looking glass, Kiara searched the reflection. It was the same face, of course. A little older, a little more tired. But also happier, more satisfied… more hopeful.

She couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone like Jessamine, or worse, Aileene Caddell and her ilk, chase her from anything that brought _hope_ back.

 _There will always be something. Even if I ran, even if I hid, there would always be_ something _. Better to choose the thing that comes with hope, and joy, and promise._

Kiara heard Tasia’s soft laughter a moment before the maid pushed the door open, and her hushed whisper of, “Oh, go back to your post, you _idiot._ You’re not half as amusing as you think you are.” 

In the reflection, Kiara watched Tasia’s eyes sweep the room, noting the empty bed first. For a moment, the girl paled; Kiara wondered if Tasia had doubted her resilience, too. Or perhaps Tasia, too, feared betrayal, plots, actions taken. 

Then the maid saw her at the vanity, and she smiled her dimpled smile, and Kiara couldn’t help smiling in return. 

Tasia settled the tea tray she carried on the sideboard and wordlessly prepared a cup. After Kiara had taken a great, fortifying sip, Tasia said, “I had your armor cleaned and mended.”  Her tone was not entirely without distaste, but Kiara knew she’d comply meekly. Today was not a day for arguing about archery gowns.

_Who are you today, Kiara Hawke?_

Armor was wrong. Kiara knew that. Today she was not the Champion of Kirkwall. Today she was not even the swift, silent girl who was good with a bow and who drank with the common-folk in their taverns and inns.

So she shook her head. Tasia’s relief was palpable, but almost as quickly as her eyes widened and her lips smiled, the maid schooled her features back into a neutral mask.

 _She knows_ , Kiara thought. _She knows what today means, too. For me. For her._

“The… pale blue, my lady? Or the yellow silk?”

Pale blue made Kiara think of Jessamine’s healer’s robes, stained with blood and poison and the filth of betrayal. Yellow was life and light and sunshine and kisses in wooded bowers. She shook her head again.

“No, Tasia. Today is no day for half measures.” Kiara looked straight ahead, into the mirror, meeting Tasia’s eyes. Then she nodded once, firmly. “Today… today I must look _regal_.”

Behind her, Tasia dropped into a deep curtsy—deeper than she’d ever curtsied before—and inclined her head. “Of course,” she said quietly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Kiara didn’t correct her. Today mightn’t be her wedding day, but it was—in so many ways—her first day as Sebastian’s princess.

#

It was strange to sleep alone.  

Four days Amelle had spent at Fenris’ bedside, sleeping when she could, always seeing his profile upon waking.  Before that had been weeks of setting camp, of sleeping upon the ground, and even though they’d not been speaking at the time, she’d still grown used to waking in the middle of the night and spying Fenris in the campfire’s dwindling light, either asleep himself or keeping watch.  Amid Kirkwall’s madness, she’d stolen sleep when she could, as had Fenris, and the sight of him asleep on the couch in the library or slouched and dozing in a comfortable chair had been one she’d grown accustomed to.

Now there was no madness, no campfire, no poison, and two nights of no _sleep_.  Now there were soft beds with cool sheets and plump pillows and no reason whatsoever for Amelle to be curled on her side in the bed, watching the fire dance and flicker in the hearth as she had for the past several hours.  It would have died out hours ago, but she’d been awake to keep it going.  Spero was curled up asleep on one of what felt like no less than a dozen pillows, whiskers twitching as she dreamed.

It wasn’t the emptiness of the room — save the kitten — that kept her awake now; it was the finality of what lingered only hours away.  Amelle had tried very hard _not_ to think about Jessamine, but it was difficult.  She found herself reliving those moments upon the platform, face to face with the Revered Mother as she asked Amelle what punishment _she_ would have put to Jessamine.  She remembered so clearly the _hate_ in her breast, mingling with fear and rage as Fenris lay near death at her feet.  Amelle would have seen her die then, would have killed the woman with the very magic Jessamine had suppressed in her.

 _Do it,_ a silent, silken voice had whispered to her, winding through her mind and sending a chill down her spine even then.  _She has wronged you.  She deserves nothing less than your vengeance._ A violent shiver wracked Amelle’s frame as she sat up and shoved the blankets back with the same force as she shoved the thought aside, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.  At the sudden movement, Spero’s head lifted and it blinked sleepily, then gave a wide yawn.  Amelle scooped the kitten up and rubbed her fingertips behind its silky ears — one white, one grey — smiling when the kitten’s throat vibrated with a soft purr.  The tiny warm body and its soft fur pushed back the memory of the demon’s whisper like sunlight burning away clouds and Amelle let out a shaky breath.

“Well, at least one of us slept well last night, hmm?” she asked, carrying the kitten against her breast as she went to the window and peered past the heavy drapery: it was still dark.  With a breath and a flick of her fingers, the candles lit with a hiss and a spark and Amelle went back to the window to watch the sunrise bring light to shadow, chasing off the darkness.

She thought of Jessamine — angry, desperate, murderous Jessamine.  She would stand trial for treason and she would be found guilty and she would be punished.  She would have to face her victims — including those Jessamine doubtless thought dead — and she would be made to answer for her crimes and face the consequences.

 _But is it justice?_  

In truth, Amelle hated that word now.  She wasn’t sure what it _was_ anymore, only what it _wasn’t._

It was true, Jessamine would not cause such trouble again.  And treason, Amelle also knew, was the sort of thing that destabilized lands — Teyrn Loghain’s betrayal of King Cailan at the Battle of Ostagar had shown that vividly enough; Ferelden’s recovery had been a long one, with wounds going far deeper than darkspawn-infested Deep Roads.  

More than that, betrayal shook and cracked the very foundation of friendships — she thought of Kinnon’s betrayed face, pale and shocked, unable to make sense of Maisie’s actions.  And, of course, Anders rose in her mind like a ghost from the mists, _his_ betrayal stinging her still, feeding the cycle of vengeance behind justice’s facade.

 _Satisfying his own appetites,_ she thought.  _Just as Sebastian had against the Flint mercenaries, just as Kiara and I had against Gascard DuPuis, just as Fenris had when faced with Hadriana and Danarius._ Selfish actions, all.  Oh, it was all easy enough to justify as for the greater good — killing the mercenaries meant they would never tear another family apart; slaying DuPuis meant ridding the world of another blood mage and would-be necromancer; killing Hadriana and Danarius meant two fewer magisters would enslave and abuse those beneath them — but the truth of the matter was that those actions were selfish ones, fueled by anger or hatred.  Had _she_ killed Jessamine that day in the square, it would not have been justice — there was too much anger, too much _hate_ in her heart for it to have been just.  She knew that now.  

Amelle thought suddenly of the unholy glow in Anders’ eyes and beneath his skin, making it appear cracked, as if the very presence inside him was forcing its way out, slamming against its human vessel like an ocean wave crashing repeatedly against a wall until it wore away and crumbled.  She remembered the way he admitted the very sight of templars making him so _angry_ — and that _anger_ , that _hatred_ , provided no resistance whatsoever for the being possessing him.  By Anders’ logic, _anger_ allowed him to be possessed by _justice._   But he’d said it himself: there was too much hate in him for justice to _remain_ justice — anger and hatred twisted justice into vengeance.

When Sebastian took Jessamine’s life, it would be quick, and she would not suffer.  She knew he would not relish the task, and would get no satisfaction from the act that would rid her of their lives forever.  These were the consequences and repercussions of Jessamine’s actions — treason carried with it a death sentence.  _Justice cannot be fueled by anger or hatred,_ she thought, watching the sky lighten from inky black to dusky purple.  

 _“Magic can heal a broken bone, but it can’t undo the damage done by a hurtful word, rabbit.  Before you act, before you speak, think about what you’re saying.  It may make_ you _feel_ better _to freeze and smash your brother’s sword because he was cruel, but you’ve only served to hurt him as he hurt you, and rather than coming to an understanding, you’ve served only to breed resentment.  Think, rabbit.  Think about the things that can never be undone.”_

_“Yes, Papa.”_

_“Now, go apologize to your brother.”_

The edge of the sun was just visible over the horizon, a sliver of golden light chasing away the dark.  Amelle blinked at the sudden brightness and turned away from the window, cradling Spero against her chest.

“Our mistakes make us who we are, Spero,” she murmured, as a brisk knock sounded at the door. It would be a maid bearing a breakfast tray.  “As do the mistakes of others.”

#

Sebastian had fully _intended_ to sleep, but one thing led to another, and that other thing led to eight dozen more things, and by the time he looked up and realized he ought to take himself to bed, the sky was already brightening on the horizon and the opportunity was gone. His back was stiff from sitting so long in the same attitude, and his eyes were gritty with sleeplessness. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from his desk, leaning heavily on his arms.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d been _thinking_ when he’d decided on giving Jessamine a trial. If he’d executed her then and there, he could be sleeping now, sleeping and not worrying about how the events of the day to come might unfold.

A polite knock preceded Corwin. When Sebastian saw the steward was carrying a tray laden with breakfast and blessed, blessed tea, he could have kissed the man. Corwin poured him a cup—strong, black, fortifying—and said, “Your manservant said you did not sleep last night, Your Highness. I thought I might find you here.”

Sebastian waved his hand at the desk. “I was distracted.”

Corwin arched a white eyebrow and shook his head. “You are taking a short vacation after today, methinks, Highness. Your desk will keep a day or two.”

Sebastian snorted. “The papers on that desk will breed like rabbits if I leave them for two days.”

“You exaggerate. They will only breed like dogs.” On Sebastian’s uneasy look, Corwin continued, “Less babies to a litter. I will see to the more pressing matters myself. You must sleep, my lord. Your dedication is admirable only until exhaustion sees you making mistakes.”

Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian cradled the warm cup between his palms and closed his eyes. Sleep hovered, but he shook it off. No time. _After_.

“Remind me, Corwin,” Sebastian said, “why in the Maker’s name did I think this was a good idea?”

Because it was not the first time Sebastian had asked the question of his steward in the days since Jessamine’s arrest, Corwin replied immediately and succinctly, “Because you must start as you mean to go on, Your Highness. Let the woman condemn herself with her own words. Let your people see you fair, and just, and without cruelty.”

“Indeed,” replied Sebastian dryly, draining his cup of tea in one gulp. “That sounds exactly the kind of daft thing I might think was a good idea.”

Corwin smiled a fond smile as he refilled Sebastian’s teacup. “The last two princes—and, indeed, even your father to some degree—hid behind their crowns and their thrones. Trust is better earned than bought, and the more transparent you are with your people, the less they will doubt you.”

With a final sigh—one that embarrassingly turned into a yawn part way through—Sebastian rose from the desk and clapped one hand to Corwin’s shoulder. “I know. Start as I mean to go on. Beginning with making myself presentable. Thank you, Corwin. For the tea. And the rest.”

“Highness, if you will permit me an impertinence… I know you intend to include your lady and her… companions. Any rashness on their part may reflect poorly on you.”

“I’m aware,” Sebastian said, without affront. “But it’s important they be there. Many of Jessamine’s crimes were enacted against them.”

“The elf—”

“Fenris knows the importance of today. So long as Amelle remains in good health, I believe he will hold his peace.” Sebastian smiled wearily. “And if, Maker forbid, some harm _should_ befall Amelle, Fenris may be the least of our worries.”

“Does harm include words, Your Highness? Jessamine will doubtless speak harmful _words_.”

“Your concern does you credit, Corwin. But I will not change my mind on this score.”

The steward bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

“There will occasionally be things we do not agree upon, Corwin. This is one of them. But I would rather hear your concerns than have you remain silent. Now, I must go put on my costume. This mummer’s farce won’t begin without me.”

After he’d submitted to the less-than-tender ministrations of his manservant, Sebastian went to Kiara. This, more than anything that stood to happen with Jessamine, was the root of his greatest anxiety. As the guards fell in around him—a half-dozen; his Eyes would take no chances today of all days—he wondered if he would knock on her door to find an apologetic note. His stomach twisted at the thought, and he beat the doubt away. _No, she will not flee. I know her. I_ know _her._

Ser Kinnon was standing guard outside Kiara’s chambers. Even Sebastian could see the man was still subdued—he served with a different partner on every rotation now, and though he did not speak of it, it was clear Maisie’s defection had struck a deeper blow than he let on. 

The knight put a fist to his heart in salute. “Your Highness.”

“Ser Kinnon. Is my lady within?”

Kinnon nodded. “Being bullied by Tasia, no doubt. Maker preserve her.”

Sebastian almost smiled. The faintest thread of jealousy still kept him from _liking_ the man, but he’d long since stopped plotting punishments. “Will you stand at her side today, Ser Kinnon?”

A flush crept up the knight’s neck. “If you… it would be my honor, Your Highness.”

“Captain Elias trusted you. Kiara trusts you. I hope the day will bring no violence, but if violence must occur, there is no one I trust more to step between Kiara and danger.”

At this a faint smile pulled at one corner of Kinnon’s mouth. “You say that as though she’d _let_ me step between her and danger.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh. “Aye, well the greatest challenge in being Kiara Hawke’s personal guard _is_ guarding her from her own tendencies to jump straight into the thick of things.”

“Noted, Your Highness.”

Sebastian knocked before entering. When Tasia called out, he pushed open the door. On his peripheral vision he saw the little blonde dip into a vast curtsy, but he had eyes only for Kiara.

Tasia had outdone herself. Kiara was garbed from head to heel in Starkhaven white and gold. She wore no jewelry, but Tasia had woven golden ribbons into Kiara’s hair, reminiscent of the crown she would soon wear. Sebastian felt his breath catch at the sight of her.

Unlike the first time he’d seen her in such finery, she was not shy. She did not blush or duck her head or stammer. She rose and spread her skirts in her own curtsy— _when did she learn to do that so gracefully?_ —before offering him a grim smile. He’d seen that same smile a hundred times, a thousand. It was the one she smiled before battle.

“My lady, you are a vision.”

Her regal demeanor disappeared in an all-too-familiar grimace. “I’m a vision of discomfort. To the Void with corsetry, Sebastian Vael. Only for you.”

He kissed her hand before taking her arm. “Best see this done, then.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Let’s hear what the bitch has to say for herself.”

“Kiara…”

She winked up at him. “You’re the one who has to remain aloof and impartial.” On his _look_ , she rose to her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

He turned his head and captured her lips with a more insistent kiss of his own. When he pulled away, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Thank you, love,” he whispered.

“For what? Promising to be a good girl?”

“No, not just that.”

A shadow crossed her features. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed her again, briefly. “Except the Great Hall.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Except the Great Hall.”

#

It felt _good_ to get into his armor again, Fenris thought.  The familiar weight of it, the feel of leather, of the grafted spirit hide against his skin made him feel at once more himself and less like he’d ever been so incapacitated in the first place.  The armor had been stripped of him while he’d been in the grip of Maker’s Light, and had been sent off to be mended and cleaned.  He’d never seen such expert work done on his vestments, and he wondered for what wasn’t the first time if the items had been treated thus because they were to have been for the honor of a dead man.  

It was an unnerving thought.  Discovering how ill he’d been made it seem scarcely possible that he should feel so _well,_ but he did.  To own the truth of it, mere hours after waking Fenris had felt well enough to leave his bed, to walk around, to _move._   However, that was a notion to which Amelle—and Sebastian, for he’d been visiting at the time Fenris expressed such a desire—had objected vehemently.  And when the matter of the trial arose, Sebastian had asked if two days’ time was too short a wait.  Indeed, two days had felt like an eternity at the time, but Fenris had gravely reassured his friend that he would be well enough to attend the trial.

That time had revealed a number of things, not the least of which was the strangeness of his recovery.  Maker’s Light was fatal if the antidote was not administered in time.  This had been the case in every instance but his—a fact he heard reiterated extensively.  What it meant to Fenris was that Jessamine’s intent had not been to wound or merely incapacitate — she had poisoned her blade knowing whomever she cut would die.  And he had.  

It was not something Amelle was inclined to discuss, and perhaps she feared making that fact common knowledge would prove ill for her—how many people would have called her gift necromancy?  Fenris did not pretend to understand the finer details, but he was no reanimated fiend and Amelle Hawke was no necromancer.  His heart beat as it ever had, breath filled his lungs, he thought, moved, behaved as ever.  He was himself, and he knew who he had to thank for it.  The only lingering reminder of his illness was that sleep occasionally eluded him, and when Fenris did sleep, he found himself plagued by strange dreams.  But despite dreams, despite whether or not his sleep was restful, Fenris still woke in the morning, still breathed, was still alive.

The very _reason_ he was still alive was a little farther down the corridor; he saw one of the maids step out of Amelle’s room carrying a breakfast tray.  She braced it against one hip as she closed the door, but when she lifted her eyes and spied Fenris, the maid startled suddenly enough that she nearly dropped the lot of it.  Fenris reached out and steadied the tray as the young woman collected herself, ducking her head, bobbing a quick curtsey.

“Beg pardon, messere.  Y-you… surprised me.”

He always felt out of his element around the scores of servants in the palace and this moment was no exception.  He offered her a brief, stiff nod, and jerked his chin at the closed door.

“Is she within?”

“Aye, messere.”

He peered at the breakfast tray and frowned to discover how much food remained.  “Did she not eat?”

“M-my lady said she didn’t s-sleep well, messere.  Didn’t feel up to eating, she said.”

He must have been frowning, for the maid looked truly dismayed, turning her gaze to the floor.  Suppressing the urge to sigh, Fenris took the tray from her hands.  “I… will attempt to persuade her to see reason,” he said, and then looked again at the tray and hesitated.  “If… if you might bring a fresh pot of tea…?”  He despised asking any of Sebastian’s servants for anything, but the young woman nodded and bobbed another curtsey.

“As you wish, messere.”  And with that, she scurried off.

Balancing the tray upon his forearm, Fenris knocked briskly on the door.  He heard laughter and Amelle’s amused voice approaching from the other side.

“Maker’s _breath_ , you don’t have to knock _again,_ Naissia, you just _left_ ,” she said as she swung open the door, Spero cradled against her chest.  But when she saw it wasn’t the maid, Amelle blinked and color rushed to her cheeks.  Her surprise ebbed into another of those smiles that seemed to light her eyes from within and likewise never failed to make his pulse beat that much harder.

He nodded, indicating the tray he held.  “You have not eaten.”

Amelle’s smile faltered and she stepped aside, waving him in.  “I’m not— I ate _some_ of it, you know.  You didn’t see how high the thing was piled when they brought it to me!”

Fenris entered the room and set down the tray before turning to face Amelle.  Every inch of her room was bathed in bright morning light, and that light hit her hair, illuminating red strands woven throughout the brown like threads of fire.  The gown she wore was more richly crafted than any the dresses she typically favored — this one was silken, the color of doves’ wings, with delicate but intricate pale blue embroidery twining along the neckline and down either sleeve like ivy.  It suited her.  

In her hands, Spero glared in consternation at its paw; one claw was hooked upon a bit of embroidery by her sleeve, and the kitten tugged a moment before letting out a plaintive mew.  Looking down, Amelle unhooked the claw and freed Spero’s paw, scratching the kitten behind its silken ears.  She looked up to find Fenris taking in her appearance and her smile widened until her dimple showed.  “I know, the kitten doesn’t quite _work_ as an accessory, but I think—”

“You look stunning.”

The fierce blush began at her neckline, creeping up like fire past her collarbones and up her neck until two high points of color warmed her cheeks.  “I… um.  Thank you.”

“It is the truth.”

Amelle looked down, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts.  “Yes, well,” she mumbled, still blushing fiercely.  “Thank you all the same.”

It was nothing less than the truth — Amelle Hawke looked every inch a noblewoman’s daughter, and something about the transformation left him feeling… vaguely unsettled.  But the longer he looked at her, particularly in this light, he saw how _pale_ she looked, particularly once her blush faded again.  It served to make her the green of her eyes look more haunting and luminous, but she still looked pale, tired, and thin.

He thought of the magic she’d expended in Kirkwall — of every blighted fever she cured, every bloody nose she suffered, every time she pushed herself beyond the boundaries of sense.  He had hoped she would have had time to rest afterward, but that wasn’t to be, either.  She’d been beset with Andraste’s Wrath before she’d had ample time to rest and fully recover from the strains of Kirkwall, and then she’d exerted herself _further_ to save him. 

If she wasn’t _sleeping_ , either…

“You’re scowling,” she said quietly, taking a step closer to him and resting a hand upon his arm.

“You look exhausted,” he replied sharply.

Amelle blew out a sigh, then grimaced, placing a hand upon her abdomen.  “Andraste’s tits, I cannot _breathe_ in this thing.  You would not _believe_ the undergarments they had to—”  She stopped suddenly and _looked_ at Fenris.  “Ah.  Forget I just said that.”

He arched an eyebrow at her attempt to shift the subject.  “Amelle.  Have you been sleeping?”

Amelle didn’t answer right away, chewing on her bottom lip and scuffing one slippered foot against the floor.  “…Not especially,” she finally admitted, setting Spero down on the bed, “but don’t mistake that for not _trying._ ”

His frown deepened as he indicated the tray.  “And have you been eating?”

Making a face and looking down at the remains of her breakfast, Amelle said, “A _little._   See?  I ate the fruit.  And some of the toast — see?”

He glared again at the tray.  There was still more food left than had been eaten at all. “A _very_ little, I should say.”

She sighed again.  “If I can’t _breathe_ , I can hardly _eat_ , can I?  Honestly, _shall_ I tell you about these undergarments, Fenris?  I’m not sure you fully understand the situation here…”

He held his tongue, closing his his eyes as he shook his head, saying,  “You have overexerted—”

“I have,” Amelle answered, coming forward and clasping her hands in his.  At this distance he saw the dark smudges beneath her eyes and realized the maid must have applied some sort of paint to diminish the effect.  That realization only made his heart twist more sharply; two days had been more than enough time for him to recover, but Amelle’s recovery would likely take even more time than that.  As if sensing his thoughts, she rested a hand against the side of his face and looked into his eyes, never pulling her gaze away as she lowered her voice.  “Yes.  I absolutely have,” she said again.  “I have overexerted and overtaxed myself.  I have spread myself too thin.  I _have._ And…” she swallowed hard, her fingers stroking his cheekbone as her voice grew husky, “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Fenris thought of the rage and fear that had blinded him to all sense.  Of Jessamine’s blade.  Of what should have been certain death.  _As would I_ , he thought.  “You must _rest._ ”  

“I will,” she promised, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips.  

“I will hold you to your word,” he finally said, and though his tone was stern, Fenris hoped— _dearly hoped_ —Amelle would never learn how difficult it was to maintain such a tone when her lips were kissing a path to his cheek, playing lightly against his skin, the light sensation chasing away the darkness of his thoughts.  

With a sigh, Amelle settled against Fenris as he slid an arm about her waist.  “Once this is all… over.  I will.  Maybe I’ll even get a good night’s sleep for the first time in…”  She trailed off and let out a soft laugh, tucking herself more closely against him.  If she found the sharp edges of his armor uncomfortable, she didn’t say so.  “For the first time in a while, I think.”

With Amelle pressed against him so, Fenris was finally able to push the memory from his mind of her poisoned and delirious body, mere moments away from a horrible death of flame and smoke, and he pressed a kiss against her temple.

“Perhaps we both will.”

#

Not for the first time since their mad flight from Kirkwall, Cullen longed for the heavy plate it had been impractical to bring with him. Part of him desired the solidity and stability it would have offered. The lighter armor was mostly leather, and though the polished breastplate still bore the templar sigil, he felt underdressed without the heavy pauldrons and gauntlets and vambraces.

He tried not to feel like a fraud as he belted the red sash around his waist. In five days since his lie, he’d waited daily for some word from the Revered Mother, some reprisal. She was, for all intents and purposes, the highest ranking Chantry official in the Free Marches, until a new Grand Cleric was named. Even with the upheaval in Kirkwall, there would be missives and updates sent from the new acting Knight-Commander. He was only surprised the Revered Mother had not known already; though it aided _him_ , it did not speak well of his replacement.

Cullen paced the length of his room. It was lavishly appointed, putting even the Knight-Commander’s rooms he’d inhabited so briefly to shame, and yet the fine furniture and silken draperies only made him uneasy. He was used to barracks, to austerity and simplicity. _I don’t belong here._

But he didn’t know where he belonged anymore. After a lifetime of routine and hierarchy, he was adrift. He’d made his choices willingly, but now, with things slowly settling into _normal_ for everyone else—for Amelle—he no longer knew where he fit.

A quiet knock disturbed his reverie. Expecting Amelle or perhaps Sebastian, Cullen was surprised when he opened the door and found none other than the Revered Mother, flanked by half a dozen templars—all in _their_ full plate.

 _She has come to mete out her punishment,_ he thought. Strangely, it was not fear or despair he felt; it was an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Your Reverence,” he greeted.

“Ser Cullen,” she said, inclining her head to accept the courtesy. “Might I have a moment?”

“You needn’t even ask, Your Reverence.”

She gave him a faint smile before stepping past him into the room. When one of her templar guards moved to follow she shook her head and gestured for him to remain in the hallway. After a moment’s hesitation, the templar obeyed, and the Revered Mother closed the door. Cullen was struck once again by the strange contrast of her youthful face, but the solemnity and serenity of her presence. She was young, perhaps, but the way she’d dealt with Jessamine—with the prince, even—indicated the wisdom that had likely seen her raised to her current position.

“I… I must apologize to you, Your Reverence. I thought to—”

“Illona,” she interrupted.

“I—Your Reverence?”

“All the Reverences and Revereds have their time and their place, Ser Cullen, but not this time, and not this place. I wonder if you might allow me my eccentricity and call me by my name, at least for the length of this conversation. And my name is Illona.”

Whatever he’d been expecting when he saw her standing outside his door, it had not been this. 

She continued blithely, “I’d give my right hand for a glass of wine, but I suppose I shall make do with water, if you have some on hand. We’ve a long day ahead of us, haven’t we?” She sighed. “I oughtn’t jest. Blood will be spilled before the day is out, and that is no cause for rejoicing, even when the action is just.”

Cullen went to the water jug and poured glasses for them both, glad to have something to do with his hands.

When she spoke again, her voice was again touched with mirth. “I fear I’ve startled you mute, Ser Cullen.”

“Cullen. If you wish me to use your name without honorifics, I hope you’ll do the same.”

He handed her the glass, and she gave him an appraising look. “You were going to apologize for something, Cullen.”

He bowed his head. “I was.”

“For the wee falsehood you let slip the other day, I imagine?”

He felt the heat of shame creep up his neck. “You know. Your Reverence—”

“Illona,” she repeated firmly. “And please do sit, Cullen. You’re too tall for me to be comfortable sitting and craning my neck.”

He sat, clutching his own glass of water close.

“To be frank,” she continued, “that is the reason I came to speak with you today. I meant to come earlier, but… I have had to spend a great deal of time trying to alleviate the suffering caused by Jessamine’s deeds. Other things had to be pushed farther down the queue.”

“How?” he asked.

Her expression was kindness laced with just a touch of pity. “You must have suspected your successor would write to tell me of the change in leadership. Just as you wrote me when the last Knight-Commander left her post.”

 _Left her post_ was more diplomatic a turn of phrase than any Cullen might have used, but he nodded. “You found out this week?”

“No,” she replied mildly. “I knew then.”

Cullen blinked at her, and only his honed reflexes kept him from dropping his water glass entirely. “But you… forgive me, you _know_ she’s an apostate mage.”

“As do you, clearly.”

“But you’re… you’re Starkhaven’s _Revered Mother_.”

Her eyebrows twitched, and he couldn’t determine if it meant she was amused or disturbed. Her tone was still light, and he thought perhaps the pendulum was still in favor of amusement. “And you were Kirkwall’s acting Knight-Commander, Cullen. Do you regret your decision?”

He closed his eyes. “I know I should, but—”

“Ahh, but I didn’t ask about _should_. I asked if you _did._ ”

“No,” he replied honestly. “I do not.”

“Good. I like conviction.”

“Revered Mother—”

“Illona.”

“ _Illona_ ,” he nearly growled, exasperated. “I betrayed everything the Order stands for. And then I _lied_ to you about it.”

“And you don’t regret doing so. I imagine you have reasons and justifications. Believe it or not, Cullen, I had reasons and justifications for my actions also.”

Cullen raked a hand through his hair, already shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“The world is changing. We none of us know exactly what the new one will look like, but I am fairly certain it will bear little resemblance to the one we know now. The Chantry must bend—just a little—or it will shatter.” She smiled sadly at his aghast look. “For too long _what is expected_ has taken the place of _what is good_. Incarcerating your healer friend was _what was expected_.”

“But it wouldn’t have been _good_ ,” he said softly.

“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t have been good.” She looked past him at some spot in the middle distance, her expression gone soft and sad. “Growing pains hurt, but if we did not have them we would all remain children. It is, perhaps, time the Chantry grew up a little. Do you think me blasphemous, Cullen?”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. “A part of me does.”

She huffed a laugh. “No wonder the lie chafed. I think you are an honest man. I prefer your honesty, Cullen. The world has need of it. So, I think, does the Chantry.”

“I do not think that will be the prevailing view when all comes out in the open.”

Illona nodded thoughtfully. “It is in the Maker’s hands. But those concerns are for another day.”

Confused, he set his water down untouched and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Are you not here to arrest me then?”

“Not today, Cullen.”

“Then why did you come?”

“I came to take your measure, of course.” Before he could ask what she meant, she rose and once again fixed him with the vaguely unsettling, appraising look. “I think we will be expected in the Great Hall shortly. Would you do me the honor, Ser Cullen?”

Her tone told him the conversation was at an end, so he bent his head in acquiescence and offered his arm. “Your Reverence.”

This time he was all but certain the quirk of the eyebrow denoted amusement, but the rest of her features remained serene.

For the first time since he’d uttered it the weight of his lie didn’t twist his guts, and though he still wasn’t certain where he fit or what the future would bring, he was glad at least for that small consolation as they walked to the Great Hall in silence.


	88. Chapter 88

Not even for the bounty courts had Sebastian seen the Great Hall so teeming. He knew it was important for as many people, common and noble alike, to be present for this, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. He’d plotted strategy with his Eyes, with Corwin, with Kiara, trying to cover every angle and every eventuality, but he was haunted by how suddenly Maisie had turned. He remembered the sound of her blade sliding through Elias’ light armor. Again and again he relived seeing the light go out of the old Captain’s eyes. Some things could not be prepared for. He feared some things could not be guarded against, not truly, not completely.

_That’s why they call it betrayal._

Seated upon his throne, on the dais at the far end of the room, Sebastian was entirely aware how _visible_ he was. If he’d once thought himself a target because of his shiny white armor, it was nothing to the raised chair, the white doublet, and the band of gold encircling his brow, but he was less worried about his own safety than he was for the safety of the woman at his side. Sebastian trusted Kinnon to do his duty, but arrows and knives were fast, and silk was no kind of armor.

Kiara sat beside him, shoulders straight and chin lifted. If her chair was not quite as ornate as his, the difference was negligible. He had listened carefully to the crowd when they entered, but no one cried out against her as he’d feared they might. Many—especially from the side of the room harboring the common folk, he noted—rained blessings and thanks upon her. They called her Princess, and their acceptance heartened him, and filled him with resolve. Petty fools like Aileene Caddell and her daughter meant nothing in the face of such support. 

Somehow, even garbed in cold white and gold, she managed to look warm and approachable. She looked like _Hawke_. She looked like the woman who’d so startled him so many years ago with her confidence and her capability and her indefatigable belief in right and good and balance, who’d constantly striven to see the best in people. He didn’t even think it was his own (admittedly significant) partiality—she looked like a monarch. 

She looked like the kind of monarch who would strive to do good, to be just and fair and kind and merciful. She looked like the kind of monarch he _wanted_ to be.

But she still clenched her hands tightly around the arms of her chair when the guard brought Jessamine and Morven in. Then her eyes flickered to his, the tension in her hands eased, and her lips turned up in the briefest of smiles.

Maker, but he adored her.

Jessamine and Morven walked in under their own power. They had been well-cared for. They were dressed in clothes befitting their station. They’d had baths and ample food and comfortable beds upon which to sleep.

_Start as you mean to go on._

He hadn’t wanted to begin his reign with mistreatment. He’d come too close to it with Morven; he could see that now. The man looked much-recovered—less thin and bruised about the eyes—though Sebastian noticed that he kept some distance between himself and Jessamine, and his steps were still labored after his long illness.

Even with her hands bound, Jessamine walked with her head high, her expression twisted with condescension. The dark dye had been washed from her hair, revealing heavy streaks of grey beneath, but she looked neither old nor tired. She looked determined. She looked resolved.

She looked like she was going to make this as difficult as she could.

#

From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Amelle’s hands — hands that had been folded neatly upon her lap — twist together until her knuckles turned white.  He turned his head slightly and noted the way she clenched her jaw, the way she held her head a little higher, as if in defiance, when Jessamine walked in.  Color warmed her cheeks, and he knew it was anger _._ He could hardly blame her.

Anger was an emotion with which Fenris had long been intimately acquainted, and this instance was no exception.  Even now, nearly a week after the carnage in the square, nearly a week after a poisoned blade had cut into his body and all but doomed him, the moment he laid eyes on the woman, his rage sparked anew.  He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to purge the sight from his mind’s eye: Amelle, bloody and insensible and only moments from being burned alive.  Would that Fenris had killed Jessamine himself — but few would have learned of the depth of her treachery.  As his fury surged to the fore all over again, it twisted with the memory of helplessness and fear, and he had no choice but to choke it back and sit and wait for the woman to offer some measure of defense for her actions when he knew no such defense was possible.  

His own anger he could… deal with, if not precisely ignore _._   Amelle’s, however, ran the risk of manifesting itself in… unfortunate ways.  And Fenris knew only too well Amelle’s feelings about Jessamine were… incendiary, to say the least.  When he heard her attempt to draw in a slow, calming breath — only to be stopped, he was certain, by the restrictive undergarments she’d been cajoled into (and the mere thought of which he found incredibly and inappropriately distracting, all things considered) — Fenris reached beyond the arm of the chair he was sat in and closed his hand over both of hers.  He wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find Amelle’s skin unnaturally warm.  But the contact had been enough to surprise and distract her, and as she exhaled, the tension in her hands relaxed, her skin cooled, and her fingers twined around his.

It was at that moment, while Jessamine was surveying the throne room, filled nearly to overflowing, her eye fell on him.  He knew too well his would-be murderer recognizedhim, and that recognition slid sharply into shock and disbelief.  Strangely, though Fenris had already heard more than once, from more than one source, that he ought to have been dead, the look of shock upon Jessamine’s face was what solidified that fact for him.

Amelle’s fingers flexed, tightening around his, and when Fenris glanced over again, he spied the unmistakably triumphant upward tilt of her lips as she sat up straighter, her green eyes cool, her bearing confident. No matter what looks Jessamine sent their way, he knew Amelle was prepared to face them with head held high. He was filled with admiration and respect all over again, thanking Andraste he had _not_ perished upon that platform, else he would have missed this moment entirely.

It was not a journey he wished to take again, but it appeared the destination was going to be worth the effort.

#

Sitting still was hard. Sitting still when Kiara wanted nothing more than to be _strangling_ the patronizing bitch standing below her was even harder.

Hardest of all was knowing she could do nothing without undermining Sebastian’s authority. So sitting it was. Sitting calmly. _Breathing_. In and out. Over and over. 

Sitting still.

As if sensing this frustration, Jessamine turned her pale eyes toward Kiara. The woman’s lips smiled a smile that came nowhere near touching her eyes. Even with bound hands, the woman executed an effortlessly graceful curtsey toward the dais.

Somehow it was the most mocking gesture Kiara had ever seen. Her stomach twisted and she felt her throat tighten in rage on Sebastian’s behalf. He deserved better, and not just because he’d been born to a ruling family. What had Jessamine ever wrought but deception and destruction? She would burn everything Sebastian held dear, everything worth fighting for and protecting. For what? Revenge? Power? 

Still, Kiara managed to keep her face still. From the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris reach out and cover Amelle’s hands with one of his.

_She nearly killed them both._

Breathing. In and out. Over and over. Sitting still.

Beside her, Sebastian gestured for silence, and when that silence fell—eerie, really, with so many people all around—Jessamine lifted her chin and laughed.

Beside his mother, Morven grimaced, dipping his chin and lowering his gaze to an obliging spot of floor a foot in front of his booted toes. Fenris scowled. Amelle closed her eyes, and her face went so still for a moment that Kiara knew it was taking every effort for her sister to remain in control of her power. On Amelle’s other side, Cullen’s expression was livid, and he went so far as to rise an inch from his chair before remembering his place and sitting again.

Jessamine, laughing, saw it all. There was no doubt in Kiara’s mind.

Sebastian ignored the laughter. He turned his piercing gaze toward Jessamine and waited until she was finished. Then he said gravely, “You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason, Jessamine. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, of course,” she replied lightly, lips still smiling and eyes still cold. “You have the wrong woman, Your Highness. You’ve accused someone named Jessamine. That isn’t my name.”

Kiara watched a flicker of dismay shadow Sebastian’s features, and for a moment she wished they were less on display if only so she could reach out and comfort him the way Fenris had reached out to Amelle. “The name you call yourself means little. The charges stand against you.”

“Names mean everything,” she objected, in the same infuriatingly insouciant tone. “Who would you be without your name, Sebastian Vael? Who would your parents have been? Would you be permitted your foreign bride if she didn’t have some tenuous connection to an acceptable name? Names are power. I had a name that was stolen from me, just as your parents once tried to steal your name from you. Do you blame me for wishing to have my rightful name returned? Can you, when you have fought so long and broken so many vows for the right to claim your own name once and for all? We are not so different, you and I, Sebastian Vael.”

For all her composure, Kiara couldn’t help flinching when she realized the woman’s tactic. By allowing her to speak, Sebastian was allowing her to put _him_ on trial. Every word she spoke undermined him, but to silence her would be… the expedient thing to do, perhaps, but not what today was meant to represent. Kiara looked toward her sister and found Amelle’s eyes already turned her way, and her expression said she had come to the same conclusion.

Even if he had Jessamine executed—even if justice was done—Jessamine could still win. She could plant seeds of doubt that would grow into sedition and unrest.

And it all came down to how Sebastian handled her leading questions and troubling impertinence.

Sitting still was _unbearably_ hard.

#

_I could kill her.  Right here.  Right now.  I might even be able to make it look like an accident._

It was a bad day when Amelle Hawke was actually _considering_ spell combinations and how quickly and surreptitiously she could cast them — all the while surrounded by _bloody templars_.  And yet, there she was.  Considering.  A flash of frost, enough fire to make it melt, and a jolt of lightning just as Jessamine — or _whatever_ her name was — walked through would have been more than sufficient to stop her heart, Amelle knew _._ Overlooking the fact that she was surrounded by templars who would be able to sense it if she so much as summoned a single snowflake and wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to smite her for it, she was sure it was a great plan.  Amelle was even reasonably certain Cullen wouldn’t be terribly disappointed in her for it.  Not if the way he was glaring at Jessamine now was any indication.

And then she realized killing Jessamine meant _she’d_ probably be the one tasked with reviving her so she could stand through the rest of her trial.  And that would have only served to make a bad day worse.

Fenris’ hand still rested atop hers and she breathed in deeply, supremely thankful for the contact.  

And then Jessamine spoke and every ounce of fury Amelle had thought she’d purged one way or another over the past week came raging back.  She squeezed Fenris’ hand tightly and closed her eyes — the sight of _that woman_ alone was enough to make sparks, ice, and lightning spiral forth from her hands — and she simply focused on every breath, because if she controlled her breath, she controlled her mana, and if she controlled her mana, she wouldn’t explode into an icy, fiery ball of sparks. 

Then, from her left came a cool pulse, barely-there enough for her to feel, but one glance at Cullen told her she hadn’t imagined what she felt.  The mild wave of cleansing energy left her feeling vaguely out of sorts, but it served its purpose, dousing every possible negative manifestation of anger.  And though she wanted nothing more than to crush and burn and freeze and shatter the murderous, lying _bitch_ before them now, Amelle had learned a thing or two about political savviness in the intervening years to accept such measures would have done little to improve Starkhaven’s opinion on mages in general and on Amelle in particular.  

It made her chafethat she should have no choice but to sit quietly while Jessamine tried to pour an entirely different kind of poison into the ears of everyone listening.  Was there an antidote for her words?  Amelle wasn’t sure — she knew too well how the tide of public opinion could shift and sway, catching one up in its current before ebbing away entirely.  She could only hope Jessamine overestimated the power she held and, consequently, the power of her words.

Kiara caught her eye, then, and Amelle pursed her lips, shaking her head just the barest fraction.  _This isn’t good_ , _Kiri.  It’s not good at all._

Fenris’ fingers tightened around hers and she looked over to see the scowl darkening his features as his jawline tightened.  The white lyrium markings glowed softly, barely evident in the bright, sunlit hall.  But Amelle knew.

_He’s trying to figure out how to kill her, too._

#

If only a holy smite didn’t announce itself quite so _visibly_. Blinding beams of white light and a sound like a thunderclap didn’t lend itself to subtlety.

Cullen had never wanted to smite anyone—mage, abomination, aristocrat—quite as much as he wanted to smite Jessamine. But even sending out the brief pulse of will necessary to soothe Amelle’s distressed sparks of power was enough to earn a slantwise glance from one or two of the templars guarding the Revered Mother. He sincerely doubted he’d be able to slip a smite—no matter how well deserved—past their notice.

More the pity. A smite would do wonders to silence the woman, and silence was what they needed. Cullen had stood at Meredith’s right hand for too many years, listening to her spew words of poison couched in borrowed authority, to be deceived by Jessamine, no matter what name she wished to use. It mightn’t be the stories of templars and mages Meredith used, but Jessamine’s words were no less divisive, and he knew it.

She knew it too. It was written all over her smirking face.

Sebastian waited until the woman was finished speaking. Then he waited longer. Seconds passed, ticking away until silence had filled the room for at least a full minute. Cullen was aware of the sound of dozens of shuffling feet and rustling skirts all around him. 

“A week ago you stood on a platform and nearly killed a woman.”

“A mage,” Jessamine reminded him. “I nearly killed a mage.”

Cullen felt the shift in the room. For all that the people seemed willing to accept Sebastian—and Hawke, for that matter—the prejudice against mages ran deep. Kirkwall was not so far away. Anders’ deed was not forgotten.

“You nearly killed a woman,” Sebastian said evenly. “You took the law into your own hands. You used poison and treachery against the innocent people of Starkhaven. You challenged the rightful ruler of this city. Whatever name you call yourself, many witnesses saw you—you and no one else. You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” she repeated, but there was an edge to her tone.

Sebastian had outmaneuvered her by refusing to so much as acknowledge her words against him, focusing instead on the crimes so many had witnessed firsthand.

Cullen very nearly smiled.

Until, of course, she changed tactics. She was a gifted actress; he had to grant her that. She turned an expression suddenly pleading on the gathered crowd. “It was not for me,” she said, voice low but still pitched to carry. “My son was innocent. His birthright was _stolen_ from him. He was made to pay for crimes that were his father’s, but never his. I only wanted the best for him. I only wanted to make things _right_. What mother would do less for her child?”

On the dais, Sebastian remained cool and poised. Beside him, Hawke’s eyes narrowed, and a faint frown creased her brow.

But it was Morven who raised his Vael eyes—so like Sebastian’s, but cold, cold and hard and _wounded_ —and spat, “Oh, Mother, _please_. That’s a charming story and I can see you’re very taken with it, but it’s also complete and utter _bullshit._ ”

#

A wave of shocked gasps and rustling movement passed from one end of the hall to the other, followed by the low murmur of voices.

Like magic, it all died the moment Sebastian raised his hand.  Amelle was impressed.

She looked again at Morven, the raw hurt shining through the cracks in his sullen facade.  She didn’t need to wonder if Morven was telling the truth; the look on Jessamine’s face was enough to prove he was _._

But the look, a rapid shift between dismay, rage, and fear, disappeared after only the barest instant, swallowed up by a tragic expression of mournful martyrdom.  Once again she was the wounded party, once again she was the victim, and Amelle’s eyes darted up to Sebastian, who was watching Jessamine with the same cool impartiality he’d worn from the start.  She felt a little swell of pride; he wasn’t acting, he wasn’t playing to the crowd — he was simply himself.

“Your contribution is noted, Morven,” replied Sebastian calmly.  “You will have ample time and opportunity to state your own defense.”

Morven gave a stiff nod, but did not turn his hateful gaze away from Jessamine. The glare only grew colder the longer she did not look at him.  Turning to face the masses, Jessamine addressed them, ignoring her son.

“My own child,” she said, her words a near-perfect facsimile of maternal heartbreak.  “ _My son_ , has been turned against me — and Starkhaven has seen this before, has it not?  When the Circle fell and burned, set to flame by the very mages within it!”  She shot one arm out, pointing at Morven, her eyes wide and tearful as she cried, “My son is being controlled by blood magic!”  Jessamine turned, then, and Amelle realized the woman was pointing at _her_.  “By that mage!”

Amelle found she could do little more than blink.  Her eyes flicked up to Sebastian, then to Cullen, both of whom looked, as far as Amelle was concerned, appropriately incredulous.  When she looked at the other templars sitting around Cullen, a number of them looked skeptical — _thank the Maker_ — and only one or two were watching her as if they thought perhaps they’d missed something.  The Revered Mother’s expression was inscrutable, but Amelle was starting to think that wasn’t anything unusual.

Amelle looked back to Jessamine, to Sebastian, and then, briefly, to the Revered Mother.  With hesitation she hoped didn’t look too studied, she raised a timid hand and cleared her throat.  Sebastian and Kiara both looked at her — and suddenly it wasn’t so hard to seem a little cowed.

“Amelle?” Sebastian said carefully, even as his eyes asked, _what are you_ doing _?_

“With respect, Highness,” she said, smiling as openly, as guilelessly as she knew how.  “I wonder if I might request permission to pose a question or two to the accused. As she has accused me of no very small crime.”

For a horrible heartbeat of time, Amelle was certain Sebastian would say no.  His lips seemed ready to form the word, but instead he turned his eyes to the Revered Mother, who gave him only the barest nod.

“Permission granted.”

Amelle caught Fenris’ concerned look, but only smiled and squeezed his hand before releasing it.  When she stood, the swish of her skirts was lost in the clank of armor as several of the templars seated with the Revered Mother — Cullen included — stood as if to accompany her.  But Revered Mother Illona only turned her head a fraction and every last templar who had stood sat again.  

“Perhaps one,” Amelle said.

“One?” the Revered Mother asked.

“Your choice.”

Then she sent Amelle a serene nod, and with no discernible signal from the Revered Mother, the templar seated to her left rose.  Amelle sent the burly, copper-haired man a smile, which seemed to baffle him.  After a moment, he nodded, following her down to where Jessamine stood.

“Stay away from me, mage _.”_

Amelle linked her hands behind her back, her smile never wavering.  “You seem to know a great deal about a mage’s powers, Mistress Jessamine.”

“Everyone knows what your kind can do.”

“Sicken cattle, spoil milk, ruin crops, control the minds of the weak and innocent?  Do I have the right of it?”

Jessamine sniffed a little.  “You should know better than I.”

“Oh, by all means — enlighten me.  Perhaps you would like to expound on what you think I’m capable of.”

“You are a mage,” she said coolly, as if that satisfied all.  

“Well.  Yes.  We’ve established that.  But you did just accuse me of controlling your flesh and blood’s mind with _blood magic._ ”

“And what else would turn a son against his mother so?”

Amelle turned to face the templar.  _Maker,_ but he was tall.  And so broad armor seemed utterly unnecessary.  His thick ginger mustache curled almost comically at the ends, as if daring anyone to say anything against it.

“With respect, Ser…?”

The templar looked about, uncertainly.  “Liam,” he answered in a deep, gruff, rumble of a voice, then adding, uncertainly, “…miss.”

“Can you please explain to Mistress Jessamine the full scope of a templar’s abilities?”

He blinked, heavy eyebrows furrowing.  Amelle’s smile didn’t budge.  Ser Liam looked at her, his lips twitching to the left as if he were trying to find an ulterior motive in the request.  Finding none, he shrugged massive shoulders and, addressing Jessamine, said, “Sensing magic usage.  Cleansing and counteracting spells.  Incapacitating mages through application of will.”

She looked at Jessamine, but the older woman only looked scornful, as if Amelle were wasting the woman’s very valuable time.

“I beg your pardon, Ser Liam,” Amelle said, “but you did say templars can _sense_ magic, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Can you please tell me if Morven is being controlled by a blood mage?”

He blinked at her.  Again.  Still, she smiled.

“Do you sense any magic right now, Ser Liam?”

“You’re a mage _,_ ” Jessamine hissed.  “Of course he does.”

It took a moment, but Ser Liam’s frown deepened as he turned to Jessamine.  “No, I do not.  The mage in question,” he nodded briefly at Amelle, “has reasonable control over her abilities, but one of my… fellows some moments ago released a cleanse.  Whether intentional or not, such an act would have neutralized the mage’s mana usage.”  He paused, and then something dawned on him and he added, “Before your… assertion of  blood magic against the mage.”

Amelle wiggled her fingers at Jessamine.  “I’m out of juice for the moment, I’m afraid.”  She turned again to Ser Liam.  “And can you tell me— _if_ Morven _were_ under the influence of a blood mage, could you counteract that?”

Ser Liam straightened up and squared his shoulders.  “Of course,” he answered, looking mildly offended.

“With the aforementioned cleansing ability?”  When Ser Liam nodded, she stepped out of his way and gestured at Morven.  “I’m sure no one—Mistress Jessamine included—would argue if you were to counteract any spells plaguing Morven right now, Ser Liam.”

The templar looked at her like she was crazy.  “There is no magic upon him, miss.”

“All the same.  Would it be a terrible inconvenience?  You know.  Removing all doubt?”

With a curious glance at both Sebastian and Revered Mother Illona, Ser Liam shrugged again and Amelle sidestepped just in time as the templar released a blinding, shuddering wave of cleansing energy—right over Morven.

#

Kiara began to suspect what her sister meant to do almost as soon as the tentative hand rose into the air. 

Asking permission to speak was a nice touch. Kiara saw Sebastian stiffen, and though little of it showed on his face, she felt his reticence. She even understood it. More voices tended to complicate a conversation, and this conversation was very nearly the most important of his life.

Jessamine knew it; it’s why she was talking so bloody _loudly_. 

Kiara knew her sister well enough to be certain Amelle would never dream of muddying the waters without _very_ good reason. When Sebastian gave his permission, Kiara released the breath she’d been holding.

As Amelle spun out her questions, Kiara looked away from the tableau spread out before her, watching the crowd instead. Weeks ago even the _allegation_ of magic—blood magic, no less!—would have had the entire crowd up in arms, chanting for death, erecting a pyre.

Now? They watched. They waited. The few whose faces twisted in hate and prejudice, the few who cried out for death, were quickly silenced by their peers.

Some gasped and cried out when the templar released his cleanse; templars might be a common-enough sight, but their talents weren’t, and they did tend toward the gaudy, all sudden flashes and white light. The only fainting happened amongst the nobility, of course. It took some effort to restrain the desire to sneer. Then it took an equal amount of effort not to laugh when no convenient savior stepped in to catch Serie Caddell as she fell—entirely too gracefully—to the floor. The brunette barely caught herself before her head hit the floor; Kiara saw the girl glare up at the people around her, all of whom had neglected to pay any attention to her whatsoever.

Kiara could hardly blame them. When she returned her attention to Amelle and the templar, Jessamine and Morven, she found the latter blinking his eyes but otherwise unharmed. Amelle remained at the templar’s side, her posture very carefully non-threatening, hands folded and expression serene.

Sebastian asked, “Well, Morven?”

Morven gave his head a shake and raised his eyes to meet Sebastian’s. “If you’re asking me if I think my mother’s a raving, psychotic lunatic who never gave a damn about anything or anyone in her life, the answer’s still resoundingly aye.”

Kiara bit down—hard—on the inside of her bottom lip to keep from smiling. Or worse, bursting into laughter. Beside her son, Jessamine’s cheeks burned pink and her pale eyes flashed. Whatever her words claimed, it was anger now, and a far cry from anything resembling maternal concern. “It’s a trick!” the woman cried. “They are all in this together. The blood mage has arranged it all. They are all suspect, all of them! They are all her thralls! She told the templar to—”

 _Maker’s balls_ , Kiara thought, remembering Meredith’s mad allegations when Cullen stood up to her. _Where have I heard_ this _before?_

His voice as sharp and hard as a whip-crack, Sebastian commanded, “Jessamine, be _silent_.”

No one seemed more surprised than Jessamine herself when she obeyed him.

“Thank you, Lady Amelle,” Sebastian said gravely. “For your reasoned thoughts, and for the demonstration. If that’s all?”

It wasn’t a question, of course. Amelle accepted the dismissal with an inclined head and a curtsey sent toward the dais. When she was comfortably seated once again, Sebastian’s gaze returned to Jessamine. Kiara wished she could describe the woman as chastened, but the calculating quality to her silence only indicated she was trying _yet again_ to change tactics.

Before she could speak, Sebastian said, “I think we have had quite enough of your histrionics, deception, and fear-mongering. One more outburst, and you will be muzzled. Do I make myself clear?”

The woman’s lips twisted. After a moment, she nodded.

“You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason. How do you plead?”

“It doesn’t matter how I plead,” she replied, bowing her head. “You’ve already decided I’m guilty.”

“Are you?”

When she looked up at him, her eyes were hard and cold. “Perspective is everything, _Your Highness._ Everything I did, I did because I felt I must. Things were stolen from me; I wanted them back. Did I kill? Of course I did. Did I deceive? Who hasn’t? You’re angry because what I wanted and what you wanted were at odds with one another. Who’s to say we wouldn’t have been allies in a different life?”

“That _never_ would have happened.”

Kiara only realized it was _she_ who’d spoken the words when every bloody pair of eyes in the room abruptly fixed on her. Near the front of the crowd, she saw Isabela elbow Varric and stick out a hand, evidently demanding a payment. Amelle looked pained, and Sebastian long-suffering.

_Shit. What was that about too many voices in a conversation?_

#

All in all, it shouldn’t have been a surprise Kiara hadn’t been unable to hold her tongue. Truthfully, he’d have been concerned if she’d managed complete silence for the duration.  It wasn’t _what_ she’d said, but rather her _timing_ that was the main issue.  Then again, she was going to be Starkhaven’s Princess.  And it wasn’t as if the people didn’t already _know_ his beloved had something of an outspoken character.

It was just one more thing Jessamine could use against him.

But only if Sebastian _let her._

With a breath he smoothed his initial reaction from his features.  Aye, she had surprised him; aye, her timing could have been better — but she was to be his wife, and she was to rule with him.  He would not dismiss her. _Start as you mean to go on._

Jessamine sneered and let out a short huff of incredulous laughter.  “Are you going to let a _foreigner_ speak for you?”

“She speaks not _for_ me, but _with_ me,” countered Sebastian calmly.  “As it happens, my betrothed is not incorrect in her summation.  My wants are simple — a prosperous Starkhaven, its subjects happy and secure and, above all, unafraid.  When I returned to Starkhaven from Kirkwall, I found it near unrecognizable.  Bullies lorded over merchants.  The chantry was empty.  People were _afraid._ If your actions are any reflection upon your wants, the good of the city ranked very low on your priorities. _”_

“I only—”

“Rained poisoned arrows down on innocents, so desperate and determined were you to have your way.  You have shown no remorse for the lives taken, and the lives endangered.  You have shown no contrition for your deception.  And you do not deny having done any of those things.  You have proven yourself to have been acting in no one’s best interests but your own, and at incalculable risk.  I am not angry because your wants did not coincide with my own; if I am angry at all, it is because of your utter lack of concern for any life other than your own.  And _that_ is why Lady Kiara is correct: we never would have been allies. Your ambition did not even allow you to ally with your son.”

The hall was utterly silent.  Even the soft rustlings of breath and movement had succumbed beneath the hush.  He did not look around, though he ached to, but Sebastian knew such a move would read as uncertainty, and if ever he had to appear certain — as certain as he _was —_ it was now.

“I ask you one final time, Jessamine.  How do you plead?”

#

Jessamine lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and spat _._

If Amelle hadn’t come too close to not one but two cleanses, she wasn’t certain she could have stopped herself from reacting. It wasn’t the spittle itself—the woman was too far from the dais for her action to actually affect Sebastian in any real way. It was the vulgarity of the gesture; the pure disrespect it evinced. 

Beside Amelle, the faint silvery glow of Fenris’ markings intensified.

Now was probably not the best time to have to explain to a magic-shy nation the nature of a glowing, irate elf who might or might not physically rip Jessamine apart with his bare hands. This time it was she who reached toward him, pressing fingertips feather-light to the back of his hand. He bowed his head and the glow dimmed until it could be explained away as a trick of the light falling through the stained glass windows.

Behind Kiara, Ser Kinnon drew his sword. He didn’t move toward Jessamine. His grim expression—so odd on his usually-laughing face—didn’t alter. He stared down at the defiant bitch wearing her smug smile, and he drew his sword.

Amelle felt the shift even before she could figure out the right words to explain it. Paltry a gesture as it might have been, a threat was a threat. Jessamine had threatened the prince of Starkhaven. Ser Kinnon reminded her what the price of contempt was.

And the crowd seemed to agree with Ser Kinnon.

“Very well,” Sebastian said. “You have made your stance clear. The punishment for murder is death. The punishment for conspiracy is death. The punishment for high treason is death.” A kind of weariness strained his voice; a dread. _Justice cannot be fueled by hate or anger._ “Were your crimes less vile, less exhaustive, there might have been clemency, but you have twisted and destroyed too much. Jessamine—”

Once again Morven spoke. His voice broke on the final syllable, but it was sure, and it carried enough to silence Sebastian mid-utterance. “Her name is Laymia. Laymia Vael.”

Jessamine—Laymia—flinched as though struck. Amelle couldn’t help thinking it was, perhaps, the first _genuine_ reaction they’d seen from the woman. She did not look at her son, but the flash of betrayal was writ clear upon her face.

“Laymia Vael,” Sebastian said, as though he’d not been interrupted at all, “for your crimes against Starkhaven, you are condemned to die.”

The reaction was very nearly what Amelle would have expected from the woman.  As a pair of palace guards flanked her, taking hold of her arms, she didn’t resist them, holding her head high. Contorted with mad fury, her face was not as poised as the rest of her.

Then her son stepped forward, his bearing and expression nothing whatsoever like his mother’s, only grim resignation without pride.

Sebastian inclined his head and his voice rang through the hall, steady and sure, “Morven Vael, you have been charged with conspiracy, high treason, and attempted murder, as well as the crime of impersonating a royal.  How do you plead?”

Morven lifted his head, and regarded Sebastian and Kiara steadily.

“I plead guilty,” he replied, taking no joy in the words, but owning them all the same.  Amelle had never seen the resemblance before, but it was entirely evident now — the determined set of his jaw, and of course the _eyes,_ but also in the way he spoke.  Amelle snuck a glimpse at Sebastian and saw his eyebrows lift — a far tinier show of surprise than she assumed he felt _._

“Have you anything to say for yourself in defense of these crimes?”

“I do.”

#

Morven took a step forward and inclined his head, regarding Sebastian.  Sebastian noted the man had a little more difficulty looking at Kiara.

“I do not envy you, cous—”  Morven caught himself and stopped, mouth snapping shut on the slip.  “Highness.”

If the slip was enough to catch Sebastian’s attention, Morven’s words were enough to surprise him.   “Would you care to elaborate?”

Morven took a deep, steadying breath before beginning. “I was raised with the word _birthright_ whispered in my ear, raised to believe I _deserved_ that throne and that crown.  I was raised to want the title, the freedoms, the privileges, the _liberties_ being Prince of Starkhaven afforded.  I grew up believing I deserved them.  If ever I went hungry, I was told once I was prince, I would have as much food as I wished.  When I was older, I was told once I was prince, I would have as many horses and sets of fine clothing as I desired.  When I was older still, I was told claiming my _birthright,_ this thing supposedly stolen and denied me, would mean endless nights of wine and women.”  His lips twisted.  “No one, however, explained how all these privileges would mean I’d have to _rule_ , I’d have to take responsibility not just for my actions, but for the lives of all the people of Starkhaven.”

Sebastian dared not look directly at Morven’s mother, but he could almost feel the quality of her glare as her son spoke on:

“I did not care for ruling.  And what did I care for Starkhaven?  It was the place I’d been told we had been banished from — a place filled with people who had stolen everything from me.  I even came to believe Starkhaven and its people stole my own father.” Morven shook his head, and for a moment—just a moment—Sebastian let himself imagine a world like the one his cousin must have known. Through no fault of his own. Not in the beginning. “Your reappearance meant I would no longer rule — something I had been doing a rather half-assed job at anyway, if we’re honest — but it also meant the wine would stop flowing and the courtesans would stop fawning over me.  And I was quite accustomed to all _that._ I did not want to give it up.”

Sebastian lifted his eyebrows and Morven laughed a little, humorlessly.

“I do not envy you the decisions you are called upon to make.  I recall very well how it feels, and I would be lying if I said part of me was not glad to be rid of the weight of responsibility.  Of course that is a realization helped along by several nights spent in contemplation after one’s mother attempts to poison one.”

For a moment, Sebastian remained still and silent, parsing Morven’s words for traps or double entendres or deceptions. He supposed the man might be lying to him, but he would have had to be a very, very good liar indeed; his words rang with truth. “You would lay the blame at your mother’s feet, then?”

Morven bowed his head, and red-gold hair fell to cover his face. Sebastian could see the uneven lock near his ear that his own arrow had shorn in their first confrontation. The wound on the curve of his ear was still scabbed-over. 

As the crowd waited to hear his response, an uneasy sort of energy pervaded the chamber. It wasn’t sound, it was nothing Sebastian could _silence_ , but it reminded him just how much damage this man’s ignorance and short-sightedness had caused. Perhaps he’d never lit a torch himself, but his inaction meant the blood of innocents was as much on his hands as on his mother’s.

But it was also on the hands of very nearly every person in the room. And Sebastian could not punish them all, much as he might like to. He remembered the woman at the first burning he’d witnessed, the one whose misery he’d ended with an  arrow through the throat. He remembered the feel of that arrow between his fingertips, and the deep horror of realizing there was nothing, _nothing_ else he could do.

He remembered the sound the chantry in Kirkwall had made as it died. He remembered the sullen defiance in Anders’ eyes. He remembered Kiara refusing to kill the mage, when all Sebastian had wanted was to see the light go out of those eyes, to see that defiance at last crushed the way it had crushed so many others.

He _remembered_. And for an instant, he hated. Not just Laymia Vael and her son. Not just the townsfolk with their fear and their prejudice. Not just Anders. Not just himself. For an instant he hated _everyone._ He hated that he lived in a world where such things could happen.

The line between justice and vengeance was such a thin one. It was so easy to put a toe over without even realizing it.

At length, Morven raised his head. There were pinched lines around his eyes, and the rims of his lids looked just red enough to hint at unshed tears. When he spoke, however, his voice did not waver. “I could,” he replied. “I could blame her. I could scream and cry and plead. I could, but I won’t. I was never completely ignorant. She influenced me, aye, but I wasn’t _brainwashed_. There were times when some quiet voice in the very back of my skull said ‘Maybe this isn’t the best choice’ but I _ignored_ it. I made choices to suit myself. Maker, if my mother had required me to do something that went counter to my desires, I probably would have defied _her_. But she didn’t. And I didn’t. I’ve been weak my whole bloody life, and it would be beyond weak to blame everything on someone else now, so I won’t. I made decisions. Most of them were bad. Many of them broke laws. I deserve my punishment. Your Highness.”

Morven’s eyes swung to Kiara, and Sebastian followed his gaze. Kiara did not flinch. She hardly even blinked. But Sebastian could _see_ the thoughts churning behind the smooth facade of her face; he just had no idea what they were. “I owe you an apology, my lady,” Morven said, dropping his voice. “My… behavior toward you was—” he shook his head, wincing, “—it was unconscionable. _It_ was a bloody crime. There are… a lot of people I won’t get the chance to apologize to, and I—I’m not looking for your forgiveness. I’m just sorry. That’s all. You were a convenient target, and an even more convenient scapegoat.”

Kiara swallowed, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. It was a gesture of nervousness, but her voice betrayed none of it. “Are you sorry you acted the way you did—said the things you said—or are you sorry you got caught?”

Morven huffed another mirthless laugh. “Both, if I’m honest. You… you had the right of it, when you told me I was acting like a toddler. It just… took me a long time to see it. You know, since I _was_ acting like a toddler and all.”

It was all evidently too much for his mother. This time when she sneered and spat, the spittle reached its target, sliding down her son’s cheek. He twitched, but didn’t even attempt to wipe it away on his shoulder. “You’re weak _now_ ,” she growled. “Have you no pride, Morven? You would grovel before a Fereldan _nobody_? For what? _Mercy?_ You are a _Vael_.”

“I _had_ pride, Mother,” he replied. “A bloody _abundance_ of it.And look where it got me. I’m not groveling. And I’m not asking for mercy. I’m _apologizing_. For a wrong I am fully aware I’ve committed.”

“What punishment do you deserve?” Kiara asked abruptly. She colored slightly and sent Sebastian an apologetic look, but he only smiled at her. There were murmurs in the crowd.

Morven’s brow furrowed. “I know the punishment for treason is death, my lady. To say… to say nothing of the other crimes. No matter what _she_ says, I’m _not_ groveling.”

“Death, then?”

His frown deepened and he repeated, “The punishment for treason is death. I’d have put to death anyone accused of treason against me. The law is the law.”

Kiara nodded. “Death, then.” Then she quirked an eyebrow. “Say death wasn’t an option. What punishment would you deem adequate for crimes such as yours?”

He seemed confused, and something about the tenor of his confusion solidified Sebastian’s certainty he wasn’t running an elaborate con or attempting a tricky deception. Kiara’s question had genuinely rendered him speechless. Morven turned his bafflement on Sebastian, as though expecting him to somehow put a stop to it.

Instead, Sebastian commanded, “Answer her, cousin.”

If Morven’s near-slip had surprised Sebastian, Sebastian’s own intentional use of the word appeared to rock Morven to the very core.  Befuddlement disappeared beneath bald shock and he blinked once, then twice, processing what it was, exactly, that Kiara had asked of him.

“If… not death,” he began slowly, “then I should say… banishment runs a fair second for such crimes.”

“It would seem to me,” Kiara replied, “that banishment created a large part of this problem in the first place.  What else?”

Sebastian could see what Kiara was doing, what path she was _attempting_ to lead Morven down, and he had to confess he was fascinated to discover where this particular line of questioning would lead.  Morven frowned, looking into the middle distance; Sebastian had no idea what thoughts were running through his cousin’s skull, but they were enough to render him silent — thoughtfully so — for some minutes.

 _What answer is she looking for?_  

Sebastian watched Kiara from the corner of his eye.  She leaned forward ever so slightly in her throne, fingers curved around the arms of the chair.  She was so perfectly still, Sebastian suspected she wasn’t _breathing_ either.

“If neither death nor banishment were an option, I…”  Morven pursed his lips in a disgusted grimace and as his gaze turned inward, Sebastian got the distinct impression his cousin was remembering every one of his transgressions.  He swallowed hard, then lifted his head and looked again at Kiara.  “I have done Starkhaven… a disservice.  If neither death nor banishment were an option, I would… work off the debt.”

“How so?” Kiara asked, all mild curiosity, but Sebastian spied a certain avidness in her face and he had the distinct feeling Morven had answered well.

“Perhaps… working as a groom, or stable—”

His mother’s outraged shriek cut off his words, rebounding deafeningly off every surface.  Wild-eyed, she thrashed in the guards’ grip, “You are a Vael!  A _Vael!_ I did not raise you to be a _servant!_ You bloody spineless, worthless excuse for a man.Would that I had drowned you at birth—”

Sebastian sent the guards a fierce glare.  “Remove her.  _Now._ ”

The men did as they were told, but Laymia Vael’s demented shouting took far too long to fade as she was dragged bodily from the hall, the echoes of her hateful screams ringing in everyone’s ears.  

With a brief look at Kiara, Sebastian tipped his head at Morven.  “Continue.”

His cousin swallowed hard before going on.  It was as if he’d ventured into uncharted water — unchartable water — and could not quite decide if the answer he was giving was the right one.  Traitors were executed.  When they weren’t executed, traitors were banished.  What happened when neither previous option was viable was clearly not anything he had devoted a great deal of thought to.

Neither had Sebastian, for that matter.

“I would work off my debt, like I said.  As a groom or stablehand, maybe.”

“Earn your forgiveness from those you wronged?” asked Kiara, her fingers now tapping lightly, rapidly against the arms of her throne.

Morven colored slightly, but nodded.

“You like horses?” Kiara asked.

Again he blinked. “I… aye. But that’s not… _liking_ isn’t why I’d… my lady, forgive me, I don’t understand the question.”

Sebastian was near enough to see her lips twitch briefly. “It was simple enough. And you answered it. But tell me what you meant, why you said _liking_ isn’t why you’d… choose horses, I presume?”

“It’s a punishment,” Morven explained. “I understand the concept of punishment, and it doesn’t usually involve things you like. But I’m… I’m _good_ with horses. No one would have to teach me. I wouldn’t have to waste someone else’s time. I wouldn’t have to be… more of a burden. It would be… it would be appropriate to start at the bottom and… work. I could have said I’d have joined the laundry staff, or I’d have asked to be a hall boy. I know their work is hard and thankless, but someone would still have to _teach_ me. Even if… even if all I did for the rest of my days was muck out stalls, it’s something I already know.”

“And it’s awfully thankless,” Kiara agreed gravely. “Thank you for your answer. It was… illuminating.”

And Sebastian had to admit it had been.

When he rose from his throne, everyone else who’d been granted a seat rose with him. He felt the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. A quick glance toward Revered Mother Illona revealed little; the woman was gazing thoughtfully at Morven, but her thoughts remained shrouded. “Laymia Vael will die today. Her execution will not be public—”

He was forced to halt as the crowd cried its displeasure. Executions were always public. He knew it. They knew it.

He wasn’t going to cave to them.

He didn’t raise his hand. He didn’t gesture at all. He stood on his dais, looking out over the crowd, and he waited. It took several minutes, but gradually the crowd stilled, and grew silent once again. “Her execution will not be public,” he repeated. “There has been public execution enough in Starkhaven. I will not add to it. There will be witnesses. Those witnesses will carry word. The law is clear, and the law has spoken, but this is a _death_ , and death is no cause for celebration.”

_Death is never justice._

_No,_ he thought. _But adherence to the law? With due ceremony and gravity?_

He wasn’t certain what Elthina would have thought, but it was the best he could do. It was all he _knew_ how to do.

“Morven Vael,” Sebastian continued. “Your crimes are no less vile than your mother’s, but I cannot help noticing you seem, at the least, touched by remorse. Your guilt you have admitted to, freely and without hesitation. The sentence of death is commuted. You will return to your prison to await punishment.”

Morven shuddered and fell hard to one knee. Two of the guard stepped near, but he managed to regain his footing. He bowed, but with his bound hands, the obeisance was shaky and he nearly stumbled again.

This time when he looked toward the Revered Mother, Sebastian found Illona’s gaze already upon him. Her expression was still guarded, but something in her eyes spoke of… pride, he thought. Approval, perhaps.

“Revered Mother Illona,” he requested politely, “might these proceedings hear your blessing?”

She inclined her head. “The Chantry finds these proceedings fair and just. You are commended for both your impartiality and your mercy, Your Highness.” She bowed her head, and her voice took on an unearthly tone as she spoke from the Chant, “Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortune of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.” Sebastian rather suspected the words were meant as much for those who’d been disappointed by his decision as anything else, and he admired the Revered Mother’s presence of mind. She smiled kindly at the gathered crowd and added, “My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one. Go in peace, my children.”

 _Now for the hard part_ , Sebastian thought grimly.


	89. Chapter 89

Though Laymia Vael had favored the attention of large crowds teeming with angry voices, the end of her life saw a small, quiet gathering.  It seemed apt, Cullen thought, that such a woman should be denied fanfare of any kind.

After the trial, flanked on all sides by templars, he, Fenris and Amelle followed Sebastian, Hawke, and the Revered Mother, down a circuitous corridor leading to a small, walled courtyard.  It looked like the sort of place the laundry-women did the wash or other mundane chores; perhaps it even acted as a thoroughfare — the cobblestones were worn smooth with age and use.  

As they emptied into the courtyard, another came up from the rear, and when Cullen turned, he saw Ser Kinnon accompanying the man Amelle had healed on that horrible, horrible day.  Joff, he remembered. The plain man in his plain clothes who’d nearly given his life for them all.

Joff looked suddenly unsure as he glanced around, taking in the motley assembly, until Hawke stepped forward and clasped forearms with him. With her garbed as princess from head to heel, it was a strange gesture, but it seemed to soothe Joff somewhat. She did not smile — this was not an affair that wanted smiles — but her welcome was both warm and reassuring. She bent her head, doubtless explaining in a low whisper the charge laid upon him, to pass on word of Laymia Vael’s execution. He looked pale and slightly ill, but when Hawke released him, he straightened his shoulders and set his jaw.

A guard arrived, carrying the prince’s longbow in both hands as though it was made of something impossibly breakable instead of sturdy gilt beech. Behind him, a little page carried a single white-fletched arrow with just as much gravitas as the man with the bow. Perhaps even more so. Cullen could not hear the words exchanged, but Fenris stopped Sebastian briefly as the prince reached for his weapon.

Sebastian shook his head once, firmly. Then he, too, offered his hand in a clasp. Fenris accepted it, but did not look nearly as mollified by the gesture as Joff had. Fenris returned to Amelle’s side. Though Cullen knew there had been time enough for Amelle to have regained some of her mana, he was gratified to sense no magic from her. She raised a querying eyebrow, but Fenris only frowned, saying nothing.

Sebastian took the bow from his guardsman before crouching to accept the page’s arrow. Cullen saw the boy protest as Sebastian sent him away, his eyes wide; a moment later the guardsman took the little lad by the hand and led him off.

When Sebastian turned, bow in one hand and arrow in the other, it appeared as if the weapon weighed a hundred pounds. Even from his place across the courtyard, Cullen could see the prince’s white-knuckled grip and the tense set of his jaw. But Sebastian did not falter. His steps were sure, until at last he stood a mere ten feet from Laymia Vael. 

Close enough to look her in the eye.

Hawke came to stand several feet to Sebastian’s right — close enough to let everyone, Sebastian included, know where her support lay, but far enough away she did not appear to be encroaching.  Mostly, Cullen thought, it was so Sebastian would not be the only one forced to watch the light leave Laymia Vael’s eyes.

And Hawke would be one of the last images the woman saw before crossing the Veil.  Maker help her.

Laymia Vael stood at the end of the courtyard, her pale eyes unflinching, her posture defiant, her expression scornful to the end.  She didn’t speak.  None of them did.  Fenris and Amelle stood a little behind Hawke and Sebastian; Amelle held tightly to Fenris’ hand with both of hers, but Cullen didn’t imagine for a moment it was because she was put off by the proceedings.  No, one look at his friend’s pale face, the shadows under her flinty green eyes, told him quite enough.  Fenris’ countenance was darker, but bespoke much the same sentiment — they knew how much they had nearly lost.  One did not celebrate death, but Cullen was certain his friends would shed no tears today. Not over this.

Sebastian nocked his single arrow and drew his bow. At his ear, the pristine fletching was white to the point of glowing as the midmorning sun shone down upon them. 

It was too beautiful a day for an execution.

Sebastian aimed.  The harsh twang of his bowstring echoed through the air, the sound bouncing off the cobblestones and walls, still echoing as Jessamine’s body fell, lurching back from the force of the arrow.

He had shot her in the eye.  She was already dead when her body hit the stones.

#

Once the arrow found its mark, Kiara crossed the distance and bent to check the woman’s pulse. It was unnecessary, of course. No one survived a shot like Sebastian’s. Jessamine—Laymia—was still warm, but her heart was still and her breath gone. Her remaining eye stared, until Kiara closed the lid. As to the other… Kiara broke the shaft with a quick, expert snap and placed the broken end, blood-stained fletching and all, next to the corpse.

Before she could do more than wish for something to cover the body with, Sebastian was beside her, holding out his gold-trimmed white cloak. She accepted it and spread it out over the dead woman. Bloodstains appeared almost at once, and when Kiara glanced down, she realized she’d ruined the hem of her own gown. She spared a brief thought for Tasia’s ire, but it was anemic. A dress was a dress. It was hard to care about a dress when the stain upon it was the end of a life, no matter how much that life needed to end.

Sebastian reached out to help her up, but once she was fully upright again, he did not release her. His hand was oddly cold, though the air in the courtyard was pleasant and sun-warmed. She felt him shiver as he turned away from the body, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with his sudden lack of cloak.

“Kinnon,” he said gravely, “have the Great Hall emptied. I don’t want to impose curfew, but see that the guard knows people are to return to their homes and businesses. I want no trouble in the streets. Not today. And Master Joff is to be returned home unharmed.”

Kinnon saluted, but his gaze was troubled as it met Kiara’s. Her nod was minute, but seemed to soothe him, and he gave her a slight bow in return. Joff looked green and terribly pale, but he, too, offered a slight bow before departing at Kinnon’s heels.

She felt bad for asking such a thing of him. But it was better than the public spectacle Starkhaven had desired. Joff was respected. After the debacle in the courtyard, he was a minor hero amongst the common folk. His word would carry. She hoped his word would be enough.

“Revered Mother,” Sebastian continued, his body still alarmingly, too-carefully stiff beside Kiara. “Thank you for your words, and for bearing witness here today. I pray this marks a change. I pray today is the first day of a long peace for Starkhaven.”

“My prayers echo yours, Your Highness,” Illona replied, but Kiara did not miss the solemnity in her tone, either. This woman’s death might temporarily end the madness in Starkhaven, but the world was still poised on a precipice.

 _We have set the world alight tonight, you and I,_ she had told Anders. _The Maker only knows what will rise from the ashes. We have to live with that._

But they could still pray for peace. No harm came from prayer.

Then, softer, for Sebastian’s ears, Illona added, “Justice _was_ done here today, Sebastian. You mustn’t torment yourself.”

He gave no indication he’d heard her. None of the weariness left his face. His hand was still cold. There were creases at the corners of his eyes; Kiara wondered if they’d always been there, or if the weight of today’s responsibilities had etched them new. “As to the rest,” Sebastian said, “Morven will be dealt with later—tomorrow. There will be no grand dinner tonight, no dancing. There will be no celebration.”

None of those assembled looked as though they wished to celebrate anything at all. Some would drink. Some would pray. Some would question. Some would embrace, holding tight to life in the face of death. 

Varric and Isabela would host a card game, because some things never changed.

_Some things never change._

It was almost enough to make her smile. Almost. She tightened her grip on Sebastian’s hand, and was absurdly grateful when he squeezed back.

Tomorrow, perhaps, there would be smiling. Or the next day.

#

It was over.  In an instant, and with a twang of a bowstring followed by a whistling rush of an arrow, it had ended.

Amelle stayed rooted to the spot, clutching Fenris’ hand; the gauntlets pressed uncomfortably against her fingers, but she could not quite make herself care enough to release him.  And when Jessamine fell to the stones, it was the horrible, hollow echo of _his_ body collapsing upon the wooden platform she heard.  In Jessamine’s blood, dark and spreading slowly outward, filling the grooves between the stones, she saw his blood as it slid from the poisoned  wound, glittering like dark rubies in the morning light.

She squeezed his hand more tightly.  He squeezed back.

She’d seen too much death lately—they both had—and so much of it in vain, so much of it _senseless_ , that at one point Amelle had begun to wonder if she hadn’t become deadened to it, to the horror of death; the notion had left her deeply cold.  Caring for and tending to the dead was a necessity, and yet it made her ache with sadness all the same.  But it was sadness that could be relieved by _healing.  Healing_ —restoring the clinic and tending to the sick and injured there—was how Amelle dealt with death, with the finality of it.  If she could ease or reverse another’s suffering, if she could heal an injury or an illness, if she could forestall death, then she could _cope._   She could accept the balance of life and death and likewise accept that there were some she couldn’t save.

Jessamine was beyond saving.  She was beyond healing—beyond _everything_ , and yet Amelle would not have healed her, even if it had been within her power.  

She wanted to feel bad about that, wanted some semblance of regret or remorse twinge beneath her breast.  She wanted to feel something other than _relief_ that the woman was dead _._   Instead, she was every bit as cold and worn down as the stones they stood upon, but beneath that chill, Amelle was still relieved.  Jessamine was no more.  The memories would not be so easily banished, though, and that was the worst of it.  They would fade in time, but for the foreseeable future, they remained, horribly vibrant, in her head.  And now, as Kiara crouched by the body and felt for life, Amelle knew this moment had already been added to those memories.  The _snap_ of the shaft seemed disproportionately loud, and she flinched.  The woman was dead.  

And still, Amelle was relieved _._ It didn’t seem right.

Fenris tugged gently at her hand, pulling her out of her reverie.

“Perhaps you might rest now,” he said in an undertone.

Amelle shook her head, never pulling her eyes from that prone form.  Blood crept across the stones, seeping into the hem of her sister’s dress, bleeding upward, staining it as it had stained Sebastian’s cloak.  Blood didn’t wash—didn’t wash _easily_ , at any rate—and the memory of spilled blood was somehow even more indelible than a physical stain.  This courtyard would forever be marked, as other places had been.  Amelle thought suddenly of Viscount’s Keep, Viscount Dumar’s head rolling horribly and unevenly across the floor, his blank eyes staring sightlessly forward.  Even the chantry, before Anders had taken it in a blast of light and magic, even the chantry had been stained by lives taken within its walls.  That vile woman Mother Patrice had left a similar stain upon its stones.  

But this… this had been no spectacle.  This had been no _show._   There had been no lights or magic, no posturing, no threats.  Simply Sebastian, his bow, and one single arrow.

“Amelle,” Fenris said again, frowning.

She looked at him.  His frown deepened.

“You have not been sleeping,” he reminded her.  “You look unwell.”

 _So much for ‘stunning,’_ she wanted to say, but the words felt flat, and she wouldn’t have meant them anyway; she _felt_ unwell.  But Amelle doubted it was anything a mere nap would remedy.  “Where will you be?” 

“I… will assist Sebastian in… disposing of the remains, if he wishes it.”

A terrible, hysterical giggle nearly burst forth, but Amelle covered her mouth with her hand and was surprised to find tears blinding her instead.  Fenris only cocked his head, inquiring eloquently with nothing more than a look in his eyes and the slightest arch of one dark eyebrow.  Her lips trembled, and she shook her head, tears falling free though she swallowed against the tightness in her throat and stepped closer to Fenris, wanting to rest her head against his shoulder, wanting to kiss the warm, beating pulse in his neck, wanting to embrace him and remind herself that _he lived_.  They both did.

“You?” she managed finally, in a choked whisper, even as her tears tracked lines of moisture down her cheeks.  “Helping _dispose_ of corpses?”  

Fenris bowed his head and exhaled a soft breath of something mirthless that wasn’t quite laughter.  “Sebastian assisted me in a similar fashion once.  It seems only right I return the favor.”

Dashing away her tears, Amelle took a step back and nodded, wrestling her emotions under control again.  She was exhausted and felt strangely frayed; the not one but _two_ templar cleanses she’d been exposed to hadn’t done her any favors. It chafed, but Fenris was right—she needed to rest.  

Well.  What she _truly_ needed was to forget this day and most of the week before it, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“Fenris is right,” Cullen said, and Amelle looked up with a start, wondering how long he’d been standing there.  How long he’d had his hand upon her shoulder. With a touch of wryness, he added, “You look as if you’ve been to the Void and back.”

“I _feel_ like I’ve been to the Void and back,” she admitted, rubbing at her eyes.

Cullen nodded at nothing in particular, and said, “Then go on and get some sleep.”  

Amelle looked down at Fenris’ hand, still in hers, and she let out a shaky exhale.  “You’re ganging up on me again,” she said, but without rancor.

“We are,” Fenris answered.

“Unrepentantly,” added Cullen.

“Very well.”  Still, prying her fingers away from Fenris’ hand was more difficult than it had any right to be.  “You both win.  I will go and… _attempt_ to rest.”

“Shall I walk you up?” Cullen asked, nodding at the arched doorway.

“Go on ahead.  I’ll be along in a moment.”

Cullen went without comment to wait just inside the corridor, and Amelle turned to Fenris and leaned forward, brushing a kiss across his cheek.  “Come find me when you’re finished,” she said, her voice low.  “I… I am not sure I really want to be alone.”

She hated how needy the admission made her feel, but the last thing she wanted — the last thing in the _world_ — was an empty chamber with memories hiding in every corner, in every shadow.  Fenris only nodded and bowed his head, resting it gently against her forehead.  The warmth of his skin against hers was nearly enough to make Amelle cry all over again.

“You will not be alone,” he murmured.  Before pulling away, he lowered his lips to her ear.  “Go. I will find you.”  His fingers brushed her elbow as he hesitated for barely half a breath.  “I will always find you.”

She sent him a tremulous smile.  “Spero and I will be waiting.”

“I will count on it.”

#

Sebastian knew he was meant to do _something_ with the body. Set the head on a spike at the city gates to serve as a warning. That was what a monarch did with traitors. _Do not trifle with me, or meet this fate._ He couldn’t bear it. Killing her had to be enough.

When the Revered Mother left, taking her templars with her, Sebastian turned and stared at the body. It looked small under his blood-stained white cloak. Too small. Jessamine had done such a vast amount of _ill_ that he’d almost forgotten she was just one woman.

One dead woman didn’t take up much space.

 _Justice_ was _done here today, Sebastian. You mustn’t torment yourself._

How could he not? It was not as though he’d never killed before, but this death? This death had not happened in the heat of a moment. It had not been self-defense in the sense of kill-or-be-killed. He’d looked her in the eye and killed her, because it was the just punishment for the crimes she’d committed. It was the law.

 _He_ was the law. And that responsibility was a mantle knit of solid iron, so very heavy.

The man hated what he’d had to do. The prince knew it was necessary.

Kiara squeezed his hand again, forcing him to look at her and away from the corpse. He noticed then that the courtyard was all but empty. Fenris stood at Kiara’s side, seemingly at ease, but Sebastian recognized the readiness in his posture and the faint crease of concern at his brow. Everyone else was gone.

Sebastian wondered just how long he’d been gazing down at his dead aunt.

“She should go to the crypts,” Sebastian said abruptly. He twitched, startled by the strained sound of his own voice. “She was… she wasn’t a good Vael, but she was a Vael nonetheless.”

“Fenris and I will take her,” Kiara said. When he began to protest, she shook her head and brought her free hand up to cup his cheek. The smell of blood was heavy and cloying, but through it he caught the vague scent of Kiara, rose and cedar and sweetness and strength. With no audience but Fenris, he allowed himself to lean ever so slightly into that hand. “She was… family. We’ll see she’s treated with respect. Corwin has cleared your schedule for today, Sebastian. Your only responsibility is to go get the rest I know you haven’t been getting.”

He turned his head until he could press a kiss into her palm. “Bossy,” he murmured.

She pressed her fingertips to his lips before letting the hand fall back to her side. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.” Though her expression was too solemn to allow for amusement, there was also something bolstering there.

Maker, but she was strong.

Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, love.”

Her eyebrow arched. “I mean it about the rest, Sebastian.”

He nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at him. To say the day’s events had been draining would be an understatement of vast proportions, and he’d had little enough in the way of sleep in the week since Jessamine’s arrest. “For once, dearest, I believe I need little in the way of persuasion.”

She squeezed his hand a final time before releasing it. Behind her, Fenris nodded at him. Sebastian found himself absurdly grateful that he found no pity in the elf’s eyes, only encouragement. Support. Friendship.

Scrubbing his hands together briskly, he tried to coerce some warmth back into his digits. Even the bones felt weary, as though he’d been carrying stones instead of the negligible weight of his bow and a single arrow.

Sebastian did not look back at the body as he left. He did not need to. He knew very well he’d remember every detail of this day for the rest of his life.

#

The look on Sebastian’s face was enough to concern Fenris. His friend had aged years in the course of a single morning.  He watched as the other man left the courtyard, listening as the slow sound of his footsteps faded away.  He then looked down at the covered form, the bloodstained cloak.

Hawke was the first to speak, as she often was.  “It’s been a bitch of a morning.”

“It has.”

“How are you doing, Fenris?”

Fenris lifted his gaze to meet Hawke’s grey eyes.  “As well as can be expected.”  He paused momentarily, glancing back down at the body again, and looking up with a frown.  “I would have relieved him of this… act.”

“It was his responsibility,” she replied quietly.  “Sebastian _had_ to be the one to do it.”

“It will weigh on him.”

“And bearing weight makes us stronger.”  

She didn’t say the words flippantly.  Indeed, Hawke sounded determined _,_ and Fenris knew immediately that Sebastian _would_ emerge from this a stronger man.  And it would be with Hawke’s help. That was _her_ strength, he realized. Helping others bear the weight they could not carry alone. It was why they looked to her. Trusted her.

Just then, Ser Kinnon entered the courtyard, carrying something bundled beneath his arm.  He handed it to Hawke with uncharacteristic gravity.

“Figured you could use a proper shroud,” he explained in the face of Hawke’s confusion.

She looked again at the bundled material, then at Sebastian’s bloody cloak.  “It… yes.  Thank you, Kinnon.”

He bowed once, then nodded at the deceased.  “Do you need any assistance?”

She shook her head.  “No.  We’ll be fine.”

The knight looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue the point, but in the end he simply exhaled, bowed again, and left.  His heavy, booted footsteps seemed to fill the entire space until the knight faded from earshot.

Once things were quiet again, Hawke shook out the bundle into a long sheet.  “How’s Amelle?” she asked quietly, as she bent to wrap the body more appropriately.

Fenris crouched alongside her and helped.  “I am… concerned.  She is not sleeping well, and I suspect she is not eating as much as she ought.”

Hawke’s brows drew together and she blew out a sigh.  “Oh, rabbit,” she murmured under her breath.  When she looked up she caught Fenris’ questing look.  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her as worried as she’s been this past week.  But she’ll bounce back.  And I imagine today will do a fair bit to send her on her way.”  She frowned down at her work.  “I suppose that’s _one_ good thing come from all… this.”

Fenris secured the fabric around the dead woman’s legs and feet.  “It had to be done,” he said, after a lengthy silence.

“I know.  Doesn’t make it easy, though.”

“Since when have you dealt in that which is _easy,_ Hawke?”

She let out a soft snort as she shook her head, and while her attire was still strange to see upon her, and her hair had never been twisted, twined, and pinned so, the sound was so utterly Hawke that the other trappings fell away and he could very nearly picture her in her customary armor, red hair falling past her shoulders, grey eyes laughing. It would do him well to see joy in those eyes again.  “I’m sure I did once.  It seems as though ever since making the acquaintance of one certain elf, I became an authority on all things complicated and difficult.”

“I could say the same of you.”

Her smirk was a pale counterfeit of her usual expression, but at least it was not a frown. At least it was not tears. “I’m sure you could.”

Their work was finished for the moment, and they both stood, Fenris taking the body’s torso while Hawke took the legs.  They spoke little as Hawke directed him to the crypt deep below the palace.

A heavy door swung open with relative ease, aside from a tortured groaning from the hinges.  It revealed an antechamber featuring a long, raised platform in the center of the small room.

“There,” she said.  “The Chantry sisters will be down later to prepare the body.”

Fenris nodded slowly.  “And then she will be… interred?”

Hawke nodded and let out a deep sigh as she leaned against one of the room’s solid walls.  “Maybe they’ll put her in the back,” she muttered, adding, “ _Way_ in the back.” Then she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “It’s over.  Maker’s balls, Fenris, it’s finally _over._ ”  Before he could speak, she held up one hand.  “I know — don’t say it.  Just let me breathe for a moment.  My sister’s alive.  _You’re_ alive.  Nothing blew up and nobody turned into a giant monster.  All things considered…”

“The aftermath could have been worse,” he supplied, not particularly interested in dwelling on the many ways it could have been so.  

A shadow passed over her face.  “Much worse.”

Several more moments passed in silence before Hawke pushed herself away from the wall, looking even more determined than she had throughout the course of the day, and they left the antechamber together, locking the door behind them.

“I suspect you’re on your way back to Amelle?” Hawke asked lightly as they followed corridor after winding corridor, all of them leading upward.  The air still smelled dank, tinged with the acrid scent of the torches lining the walls. He longed for a little fresh air, a little sunlight. Perhaps Amelle would have her windows open.

Fenris gave his answer evenly, looking straight ahead.  “She requested it.”

“Ah.”

Several more minutes passed in silence.  

“Have one of the maids draw her a warm bath,” she said suddenly.  “I’ll have someone from the kitchen send up warm milk with honey.”  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but Fenris still did not acknowledge it.  “It’s one of her favorite things when she can’t sleep.”

He nodded once, then looked askance at her.  “I imagine Varric and Isabela will be hosting a game this evening.”

“I imagine they will.  Wicked Grace?”

“Indeed.  Isabela has her marked deck.”

She huffed a laugh.  “Of _course_ she does.”

They walked a while longer, until a square of daylight at the end of one particularly long hallway grew larger and larger.  Soon they found themselves squinting in the sunlight.  Birds chirped above and a cool breeze bathed their faces, a vast departure from the overcrowded hall, the somber courtyard, and the silent crypt.

“Thank you, Hawke.”

She sent him a crooked smile that seemed strangely enigmatic for all its guilelessness, and she clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “Only the best for my little sister.”

Before he could ask what in the Maker’s name she meant by that, she vanished in a swirl of skirts.  

Headed for the kitchens.


	90. Chapter 90

Kiara was next to him in bed when he woke.

To be more accurate, Sebastian thought as he blinked and rolled over, she was _on_ the bed next to him, idly reading a book, and fully dressed—not in the bloodstained white gown, he was grateful to see, but in something dark and plain. But it was her. And she was there.

Very nearly the instant he opened his eyes, she flipped the book shut with a snap and leaned down to kiss his brow. “Good morning,” she said. “Or good evening, rather.”

His growling stomach reminded him a great deal of time had passed since last he’d eaten, and he pushed himself to one elbow.

“I can help with that, too,” she remarked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. For one moment he wanted to pull her back, to drag her beneath him and bury his misery in her. To hide. The _want_ startled him, shaking him to his core. It was too much like the petulance of old; it was young Prince Sebastian wanting his every desire and whim catered to, instantly and without question. Dread sent prickling cold fingers down his spine.

It would be that easy to slip into that old skin, to adopt those old ways. Want without thinking. Taking without asking. It would be _that easy._

Kiara deserved better. She deserved so much better. So as she rose and crossed the chamber, Sebastian pulled himself upright, blinking the last of the drowsy sleep from his eyes, and banishing the last vestiges of his want. Sure enough, the sky outside had gone dark, and the room was only bright because Kiara had lit a chantry’s-worth of candles.

Kiara perched beside him, armed with a tray of bread and cheese and fruit. “Eat up,” she ordered. “We have work to do.”

“We do?” he asked, settling the tray on his lap and piling a slice of bread high with cheese. 

Kiara broke off a piece of the hard, sharp cheese she liked best and enjoyed it thoroughly before answering, “Yes, we do.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope the horror of my desk might wait a day or two.”

One red eyebrow arched at him. She ate three of his strawberries. Then she said, “The horror of your desk _is_ going to wait a day or two. This is something else entirely. Just _eat_ , Sebastian.”

Her insistence had the slightest undertone of playfulness. He found himself glad it was only an undertone, not because he wanted her to be grim and sad, but because when he leaned back and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of the food on his tongue, he saw the way his aunt’s defiance had died in the moments before she had. Just for an instant, he’d seen fear in her pale eyes. Fear and resignation and maybe the ghost of the girl she once must have been, before ambition and desire and pride poisoned her as surely and irreversibly as Maker’s Light or Quiet Death or Crow Venom would have done.

“Less thinking,” Kiara said, too lightly. “More eating.” When he blinked and looked at her, he saw how concerned she was.

“I’m fine,” he said.

This made both eyebrows rise. “You’re fine like I was fine the night I let Anders walk away from the horror he’d created.” She shook her head as she twined the fingers of one hand with his. “You’re not fine, my love. But it’s all right.”

“I have to be fine,” he insisted. “I’m the prince of Starkhaven. My people—”

“Need you. Yes, they do. But not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. Corwin is very competent.”

“What kind of work do we have to—?”

She silenced him with a stern glare. “What part of _less thinking, more eating_ do you not understand, Sebastian Vael?”

He forced himself to eat an apple and another slice of bread and cheese. When his stomach protested, he stopped. 

“I suppose I should be glad you managed anything at all,” she said. “Sebastian…”

“I don’t need your pity. I don’t want it.”

The temperature of her voice dropped several degrees. “Just as well I wasn’t offering it, then.” She levered herself off the bed and removed the barely-touched tray. A moment later, she tossed a bundle of clothing at him. “Put that on.”

He was of a mind to protest until he saw the expression on her face. The accusation of pity had… _wounded_ her, he realized belatedly. She turned away, busying herself with damping the fire and blowing out some of the candles, while he shucked the linen shirt he’d slept in and dressed in the things she’d insisted upon. The tunic and trousers were dark. This fabric wouldn’t show bloodstains. He grimaced, remembering once again the way the white of his cloak had drunk the red of the blood on the cobblestones.

He blinked, and Kiara was standing before him again. She pushed a leather coat at him and by its weight, he realized it was not simply fabric, but a plated brigandine. “Are we expecting trouble?”

“Aren’t we always?” she replied. “Just put it on. It’s not too heavy, is it? You need new armor, Sebastian. I had to make do with what I could find.”

His brow furrowed as he shrugged into the sleeveless coat. It _was_ heavy, but not unbearably so. It made him realize how accustomed he’d grown to going unarmored. She handed him his bow and quiver, and waited until he’d obediently donned them before handing him a black cloak. It was long and had a deep hood, which he left down.

After arming herself and swinging a similarly dark cape over her shoulders, she looked at him expectantly. Puzzled, he shrugged his shoulders. 

Stepping close, Kiara put her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself to her toes. “I love you,” she said quietly, insistently. The words were new enough, rare enough, that he felt the weight of them pool in his gut. “Do you want to go out the window or the door?”

“ _What_?”

“Window or door?” she repeated. “There are drawbacks and benefits to each.”

“I cannot—”

“You can, actually,” she said, her lips pulling into a devious almost-smile. “The Eyes are on full alert. We have more secret, invisible bodyguards than we could possibly know what to do with. _And_ I’ve spoken to Corwin, who agreed this was something worth doing. Now. Window or door?”

“…Window?” he decided, raising the word into a question. 

Kiara ignored the question and headed across the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned him. “I’m glad. Your palace has _perfect_ walls for scaling.”

The faintest tickle of mirth stirred within him, and he felt his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “I know. I’m familiar.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you can go first.”

#

Fenris found Amelle in her chamber; she was no longer in the heavy, ornate gown she’d worn earlier, but rather a loose blue dress, legs tucked up beneath the skirt as she sat curled in a heavily upholstered armchair pulled crookedly in front of the fire.  Spero dozed contently in her lap, and the fingers of one slender hand stroked the kitten’s spine.  Amelle held her other hand out, fingers moving slowly — the fire seemed to obey, flames licking all at once, completely controlled, in a silent rhythm only Amelle heard.  Her face was the picture of concentration, but there was nothing restful about her.

“Is it done?” she asked as the door fell closed behind him, never pulling her eyes from the pulsing flames.

“It is finished,” he answered quietly.  Amelle’s shoulders sagged, but when he crossed the room to her side and placed one hand against her back, he felt so much— _too much_ —tension coiled in her muscles. It wasn’t a wonder she couldn’t relax enough to rest.

Amelle drew in a deep breath and let it out again, and as she did the flames lowered and flickered chaotically, and much more naturally.  He frowned.

“I am certain this is not what I meant when I suggested you get some rest, Amelle.”

She looked sheepishly at her hand as the mana flared off, her power dimming.  “I couldn’t sleep.  And this helps me relax.” 

“It _is_ over.”

“I know.  I _know._ I keep telling myself that.  But seeing her again at all, it— it was…”  She looked at him then, her eyes overly bright in the light of the fire.  “All through that bloody trial I kept _seeing_ her.  I kept seeing her stab you.  Kept seeing you fall.  And a life is ended and—and I _want_ to feel more than… than just _relief_ she’s gone, but I _can’t._ ”

With a deep sigh, Fenris took Amelle’s hand and drew her to her feet, scooping Spero up before it tumbled from Amelle’s skirts.  The kitten nuzzled his thumb.

“May I tell you what I feel?”

The question was shock enough that a tear, then two spilled forward as Amelle blinked.  “You want to… _what?_ ”  She stopped, then gave herself a shake and let out a watery chuckle.  “Sorry.  I just didn’t expect you of all people to…”

“Didn’t expect me to want to talk about my _feelings_ ,” he answered, placing particular ironic emphasis on the word.

“Well.  Yes.  That.”  Amelle’s smile was heartbreakingly rueful, and in that moment Fenris realized, rather disjointedly, for the realization itself splintered off from everything else going on, that Amelle Hawke may well have been the most dangerous mage he’d ever met in the whole of his life. Only she could injure him, ruin him, end him with nothing more than a look, a smile, or lack thereof.

“Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“You look like you just got stunned by a frisky bronto.”  Amelle placed a cool hand against his forehead, as if looking for fever.  “Are _you_ all right?”

“I am fine.”

“You’re fine,” she echoed.  At his nod, her smile turned wry.  “This is an interesting way to get out of talking about your feelings, you know.  Points for originality.”

“I do not mourn her,” he said abruptly, recovering his diverted train of thought.  “When you were… gone.  Missing.  I swore to myself I would revisit any injury she caused you back upon her, tenfold.”  Slowly he let his thumb glide across her chin, fingers tracing her jaw. “And I was twice as angry at myself for how… ill I behaved.  Before.”

“The trip.”  At his nod, she said, “You… thought I’d lied about Cullen being only my friend.”

“It is more accurate to say I feared it,” he murmured as she drew closer.  “Or that you simply realized you preferred his company to mine.  But yes, the sentiment is the same.”  Both her hands came up to cradle his face and he found himself turning his head against one palm, unconsciously imitating the kitten he held.  Amelle drew closer still and rested her forehead against his, and Fenris found the words he wanted were suddenly far more difficult to summon.  “And I realized… if we hadn’t left you behind, if we’d brought you into the city with us, she never would have—”

The soft pressure of Amelle’s fingers upon Fenris’ lips silenced him.  “She would have.  She was waiting for us— _ready_ for us.  She would have found a way.”

Fenris scowled, but did not make any attempt to counter the argument.

“And I can tell by the face you’re making you disagree.  Glower Number Twelve, my favorite.”

“You would have been better protected.”

Shaking her head, Amelle teased, “Are we actually getting into an argument over something that didn’t—”

“I would have been there to protect you,” he insisted hotly, cutting off her words, the despised powerlessness of that moment—he had not forgotten, _would_ _never_ forget—betraying him, roughening his voice with emotion.

That was enough to silence her.  The faintest tinge came over Amelle’s cheeks, but it did not compare, he was sure, to the way his own face was burning.

“Fenris…”

He was expecting another argument, a lecture on the pointlessness of agonizing over past mistakes, anything but Amelle pressing against him, tilting her head just to the side, mouth slanting over his as she kissed him hard, arms snaking about him as if she never planned to let go.  Fenris gently dropped Spero to the chair Amelle had occupied only moments before and clutched her close, reveling in the warmth pressed against him.  And yet, it could not hope to compare to the heat of her mouth or the strange sensation of raw power spilling forth from her fingertips as she held him.  Every breath Amelle drew made her tremble and she mewled against his mouth, her fingers tightening against him as he deepened the kiss, as she _responded_ to it.

Dangerous, indeed.

When Amelle finally pulled away, she did so reluctantly, and just far enough that when she spoke, her lips brushed lightly against his, sending a pleasant shiver chasing across his skin.  “Whatever did happen, or didn’t happen, or might’ve happened… it’s over,” she breathed.  “It’s done.  We’re alive.”

“It is.”  Fenris brushed a stray curl away from her temple.  “We are.”  

And with that, Amelle let out a deep, shuddering breath and nodded before dropping her head against his shoulder and leaning against him.  They remained like that several moments before a soft knock sounded at the door.  Pulling her head up, she sent him a quizzical look.  “Are we expecting anyone?” she asked, moving to open the door.

“A gesture from your sister, I believe.”

A sort of wary curiosity came over her face as she pulled open the door to find a maid standing with a delicate mug positioned upon a tray.  Steaming milk frothed at the lip.  Amelle’s smile was small but immediate and, more importantly, genuine.

“I suppose it’s one of her more subtle hints.”  She took the mug and thanked the young woman, who bobbed a curtsey before hurrying off.  “Sleep, Mely.  Rest, Mely.”  She gave the mug a careful sniff and then sipped.  “At least it isn’t drugged. I think.”

“There is… something more,” he said, once again plucking up the kitten and taking Amelle’s arm, guiding her out into the corridor.

“Something more that isn’t in my room?”  At his silent nod, Amelle’s eyebrows lifted.  “A _surprise?”_ she asked, sipping again from the mug.  “Fenris, this is utterly unlike you.  I’m intrigued.”

The hated color rushed to his cheeks again.  “It is merely… a gesture.  Come.”  He took her arm and led her through the twisting series of corridors until they reached his own chamber.  When he opened the door, the air was warm with steam and gently scented — the tub in the adjoining washroom was filled to the brim with bubbles.  Amelle looked at the tub, then at Fenris, a tiny, crooked smile curving her lips.

“And it’s a lovely gesture.”  

“It seemed it might… help.”

“You _do_ know my proclivities,” Amelle said, gently teasing as she kissed his cheek.  “Thank you.”  Her eyes glinted with a light decidedly _less_ gently teasing as she asked, “Going to wash my back?”

“I hardly think you would find that restful,” he countered, unable to ignore the heat that kicked up inside him at her words.  He would have accepted— _wanted_ to accept—but something in Amelle’s eyes still looked vaguely… troubled.  _Not yet,_ he decided.

The teasing tone edged into something a little more thoughtful, and an expression Fenris couldn’t quite read settled over her features.  Her cheeks were slightly pink.  “Perhaps… perhaps next time, then.”

_Next time._

“Perhaps.”

#

At first they just walked. Kiara cast surreptitious looks toward her betrothed, monitoring him closely. At first it was clear he was anxious, though whether for himself or for her, she wasn’t certain. After half a dozen, she ceased counting the number of times he reached for his bow only to stop himself at the last moment.

The shadows were long, but she genuinely wasn’t worried. She hadn’t lied to him, after all. More invisible agents of the palace were watching them than even she knew about, she suspected. Anyone who wanted to accost them would have to go through several rings of their unseen protectors.

Gradually he stopped reflexively reaching for his weapon, and the tense line of his shoulders softened.

And Kiara said, “It was the look in her eyes at the end, wasn’t it?”

It was strange to see Sebastian stumble; he was normally so graceful. But stumble he did, and she reached out with both hands to grab hold of his arm and keep him upright. Even in the darkness, when his eyes found hers she could see the hurt in them. A little was hurt at what he’d had to do. A little was hurt she’d asked the question, and somehow made the experience _real_ by giving voice to it.

“It’s always like that,” she said softly. “At the end. Even when I dueled the Arishok, it was… He was… triumphant. I was on the floor, after all, and he’d just thrown me off the end of his blade. He thought he had me. Maker’s balls, _I_ half-thought he had me. My bow was ten feet behind me. He didn’t know I carried a knife. He didn’t realize I’d killed him until that knife was already in his throat. And that was when I saw that look. Meredith had it, too. So did… so did my mother. It’s _always_ like that. There’s always a moment, a point of no return.”

Sebastian turned his face away and she released his arm, though she didn’t step away from him. “The duel with the Arishok had honor in it, at least. He fought back. Meredith… Meredith fought.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “It’s easier to kill someone who’s actively trying to kill you. Jessamine—Laymia—whoever she was? She _was_ trying to kill you, Sebastian. She showed no remorse for her actions. If you’d let her live, she’d have continued to plot against you. Even if you’d kept her imprisoned, she would have tried to escape. I cringe at the word, but the Revered Mother was right: what happened today was justice.”

“Death is never justice,” Sebastian intoned.

Kiara sighed. “Elthina was not infallible. She was attempting to turn you away from a course of action that _was_ based in vengeance. It wasn’t applicable today.” When he said nothing, she continued, “I—you didn’t take Fenris up on his offer. Why?”

Sebastian shot her a dismayed look that seemed to say _isn’t it obvious?_ After a moment he explained, “My father once told me, ‘If you’re going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye.’ He was criticizing my lack of talent with a blade at the time. I was the one who passed judgement on her; I knew it was my responsibility to enact the punishment. I knew it was my responsibility to look her in the eye. Hundreds have died on the points of my arrows. Slavers. Bandits. Blood mages. I never… felt it like I feel this. Killing in the heat of battle is nothing like what happened today. Today felt like… murder.”

“I know,” Kiara said. “But it _wasn’t_. It was execution. What she did… what she would have done to Amelle and Fenris? What she would have done to me? Maker, what she _did_ do to Starkhaven? That’s murder. We have no way of knowing how many she poisoned—both in word and deed—but we know she was ambitious, and that she showed no compassion for her fellows. You saw her fear in that last moment, Sebastian. Perhaps you even saw her regret. But it’s the Maker who will judge her now.”

“I know it,” he replied gravely. “I know it, Kiara, but I feel… unclean.”

She reached for his hand. He hesitated, but still she held her palm up. At last he took it, but his fingers were heavy and somehow _unwilling_ in hers. Paying little heed to this, she dragged him down a series of side streets, until they stood before a little house. Light shone from behind the lace-hung windows, illuminating a well-kept yard. Even from twenty feet away, she could hear the exuberant music within, fiddle and pipe and a very poorly played drum.

Tugging him all the way up the path, she stopped at the door. Before she could knock, however, Sebastian put his arm around her and pulled her back. “Kiara…”

Tilting her head, she gave him a rueful smile. “Do you trust me?”

“Of… of course.”

“Then trust me,” she said, and knocked.

#

 _Hot water and thick bubbles cure a multitude of ills_ , Amelle thought as she sank down a little deeper in the bath, soap suds tickling her earlobes.  She sipped at the warm milk, sweetened with rich honey, while she soaked.  When the mug was empty, she set it to the side. The bubbles smelled of lavender and some other scent she couldn’t place, but when she breathed in and out again, she felt the tension that had been such a constant companion finally begin to dissipate.  

Lazily, she stretched out her legs until her toes peeked out from the bubbles at the other end of the tub.  She wiggled them.

 _Over.  It’s finally over._ The words chased each other around and around her head, but the longer they circled, the more she became aware of how untrue they were.  It was only over _for the moment._   Just like every other crisis had to end at some point.  But the larger picture loomed before Amelle, brighter and more horrible every time she closed her eyes.  There would be more Jessamines, more Ser Alriks, more Merediths.  It wasn’t _over_ , not by a long shot.  There would be more — there would _always_ be more.  

But it _was_ over _for now._   And that would have to be enough.

She sank further into the bath.  

And now her sister was going to be Princess of Starkhaven.  Now talk of an Exalted March wasn’t just a silly children’s game, but a reality — a reality with consequences and repercussions.

And though she was no more, Jessamine’s words had been spoken and could not be taken back.  The dead woman had already proven a leader—even a co-leader—with an apostate mage for a sister was a political mess waiting to happen.  Kiara’s loyalties would be called into question.  Starkhaven and its people would come under the scrutiny of the Divine and her forces.  Amelle’s stomach twisted at the thought.  No matter how badly she wanted to stay with her sister, she wouldn’t put Kiara in danger.  Not if she could help it.

 _Maybe Papa had the right idea,_ she mused, dragging her fingers through the suds, then flicking them away.  _A quiet life.  A farm, maybe.  Somewhere a mage could go without notice.  I could keep chickens._ She wrinkled her nose.  _No, not chickens.  Sheep, maybe._

She thought of her clinic — it was _her_ clinic now; it hadn’t felt like Anders’ space for some time — and felt a flicker of sadness.  Perhaps she _could_ return to Kirkwall.  Poor Cupcake had to be beside himself with worry by now, to say nothing of Orana, Maker’s _balls_. And Aveline and Donnic. Merrill.

She had a _life_ in Kirkwall.  It wasn’t much, but it was hers.  And Kiara had a life… somewhere not in Kirkwall.

Amelle swallowed hard.  She’d never been separated from her sister before.  Not like this, anyway.

 _It’ll be good for us,_ she thought, not believing a word of it as a frown marred her forehead.  _Distance can be good.  You_ can _be too close._   And it wasn’t as if Kiara would be _alone_ in Starkhaven.  She was going to have a husband, for starters. And she’d have Tasia.  And Corwin.  And Kinnon.  Kiara would paste together another crazy-quilt of a family—she’d be okay.

_She won’t be okay without her rabbit._

Amelle grimaced at the unhelpful voice in the back of her head.  Nothing as insidious as a demon, it was just her own bloody conscience, which at that moment sounded _entirely too like_ her future brother in-law.  Damn and double damn.  

She pushed the thought aside.  Hard.

There was also the matter of Cullen to figure out.  The noble idiot was probably going to go back to the city and accept whatever punishment a templar could expect for deserting his post in aid of an apostate.  She wasn’t quite sure what she could _do,_ but she couldn’t let him face the Order alone.  So, yes.  Kirkwall for a time, and then… somewhere else. 

_Somewhere else can be home too, rabbit.  It’s not the place, it’s those you share it with._

Home had always been where Kiara was.  And now Kiara would be in Starkhaven, and Amelle… was not sure she’d be _welcome_ in Starkhaven, wasn’t sure if it _could_ be her home.  Not in any real sort of way.  Besides, the Revered Mother already _knew_ about her, and—no.  No, there was nothing for it.  She couldn’t stay.

Amelle twisted around in the tub and peered over the rim.  The washroom door was open just a crack, and she spied a small blur as Spero raced across the floor, bounding after… something.  Then she ran back.  And then she bounded in the opposite direction yet again and Amelle watched this for nearly a full minute before she realized what Spero was doing.

 _Maker’s breath, Fenris is teaching the kitten to_ fetch _._

Her heart clenched, suddenly feeling too tight, too full _,_ and it took a moment for Amelle to catch her breath.  She twisted back around again and closed her eyes, trying to imagine a future with Fenris.

It was harder to imagine a future _without_ him.

#

Kiara was raising her hand to knock a third time—and Sebastian was preparing to insist they go back to the palace at once—when the fiddle music coming from within stopped abruptly. The piper still played, and the drum grew even more exuberant and erratic. Kiara dropped her hand and grinned over her shoulder at him.

He couldn’t even find it in himself to smile back. The door opened, and the warm light from within blinded him.

“Andraste’s _tits_ ,” swore a voice Sebastian vaguely recognized. “My lady—Kiara—oh, _Maker’s balls_ , that’s—”

A woman from within cried indignantly, “There are _children_ present, love. Mind your language.”

“Annie, the bloody pr—”

“Joff! _Children. Language._ ”

Kiara said smoothly, “We heard the music and thought we might stop in for a moment, if you’ll have us.”

As his blindness faded, Sebastian saw the gaping face and recognized the man as Kiara’s chosen witness to the execution. Joff blinked at him, his eyes impossibly wide. A moment later, the banging drum from within ended and a child with her father’s mousy hair poked her head out from behind Joff’s legs, clinging tight. She couldn’t have been much older than six or seven. For some reason it made Sebastian sad thinking the girl had never known a _good_ prince. “Papa?” she asked. “Who’s at the door?”

“I’m Kiara. This is Sebastian. We’re friends of your father’s. Was that you playing the drum just now?”

The little girl nodded, eyebrows still lowered and expression still unsure. She seemed doubly uncertain when she saw him. “Your eyes are _really blue_ ,” she accused, as if this indicated something terribly wrong with him.

A moment later Joff shook his head and reached down to lift his daughter into his arms. Then he stepped back into the house and said, “You are welcome, of course. Your—”

“None of that, Joff,” Kiara said with a smile and a dismissive wave. “We’ve had this conversation.”

“But he’s—”

“Sebastian,” Sebastian said simply, following Kiara’s lead and entering the little house behind her.

“Oh,” gasped the woman when she saw them, her cheeks blushing a brighter red even than her hair. The little tinwhistle she was holding dropped to the ground in a clatter. “Oh. Oh, Our Lady’s dimpled arsecheeks. Oh, _Maker._ This isn’t happening.”

“Mama?” asked another child, younger than the first, perhaps four or five, looking up from the toy pony he held in his lap. “What’s arsecheek?”

“Mama?” echoed the girl Joff held, “What’s a dimple?”

And Sebastian couldn’t restrain himself. He laughed. He laughed, and it felt like _life_.

Annie, cheeks still burning, put a hand to her mouth. Her hazel eyes were wider even than her husband’s. After a moment, she coughed and found her voice, though it was weak, and her expression still bordered on the unhinged. “P-please, come in. Maker’s breath, Maker’s _breath, Maker’s breath!_ Can I—can we—I’ve tea. Or… or ale. I’ve some ale. And bread? _Joff_ , get them some _bread_.”

Kiara’s smile didn’t fade. “Annie, is it? I’ve heard so much about you, Annie. Please, don’t trouble yourself on our account. We were merely in the neighborhood—”

Sebastian thought it was to his credit that he didn’t scoff outright. The tiny snort of laughter that _did_ escape was so quiet only Kiara seemed to hear it, and she shot him a mock-solemn look in response. Two more children came to greet them—the eldest, a lad of ten or so, holding a toddler in his arms. He crossed the room fearlessly, and gazed up at them. “Are those bows?” he asked. “I never saw a nice bow like that before. Can I hold it?”

Annie squeaked. “Lorren, _mind_ yourself. Don’t you know who—”

Sebastian unhooked the bow and held it out toward the boy. Lorren _didn’t_ simply drop his sister, though he half looked like he wanted to. Kiara rescued him by offering to take the little girl herself. Lorren gave her a look of such pure, unadulterated adoration Sebastian found himself smiling again. The boy took the bow and ran reverent fingers over it.

“Maker,” whispered Annie, gazing at her husband. “She’s holding my baby. The future prin—”

“Ahh,” Kiara interjected. “I’ve already told your husband I want none of that. Kiara’s fine. Won’t you introduce your family, Joff?”

“Annie,” he whispered. “Annie’s my wife. And Lorren’s the eldest… but you… you gathered that, I’m sure.”

“Da,” said Lorren with a grimace, “you’re weird.” The lad glanced up long enough from the bow to say, “It seems like you already know my da. My mum’s Annie. The littlest one is Rose, ‘cause that’s Mum’s favorite flower. We call her Rosie. Or Rosie Posie. The next oldest is my brother—” Here he gestured to the boy with the toy horse, “His name is Lachlan. You know, after the old prince. Sometimes Mum calls him Lorren and me Lachlan, maybe ‘cause they both start with the same letter. We always laugh when she does. My other sister is Annabeth, like Mum, so we don’t call her Annie. We call her Beth. Or Bethy. It’s kind of confusing, but that’s what we do. She’s the one was playing the drum. She’s pretty bad at it.”

“Lor!” cried Bethy, indignant. A moment later she squirmed out of her father’s arms and marched over to her brother. “Mama says I’m _good_.”

“Maybe you could show us?” Sebastian asked politely, crouching down to eye level. The little girl looked unsure again, but a glance at her fearless brother bolstered her.

“‘Kay,” she said.

“I can play the pipe,” Lorren declared. “But only Da can do the fiddle. I’m gonna learn, but it’s hard.”

“It is,” Sebastian agreed. “It takes a lot of practice. Like shooting a bow.”

The boy gave him a considering, shrewd look. “D’you know the fiddle, then? You could play Da’s if you wanted,” Lorren offered boldly. “Then Bethy can do drums and I’ll do the pipe. Do you want to?”

Sebastian felt weight dropping from him as he smiled. “If your father doesn’t mind.”

“Mind?” the boy asked, baffled. “It’s _Da_.” Then, with a last longing glance, Lorren handed the bow back to Sebastian and dashed across the room to collect the various instruments.

“You play the fiddle?” Kiara asked, her eyes widening in surprise. Rosie giggled in her arms, playing with the shiny clasp of her cloak. “Really?”

“There’s a great deal you have yet to learn about me, love,” he remarked mildly, accepting the instrument Lorren offered. It was old, certainly, likely having been passed down for several generations, but it had obviously been well loved and meticulously cared for. Raising it to his shoulder, he drew the bow across the strings, feeling out the instrument. When he started playing a well-known folk song, Lorren and Bethy followed along with the enthusiasm only children could bring to music. Little Lachlan joined in by banging his toy pony on the floor in oddly-musical counterpoint. Kiara danced with the toddler, spinning in lazy circles to make the child laugh.

When he finished the first song, Kiara waltzed close enough to press a kiss to his jaw and whisper, “This, Sebastian. This is what it’s all for. This right here. This is what you’re fighting for. These are the people you’re protecting.”

He turned his head and returned her kiss. “Thank you,” he returned just as softly.

“More!” cried Rosie, throwing her chubby arms into the air. Annie and Joff exchanged a scandalized—fond, but scandalized—look. “More, more!”

“Well, go on then,” Kiara said with feigned seriousness. “You heard the girl.”

Sebastian smiled, and played on.

#

The fire crackled in the hearth, but it barely masked the soft sounds of water splashing from the other room.  Fenris sat in the chair by the fire, resolutely ignoring the sounds and trying to ignore the scent of perfumed bubbles.  He was having limited success.

_Going to wash my back?_

The next time Hawke made any helpful recommendations, he was going to think them through more carefully.  This one had surely backfired.  

Grimacing, he tossed the wadded-up piece of parchment across the room again, and again Spero dashed off in clumsy pursuit, pouncing upon the ball and wrestling it into submission before taking a piece of it up in her mouth — the whole of it nearly the size of her head — and trotting back to him in wobbly triumph.  He shook his head and threw the ball again, and, not yet tired of the game, off Spero scrambled off after it.

“Maker,” said a voice behind him, “I thought you were teaching it—”

“Her,” he supplied.

“Beg pardon?”

He turned to find Amelle standing in the open doorway.  “Spero is…”  But the words trailed off into nothing, not unlike his train of thought.  Amelle was swathed in a thick dressing-gown, her cheeks flushed pink from the bath and her hair damp and tousled.  Indeed, she looked much improved, but fatigue still lurked around her eyes, in the line of her mouth.  They were marks that would only fade with time, but it still troubled Fenris to see them upon Amelle’s face.

“Spero is…?” she prompted, lips quirking into an amused smile.

“Female,” he finished as his thoughts returned to him with a jolt.  “Spero is female.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” she said, turning her smile to the kitten ambling across the floor.  “Like I said, I thought you were teaching her, but I wonder if that’s accurate anymore.”  

“I taught her the game,” he replied reasonably, as Spero scrabbled her way into his lap and dropped the ball of paper.  He threw it and she scrambled down again.  “She is… merely teaching me how much she enjoys it.”  

“I think it’s darling.”  In the face of his frown, Amelle laughed and came closer, leaning over the back of the chair to grin down at him.  “I suppose you’re going to tell me it most certainly is _not_ ‘darling’ and it is instead a deadly skill.”

“Spero is a hunter.  A gifted one,” he said, waving a hand at the kitten, lowered into a crouch, stalking her paper-prey.  She jumped, batting it with her paws and scrambled clumsily across the floor as she battled with the ball.  He looked up at Amelle, into her still-laughing eyes.  “Do you not see?”

“Ah, such a proud papa.”  

“Hmph,” he replied, but without heat.  That came when he noticed the neck of Amelle’s dressing gown had slid open a fraction.  The urge to reach up, to tug at the sash that held the robe closed, to push the fabric aside completely, to touch the skin beneath, still warm and damp from the bath, to fix his mouth upon—

Fenris shook his head violently to clear it.  “You need proper clothes.”

Amelle’s only reply was a graceful arch of her eyebrow.  “Oh, do I?”

Fenris was already on his feet, halfway to the wardrobe.  His hands found the tunic before he’d even remembered where he’d put it.  It was the very same garment that he’d loaned her before — it still smelled of her, faintly.  “Here,” he said roughly, shoving the folded tunic and a pair of leggings into her hands.

She looked down at the garments and smiled a little.  “I imagine you’ll turn your back for this?”

He did, but for far different reasons than he had the first time she wore his clothes.    

After several long minutes filled with nothing but the sounds of her shedding the robe and pulling on the clothing, Amelle came up behind him and brushed her fingers against the nape of his neck.  Fenris shivered as those fingers then slid into his hair, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as her short nails scratched lightly across his scalp and continued carding through his hair.  

He turned.  The leggings were every bit as snug as he remembered and he found his eyes lingering on the gentle swell of Amelle’s hip and curve of her backside.

“Nice?” she asked.

“Very.”

Smiling faintly, Amelle let her hand drop and Fenris returned to his chair, looking up at her, admiring her form against the firelight.  Amelle favored dresses and always had, but this suited her as well, for all the tunic was still too large, the neck of it still sliding down one shoulder.

She moved around as if to sit in the chair opposite his, but before she _could_ sit, Fenris reached out, closing his hand around her slender wrist and tugging her down onto his lap.  But he hadn’t been quite prepared for the softness that landed and settled against him, to say nothing of the scent of lightly perfumed soap clinging to her skin like a whisper conspiring to assail his senses in the best way possible.  Unprepared, yes; displeased, not in the least.

Amelle didn’t resist, didn’t pull away, didn’t chide him for being silly — as he’d half-feared she might.  Instead, she relaxed against him, going almost boneless, letting out a sigh and tucking her still-damp head against the side of his neck, murmuring contently as he put both arms around her and pulled her even closer.  Lazily, he fixed the neck of the tunic and Amelle sighed as his fingertips brushed against her skin.

“I feel better,” she said as she closed her eyes, and Fenris wondered whether it was the bath she was referring to.

“You still look tired.”

“I’m better,” she insisted.  “I think I might have even dozed off in the bath.”  

“Unwise, if you had.”

“Hmm.  Maybe.”  A pause, a breath.  “Fenris, how do you feel about sheep?”

Fenris struggled a moment to follow Amelle’s train of thought, but came up empty.  “I have… little opinion on sheep one way or another.  They are… useful beasts, I suppose?”

“Would you want to raise them?”  His silence stretched out long enough that Amelle blinked her eyes open.  “…Fenris?”

He looked at her for a long moment, but saw no jest in her eyes.  “Why are we discussing sheep, Amelle?”

She sighed.  “I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”

A beat of silence as he continued to _look_ at her.  “I dare not ask how _sheep_ worked into the equation.”

The look she sent him was one of mild consternation.  “Papa knew a quiet life meant a better chance to go without being noticed,” she explained.  “A war is coming, Fenris.  And I don’t think—I-I’m not sure I should be anywhere near here when it does.  It… it’s not fair to Kiara.  And… I’m not a child; I can’t hide behind my sister anymore.  It might be time to find my own quiet life.”

Fenris’ own frown deepened.  “You are planning on leaving Starkhaven.”

She made a face and looked away.  “It’s… crossed my mind,” she said quietly.  “I don’t really see how I _can_ stay _._   The Revered Mother already knows about me, and Maker only knows what _her_ plans are in that regard.  No matter what else, I’m still an apostate mage.  Starkhaven hasn’t got a Circle, which _likely_ means she’s figuring out where she can send me, or… or I don’t know what.”  She stopped and took a deep, resigned breath, blowing it out.  “And we can hardly forget the Divine and her armies of templars with their pointy sticks and glowing lights who might or might not be on their way.  So I thought… a quiet life, not so bad.”

“With… sheep.”

“Right.”  She hesitated, and Fenris saw something _more_ than hesitation in her eyes.  “And so I… thought I’d see how you felt about it,” she said, cautiously.  “A quiet life.  Sheep optional.”

He ran his fingers through her side-swept bangs.  “You will be there.”

“Well… yes.”

“Then I will as well.”  Color crept up to her cheeks as he said, “Amelle Hawke, there are few places you can go that I will not follow.  If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

She blinked and the hesitation vanished, replaced by realization and affection.  “O-oh.”

“For as long as you wish it.”

A longer pause this time.  “… _Oh._ ”

The crackling of the fire seemed suddenly too loud for the room.  Spero, who had retrieved the ball and was losing patience that it had not been thrown again, gave them both an annoyed mew.  Starting slightly, Amelle leaned down and picked up the ball of paper, throwing it again, watching Spero studiously as she scampered after it.

“…Unless you don’t—”

“Finish that sentence, elf, and I’ll zap you.”

“I see.”

“Of _course_ I want you to come with me.  I just…”  She ducked her head with a rueful chuckle and looked up at him from behind the fall of her hair.  “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.  I mean, you know.  Sheep.  It’s not going to be exciting.”

“You’ll be there.”  He took her hand and kissed the palm.  “The accidental fires alone will be exciting enough.”

“Did you just make a _joke_ , Fenris?”

“Certainly not.” But his smile was fond.


	91. Chapter 91

“Come on, Handsome. Wicked Grace waits for no man.”

Cullen startled, book dropping to his lap and then bouncing with an unpleasant-sounding thunk to the floor. Isabela stood in the doorway of his room, leaning casually against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest and smirk firmly in place. He didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d not only approached but somehow managed to _open the door_ without him noticing. 

“It will, however, wait for _this_ woman, since she’s the one with the cards.” Isabela flipped the deck into sight and then made it disappear… somewhere. “Coming?” She raised her eyebrows when he did not immediately jump to do her bidding.

“I wasn’t intending to—are you entirely sure it’s entirely _appropriate_?”

She chuckled, pushing herself away from the door with the heel of her boot. Bending at the waist, she retrieved his book and scowled at the cover. “Please. This is better?”

“The sermons of Divine Hortensia the Third are—”

“Boring,” the pirate finished, tossing the volume onto the bed beside him. “Desperately, blindingly, mind- _blowingly_ boring.”

“But appropriate.”

She nudged at one of his feet with the toe of her boot. “Appropriate for putting you completely to sleep.”

He… couldn’t argue with her there. Flinging herself down beside him, she leaned back against the headboard, crossed her legs at the ankles, and said, “It’s not about the cards. Cards are something to do with your hands, and they’re a good reason for a gathering, but they’re just _cards_. The real thing is the company.” He frowned slightly and she shook her head. “Look, this is what we do. When you weather a storm like some of the storms we’ve weathered, you want to remember you’re not alone.”

“And you winning a great deal of money has nothing to do with your fondness for this particular pastime?”

She winked at him. “I probably wouldn’t enjoy myself as much if it was the same brand of company sitting around reading to each other from Divine Mind-Numbing’s Monologues of Monotony, true.”

He hesitated before admitting, “I’m not entirely sure I’m… welcome.”

Isabela snorted indelicately. “Handsome, I’m _here_ aren’t I? Do you need an engraved invitation? Something with Princess’ seal? Because I could probably steal that.”

“Varric—”

Isabela waved a hand dismissively. “This isn’t still about the Turnip thing, is it? Sweetheart, in spite of what you might think, he doesn’t go around bestowing nicknames willy-nilly.” She smiled fondly. “Ask to read one of his books. He’ll like that. And if this—” She glowered at the book of sermons, “—is the bilge you’re spending your nights with? You’ll like it, too. Trust me.” After a moment she laughed delightedly. “ _Swords and Shields._ Ask about that one.”

Cullen arched an eyebrow as he got to his feet. “Sounds… martial.”

On a wide grin, Isabela shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. Does have a templar Knight-Captain in it, though. You can have a discussion after. Tell him all the things he got wrong.” Leaping up, she clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Handsome. Bring money. Maybe I’ll even let you keep some of it.”

“How kind of you.”  Cullen didn’t even bother to hide his skepticism and Isabela laughed _._

“Oh, _someone’s_ still smarting from his initiation to Wicked Grace during our little road trip.”

“If by initiation _,_ you mean that I’m still wondering whether that was an actual game you claim to have taught me, then yes.”

Isabela’s eyes went wide with feigned innocence as she clapped a hand to her bosom.  “ _Claim?_   You sound as if you suspect me of something sneaky, Handsome.”

Cullen attempted to give the pirate his sternest glare, with little success.  “Perish the thought,”  he muttered, going for flatly disapproving but winding up sounding wry instead.

“All right _,_ ” admitted Isabela, striding for the door.  She seemed utterly certain he’d follow — and follow he did.  “I’ll admit I didn’t explain the rules _quite_ as clearly as I could have.”

“You’ll note my lack of surprise.”

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” she chided him, turning down the hallway.  Cullen noted the palace guard seemed to be split between admiring the pirate and looking at her as if wondering whether she’d stolen the silver — and where she could have possibly hidden it if she had.  “You have my word we’ll teach you properly this time.”

“And why the sudden change of heart?”  As he kept pace with Isabela, he was mildly surprised that she seemed to know every inch of the palace already.  Cullen had been a guest for just as long as she had, and he still struggled with the urge to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.  The path they were taking seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t tell if he actually knew where they were going, or if he just thought he did.

“Because while taking advantage of you is certainly tempting,” here, Isabela paused, giving him a blatantly appraising stare from bottom to top, during which time her smirk turned positively lascivious, “—very tempting _indeed_ —the fact remains that eventually it would just get too bloody easy.  Teach you the real rules and who knows what might happen, Handsome?  You could make things interesting _._ ”  She waggled her eyebrows over the final word _._

He wished “interesting” coming from Isabela’s mouth didn’t register so loudly as “illegal, immoral, and potentially disastrous” in his head.  But that was his own battle.

“You’re going to teach me the real rules to keep things interesting?” Cullen asked, not even making a token effort to hide his skepticism this time.

“Is that what she’s trying to sell you, Turnip?” Varric asked, coming up from behind and falling into step on Isabela’s other side.  “Hah, _right_. More like if Hawke catches her out she’ll be all over Rivaini’s ass like a bad rash.”

“And that’s only going to happen if someone tells her, Fuzzy.”

“What’re you looking at me for?” asked Varric affably.  “Like I’d sell you out.  Please.  You know where I sleep. And I know how many knives you carry.”  He waved a hand at a heavy, paneled door at the end of the hall.  “Here we are — plenty of room and the best booze in the house.  You bring the cards?”

The mysterious deck appeared once again in Isabela’s hand.  “Never leave home without them.”

Admittedly, Cullen hadn’t had either the time or the inclination to completely memorize the palace’s layout—he feared such a thing would take a great deal of effort—but even before Varric opened the door, he was certain the door looked familiar. Even if the ostentatious paneling hadn’t been a giveaway, the hall was too well-appointed for an empty barracks or common room.

“It’s no Hanged Man,” Varric groused good-naturedly as he… jostled the doorknob. Cullen peered closer. _Surely_ the dwarf wasn’t picking a lock? “But it’ll do in a pinch.”

With that, the door swung inward, revealing the room Cullen vaguely recognized from one or two visits as the prince’s office. Varric and Isabela sauntered in at once, the pirate heading unerringly for the liquor cabinet as her counterpart went to the fireplace. Cullen remained in the doorway, as though not stepping foot across the threshold might somehow keep him from the trouble Varric and Isabela seemed intent on inviting.

“Does the prince _know_ you’re using his office for—”

“What Choir Boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Varric retorted. “Hawke seemed to think we wouldn’t be interrupted here.”

“Hawke… told you to break into the prince’s office? To host a card game?” Cullen didn’t bother trying to mask the astonishment—and, very well, _horror_ —in his voice. He glanced down the hallway as though expecting a patrol of guards to arrive at any moment. Varric only laughed and set a pile of kindling alight with his flint.

“ _Told_ might be a slight overstatement,” Isabela said, deftly filling several waiting glasses with honey-colored liquor. Cullen remembered the last time she’d been in charge of pouring the drinks and felt his stomach drop.

Hopefully Aileene Caddell wouldn’t make the mistake of being anywhere near here tonight.

Somehow he suspected _not drinking_ wasn’t going to be permitted, with Isabela manning the bar and Varric raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. With a disgruntled sigh, he crossed the room, accepting the glass, leaving the hall—and safety—behind.

At least the first sip tasted good. It hardly burned at all. Cullen was afraid this was rather a bad sign, overall, but it didn’t stop him enjoying the beverage.

“Pull your weight, Turnip,” Varric commanded. “We need that table—” he pointed, “—and those chairs over near the—”

“Booze,” Isabela finished. “We need the table and chairs by the booze.”

Varric snorted. “Yeah. What she said.”

Cullen had just about arranged the table and chairs to Isabela and Varric’s specifications—both managed to keep justbusy enough to avoid the heavy lifting, he noticed—when an alarmed voice at the door cried, “What in all the _Maker’s green earth_ is the meaning of this?”

Blinking, Cullen felt the heat of shame rise in his cheeks. It was Sebastian’s Steward, he saw at once and Corwin looked just about as scandalized as Cullen _felt._ Isabela grinned and poured another glass, pressing it into the older man’s hand, refusing to take _no_ for an answer.

“More the merrier,” she said. “You look like a man who knows his way around a game of Wicked Grace.”

“Does His Highness know—”

“‘Course,” Varric lied. “Wouldn’t _dream_ of invading Choir Boy’s personal space without his permission.”

After a moment, the Steward regarded the glass of liquor in his hand and smiled shrewdly. “Well, in that case… I must say a card game sounds like just the thing to chase away the memories of a very unpleasant day.” And he downed the entire glass in a single swig.

Even Isabela gaped.

“Well.  Looks like that’s settled,” Varric said, dropping into a chair as Isabela refilled Corwin’s glass.  He pulled another deck of cards from an inside pocket and at Cullen’s curious look, Varric looked briefly at Isabela — momentarily distracted by refilling her own glass — and back at Cullen, shaking his head minutely.

So it appeared Isabela would not be cheating _right away,_ at least.  Or cheating quite so flagrantly, in any event. Varric, on the other hand…

Cullen lowered into a chair and listened carefully as Varric explained the object and rules of Wicked Grace as he shuffled the cards with a deft sort of finesse that always took Cullen by surprise.  But then he remembered the ease with which the dwarf picked the lock on the door and he decided it was pointless to predict either of the rogues. The rules Varric spoke had very little in common with the things Isabela had murmured in his ear the last time, and he scowled at her darkly. Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she winked at him.

Corwin and Isabela claimed their seats as Varric began to deal the cards.  He left Cullen out of the first hand, explaining, “Trust me, Turnip — you’ll want to sit out the first few.  You’ll learn more about Wicked Grace by watching the players than playing it.”

“You’re actually _telling_ him to watch for tells, Fuzzy?”

Varric paused in dealing the cards to send Isabela a long-suffering look.  “No, but you just did.”  He frowned at her glass.  “Don’t tell me you’re getting soused already.”

“Hardly,” Isabela snorted, taking a drink from the very same glass.  “But this is _really good._ ”

“It ought to be,” replied Corwin, picking up his cards and looking them over.  “It’s Starkhaven’s best export.”

Isabela’s brows nearly reached her hairline.  “You make this _here?_ ” 

Corwin took another sip from the glass, closing his eyes and savoring the taste of the liquor on his palate.  “Oh, aye.  Aged seventeen years in oak barrels made from our own trees.”

Cullen blinked and took another sip.  And then another.  It _was_ quite good — perhaps a little _too_ good, he decided, and with that he vowed to pace himself.

“I’m beginning to think Starkhaven’s not as repressed as we thought it was, Rivaini.”

Isabela drained her glass.  “And I’m beginning to think I want to live here.”

Varric took a drink as well, and for a moment the dwarf’s visage relaxed into something akin to bliss.  “You did catch the part about this being an _export_ , didn’t you?”

“To the Void with that,” Isabela sniffed.  “They never had _this_ at The Hanged Man.”

“I have found,” said a voice by the doorway, “that anything The Hanged Man doesn’t serve generally has much to recommend it.”  Fenris and Amelle stood by the open door.  The elf was eyeing the cards Varric dealt.  Amelle, on the other hand, was staring openly — _gleefully_ , Cullen feared — at the drink he held in his hand.

“Hey, Broody.  You found my note. You want in?”

Fenris arched a brow. “Next hand. When I’ve watched you shuffle and deal.”

Cullen watched Amelle glance quickly around the room. “Kiara’s not here?”

“Not yet,” Varric said.

It was Corwin who supplied, “I believe she had an errand to run.”

“An… errand?” Cullen asked. His tongue was already feeling just a little lazy, and he pushed the deceptively agreeable drink away from him. Unfortunately, this just left the glass nearer Isabela, and she took it as a hint to refill it. Which she did. With a disturbing grin.

“She had something to show His Highness, I believe.”

“ _His Highness_ ,” Isabela murmured, mocking yet somehow also affectionate. “Maker’s puckered arseh—”

“Isabela!” Amelle admonished. “Quit with the blasphemy and do what you do best, will you.”

The pirate leered. “I would, kitten, but I don’t think your sweet elf would let me. To him _or_ to you. Mmm. Or to both of you at the same time. More’s the pity.”

Cullen blushed, and suddenly found his hands very absorbing as they toyed with the crystal glass.

_Wait. When did I pick up the glass again? And how did it get so much emptier?_

Amelle didn’t blush. She rolled her eyes. “I meant a _drink_ , Isabela.”

Isabela pouted theatrically, but poured a glass of the golden liquid for Amelle. She didn’t bother asking Fenris before handing him an entire bottle of red wine. Fenris’ lips twitched as he accepted the offering.

A not-so-delicate cough from the doorway caught everyone’s attention. Tasia stood with her fists planted on her hips, Ser Kinnon smirking at her shoulder. “Forgetting something, my lady?”

“Oh,” Amelle said dryly, “I forgot. Tasia and Kinnon have invited themselves along.”

“My lady, need I remind you you’d still be dressed in a dressing gown if not for me?” Tasia asked archly, slipping into the room. She took the seat between Corwin and Cullen. Kinnon, still smirking, offered the table a brief bow. Corwin shifted down a seat, smiling as Kinnon sat next to Tasia. Tasia scowled. Darkly.

At this Amelle _did_ blush. “I was not in a— _honestly._   There was absolutely nothing wrong with what I was wearing.”

“A tunic and leggings both utterly inappropriate and two sizes too big, you mean?  And I’ll not start on the _color—_ ”

“I think you already have,” Amelle drawled.  

“My lady, _black_ is hardly a color appropriate for your complexion!  I’m sure you agree the sage green is far more flattering.”

Amelle glared down at the dress she wore and flicked a hand down her skirts, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle.  “Oh, _hang_ the flattering colors, Tasia.  If someone would see that I was supplied with more clothes that, I don’t know, had buttons and laces on the _front_ , maybe I wouldn’t end up—”

“Wandering the halls in someone else’s clothing?” Tasia queried, with a pointed look between Amelle and Fenris. “You are the _sister_ of the _future princess of Starkhaven_ , my lady. _Some_ decency would be—”

“Ladies, ladies,” Varric said soothingly. “Let’s keep the mud-slinging to a minimum, shall we?”

“Mmm,” Isabela said, leaning back and closing her eyes, still cradling her glass of whiskey close to her bosom. “Mud-slinging. You know, I once wrestled a pretty blonde girl in a mud-pit outside Llomerryn.”

Kinnon choked on his drink. Cullen was mostly glad he’d _not_ been drinking at that moment. “ _Why?_ ” the knight asked, half-awed and half-scandalized.

“Fun?” Isabela gave a lazy shrug. “Might’ve been over a man. All I remember now is how slippery the mud was. And how great that girl’s _tits_ were.” Isabela leaned on one elbow, propping her head in her hand. “They were _great_.”

“Rivaini.”

“What?” she asked guilelessly.

“He’s not even _playing_ this hand. Stop wasting your best stuff.”

“You’re just cranky you haven’t heard that one before.”

Fenris, his hand at the small of Amelle’s back in a gesture both solicitous and yet vaguely possessive, guided the mage to the chair on Cullen’s other side, pulling it out for her.  Amelle’s smile was positively beaming as she sat and Cullen could not help but marvel at how very much had changed since that cold wet night in the cave.  In truth, it was a relief to see Amelle smiling — he’d seen far too many of her tears.  Though Fenris wasn’t _smiling,_ the elf definitely seemed far more peaceful than he had in quite some time.  _Thank the Maker,_ he thought, taking another sip and then wondering momentarily if he had just blasphemed.

“I’m not cranky,” Varric answered Isabela, sending her a _look_ over his cards.  “And I _have_ heard that one before.”  He frowned and took a drink.  “Or I’ve written something like it already.”

“Maker help us all,” Amelle said, taking a drink as Fenris sat down on her other side. “Varric’s writing _friend-fiction_ too.”

“Friend-what?” asked Ser Kinnon, topping off Corwin’s glass.  The bottle was getting dangerously low.  “We have more of this, don’t we?”  With a nod, Corwin got up to retrieve a second bottle.

“Friend-fiction,” Amelle explained, smirking.  “Isabela writes _stories_ about her _friends_.”  She paused and sent the pirate a look.  “And then has the nerve to continue calling them friends.”

“Stories?” Cullen echoed.  “ _Why?_ ”

“Why _not_ , Handsome?” asked Isabela, winking.  “I’ve certainly had plenty of ideasabout you.”  She paused and sent Amelle an arch look.  “As I’ve mentioned already to certain parties.”  Had Cullen not already been entirely out of his depth, he certainly would have started feeling so.

Cullen had a multitude of reasons why not, for all he couldn’t currently latch on to any of them.  Fortunately, Amelle shook her head at Isabela and said, “Why _not_?  How much time do you _have,_ Isabela?  For starters, it’s bloody _embarrassing._ ”

The pirate sent her a blank look.  “What?  I’m never emb—”

“Embarrassing for the people you write about, you ninny,” Amelle countered, dipping her fingers in the glass and flicking whiskey at the pirate.

“Hey!” Isabela cried.  “Don’t waste that!  And _besides,_ if people would just _tell me things,_ I wouldn’t have to _make them up._ ”  She leaned one elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand, sending Amelle and Fenris both a particularly speculative look.  “Speaking of which, what _have_ you two been up to, I wonder?  Wandering the halls in Broody’s clothing, are we?  And why would you be doing such a _scandalous_ thing?”

“Good going, Tasia,” muttered Amelle, sending the maid a dark look.  Tasia, however, only countered Amelle’s glare with an arch expression of her own.

Varric sighed and tossed a coin to the center of the table.  “Rivaini, everyone at this table knows your definition of scandalous doesn’t involve wandering around in clothes at all.  _If_ you’ve even got a definition of the word, which I kinda doubt.”  Isabela conceded the point with a little sigh as she regarded her hand and met Varric’s bet.

The little blonde maid tilted her chin up at Amelle.  “At least you’re presentable now _._   Honestly, even your sister didn’t fight me this badly, my lady.”

“I’m not fighting,” reasoned Amelle.  “And I have asked you to quit it with the endless my ladying. Tasia, I have been dressing myself for the past twenty-five years, thank you.  I’m rather fond of it.”

Tasia sniffed, “Made evident by the fact you were wandering around—”

“We weren’t wandering _._   We were on our way here _._ ”

“—in borrowed clothing! And need I remind you of the state of your _hair_? My lady?”

“You don’t need to,” Amelle said, taking a healthy swig from her glass and glowering at the deliberate honorific.  “But I think you’re going to anyway.”

“Why, it looked as if you’d come straight out of—”

Isabela cackled suddenly, setting her glass down with such force the liquor inside ought to have sloshed out — and would have, if there’d been any left in her glass.  There wasn’t.  The pirate shot the crystal tumbler an accusatory glare before filling it again.  Then she slammed down the bottle. It sloshed more convincingly.  “I knew it!” she crowed.  “You _two!_ I _knew it!_ ”

Fenris looked pained and pinched the bridge of his nose as Varric let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.  “Can we _please_ play _cards_ here?”

“A novel idea,” the elf muttered.

“No way.  Pay up, Fuzzy.”

Cullen began to wonder if there was anything those two _wouldn’t_ bet over.  And then he wondered idly what they’d bet on this time.

One look at Amelle’s face told him plenty.  Fenris looked even less impressed, if such a thing was possible. Intent on their argument, neither Varric nor Isabela seemed to realize they were facing imminent death by mage. Or elf. Or both.

“Dream on, Rivaini.”

“Pay up,” she said, holding out her hand and wiggling her fingers expectantly.

“Nope.”

“I’ve clearly won.”

“If you’d won half as clearly as you think you did, Firefly would’ve zapped you and blasted your hide halfway back to that mudpit in Llomerryn by now.”

“Don’t think I’m not thinking about it,” Amelle growled, glaring.

Fenris’ glower darkened further.  “Might I encourage you?”

“Go ahead. Twist my arm.”

“See, Tasia,” Ser Kinnon broke in, making no effort at all to hide his mirth.  “Told you you shouldn’t piss her off.  _Zap_.”

“Shut _up,_ Kinnon,” Tasia muttered.

“Hmph,” huffed Isabela, tossing her hair.  “Handsome would never let that happen to me.  Would you, Handsome?”

It really was a most impressive glass he held between his hands.  The workmanship on the cut crystal was like nothing he’d ever seen before.  He followed the pattern slowly with the tip of one finger, trying _very hard_ not to listen anymore.

“Well, Handsome?” prompted the pirate.

“Pretty sure you’re not going to be able to count on Turnip’s razor-sharp templar reflexes this time, Rivaini.  I don’t think he could smite a nug right about now.”

Beside Cullen, Amelle’s glare disappeared into a grin, which was dangerously wicked _._ Cullen set his glass down firmly, and some of the liquor did slosh out.  “ _Amelle_ _Hawke,_ don’t you _dare_ —”

But Amelle didn’t dare.  Ser Kinnon did.

“Aileene Caddell is an easier target than a nug, though, wouldn’t you say?  Bigger, for one.  Louder, for another.”

Cullen groaned, pushing the glass aside.  This time Corwin topped it off.  Was _everyone_ against him now?

“I’m sorry I missed _that,”_ Tasia murmured into her glass.  When Cullen gaped at her, she only shrugged her slender shoulders and said, “What?  She’s a dreadful shrew. And she’s an absolute _menace_ to the serving staff.”

Suddenly Amelle was leaning across Cullen and clinking her glass against Tasia’s.  “And on _that_ we can agree.”

After observing several rounds, Cullen was certain of several things. First, Isabela would do _anything_ to win. Lying, cheating, flirting—all fell under good regulation for her. Second, he was never, _ever_ going to understand the game. Third? Hawke’s little maid was _terrifyingly_ good. Everyone had thought the first win a piece of luck. Tasia smiled her bright, dimpled smile, tossed her blonde curls, and gathered her winnings close. The second was a near thing, but still Tasia won. After the third, even Isabela grudgingly admitted perhaps she’d met her match.

Admittedly Cullen had very little experience, but if the girl had a tell he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was. Neither, it appeared, did Isabela. The pirate leaned heavily on the table, gazing across the table at Tasia so intently even the glass of whiskey at her elbow was forgotten. “I like you,” Isabela said at last.

“Imagine our collective surprise,” Fenris sighed.

Amelle snorted. “You’d like her less if you’d ever had her hands and her hairbrush anywhere near your head.”

Neither Tasia nor Isabela acknowledged Amelle’s comment. Or Fenris’. Tasia, sorting her latest winnings into increasingly large piles, smiled and replied, “You are very kind to say so.”

“Nothing kind about it,” Varric said on a laugh. “Rivaini’s picturing how rich she’d be if she could convince you to run off and go into business with her.”

“I was not!” Isabela protested. Then, a heartbeat later, she added, “How do you feel about ships, Tasia? The open sea? The wind in your hair and the spray on your cheeks?”

Tasia giggled. “Wind in your hair sounds like monstrous trouble. So many _knots_.” Then the maid tilted her head and winked. “I’m quite happy here.”

“Glad to hear it,” said a new voice. Cullen glanced up, blinking, and saw Hawke silhouetted in the door. Bloody _rogues_. Bloody rogues with their sneaking and their silent feet. They were going to be the death of him. Sebastian stood behind her, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. Cullen thought he looked less… grim than he’d looked in the courtyard. The weight that had been crushing him seemed, if not completely gone, at least a great deal _lighter._

That didn’t stop him from sputtering, “What… what in the _Void_ —”

Tugging Sebastian by the hand, Hawke waltzed into the room. Ser Kinnon, Tasia, and Corwin rose to their feet and were halfway through their elaborate dance of bows and curtseys and salutes when Hawke waved a hand and glared. “None of that. Everyone’s equal at the card table.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sebastian, her expression fond. “Cat got your tongue, love?”

The prince blinked at her. “ _This_ is why you wanted to stop by my office? Do you have _any idea_ what a mess they could have made?” He glowered at Isabela, who looked mildly affronted to have been singled out. “Did you touch anything on the desk?”

“You don’t mean all those piles of paper?” she retorted without missing a beat. “We needed _something_ to use as kindling, Princess.”

To Cullen’s surprise, Sebastian only laughed. Then he stole Isabela’s glass and drank down the contents. She grimaced at him, but he only smiled mildly and said, “I see you didn’t find the good stuff.”

Isabela’s eyes widened. “There’s… there’s stuff _better_ than this?”

On an arched eyebrow, Sebastian said, “Aye, of course. But you don’t think I’d leave it lying around in just any locked cabinet, do you? Maker only knows what kind of scoundrels might break in and abscond with it.”

Ser Kinnon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Your Highness, we—”

“Oh, Kinnon, sit down,” Hawke commanded lightly. “There are two rules: everyone’s equal, like I said, and what’s said at the card table doesn’t _leave_ the card table. Can you abide by those?”

“O-of course, my lady.”

She glared until he amended, “Uh. Kiara.”

“Good. You, too, Tasia. I don’t want to hear a single _my lady_ out of you, propriety and preservation of rank be damned.”

Tasia scowled. Amelle grinned.

Cullen started when Kiara perched on the arm of his chair and reached up to ruffle his hair. “What happened to _never drinking again_ , Cullen?”

He sighed, defeated. Hawke only laughed.

From there, Hawke laid one hand on her sister’s shoulder and bent, bringing the other arm around Amelle in a loose hug, squeezing gently as she pressed her cheek to the top of Amelle’s head.

“Looking better,” she said quietly.

“Feeling better,” Amelle replied, tipping her head back and giving her sister a smile.

“I’ll just _bet_ she’s feeling—”  Cullen felt the flare of magic even through his slowly deadening senses and the next thing anyone knew, Isabela’s chair had tipped back and the pirate with it, yelping out in surprise and indignation as she tumbled to the floor.

Amelle sipped her drink and smiled mildly.  “You should be more careful, Isabela.”

The pirate planted both hands on the table and pulled herself to her feet before bending to right the chair.  “You, kitten,” she said, dropping back into her seat with a flounce, “are a _brat._ ”

But Amelle only maintained that same enigmatic little smile, murmuring, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Hawke, who was doing a particularly terrible job of hiding her laughter, gave her sister’s shoulder a final squeeze.  “You’ve been practicing.  Force?”

With wide, guileless eyes, Amelle tapped her chin thoughtfully and said, “You know, I never thought being able to control the force of gravity could have such… _practical_ applications.”  Across from her, Tasia and Ser Kinnon gaped. The Steward only raised an amused eyebrow.  Amelle took another sip and guilelessness vanished as she gave a catlike smile.  “Who’d have thought it would?”

Releasing her sister with a chuckle, Hawke dropped into a chair between Fenris and Isabela, smirking at the elf. “Hope you know what you’re getting into here, Fenris.”

“That’s a warning come years too late, love,” remarked Sebastian as he retrieved a different bottle from the locked bottom drawer of his desk.  If possible, the liquid in the bottle he pulled forth looked even more like honey, gleaming when Sebastian held it up to the firelight.

“Is _that_ the good stuff?” Isabela asked.

“Oh, aye,” Sebastian answered her.  “But if you’re tumbling out of chairs already, Isabela, I think this might be a bit too strong for you.”

The pirate drained her glass and made a face at him.  “Princess, they haven’t yet made a liquor I couldn’t handle.”

“Why, that sounds suspiciously like a challenge, my heart,” snickered Hawke, accepting the glass Sebastian handed her.

“Indeed it does.  All right, Isabela,” Sebastian said, and there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes as he poured a glass for himself, and then a third, which he set solidly in the center of the table.  “You win the next hand, and that glass is yours.” 

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but Sebastian seemed to have slanted a knowing look in Tasia’s direction.  Entirely unaware, Isabela’s eyes lit up at the prospect, then narrowed them as she glared across the table at the maid.

“That’s it.  You’re going _down_ , Blondie.”

A strange hush settled over the table at the nickname.  Beside him, Amelle’s grip on her glass tightened minutely.  Everyone seemed to be looking at everyone else.  Only the Starkhavenites looked as clueless as Cullen felt _._

Varric broke the strained, tense silence. He coughed slightly and said, “I was thinking _Buttercup_ , myself.”

“Good one,” Isabela said, her tone peculiar and hollow. She was staring very hard at the table, both hands curled into loose fists. “That’s better.”

Hawke laid one of her hands over Isabela’s. “No harm done.”

“Bastard,” Isabela muttered. Cullen’s brow knit. He knew the pirate didn’t mean _Hawke_ , but…

“Oh,” he said, _realizing_. It wasn’t until everyone— _everyone_ —turned to look at him that he realized he’d made the sound aloud. However, having played the unwitting distraction, he watched from the corner of his eye as Isabela pulled herself together, rebuilding her armor of nonchalance.

He knew Isabela was recovered when she grinned, tossed her hair, and said, “So are we going head to head, Buttercup, or d’you suppose the rest of these chickens want to make it interesting?”

Hawke snorted and tossed a coin into the center of the table to start the betting. It bounced, tinkling against the side of the glass. Fenris and Amelle quickly followed suit. Varric narrowed his eyes, taking in the competition, and threw in as well. Even Sebastian seemed willing, and so Cullen reluctantly pushed a coin to the middle.

“Maker’s nuts, Handsome. You look like someone just kicked your puppy. It’s only money.”

Cullen had the sudden, irrational urge to stick his tongue out at Isabela. He refrained. Barely. And only then by lifting his glass and taking another sip.

“Do I get a nickname?” Ser Kinnon asked plaintively.

“Be careful what you ask for,” Cullen muttered darkly. “There are plenty of root vegetables to go around.”

Ser Kinnon looked vaguely unsettled by the possibility, but Varric laughed so abruptly that even he seemed startled by it. “Don’t know you well enough yet, kid. Give it time.”

“Maybe you should let Sebastian help you on that one,” Hawke said sweetly. “I’m sure he could think of something _all kinds_ of flattering.”

Tasia drew a card from the top of the pile and smiled a pointed smile. “I could think of a few.”

The knight paled as the play moved to him. “I—maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Too late now,” Fenris said grimly.

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was the unique addition to the pot, but the bets seemed to move more and more quickly around the table, the stakes rising with every go round.  He thought he’d _started_ to at the very least pick out some of the more obvious tells around him, but considering the game was nine-tenth’s deception — or seemed to be, at least — it was hard to discriminate.  Finally, he folded.

“That’s it for me.”

Amelle’s lips pulled into a little moue.  “Cullen, you _can’t_ fold.”

“I most certainly _can_ and _did_ and would do so again.”

Varric chuckled as he dropped his bet to the pile.  “You know the rules, Turnip.  First one to fold gets the liquor.”

“As I recall it,” Fenris said mildly, choosing another card from the pile, “the first one to fold delivered a baby.”

Across the table, Kinnon’s brows twitched in confusion that had nothing to do with the cards he held.  “I think you play Wicked Grace a little differently in Kirkwall.”

“Amelle had an awful hand,” Hawke explained, tossing a handful of coins into the pot.  “She folded in a fit of pique—”

Amelle turned, clutching her cards to her chest.  Cullen suspected she had a very good hand — she’d been strangely protective of her cards lately.  “Ex _cuse_ me,” she said, her voice going up half an octave.  “It was not a _fit of pique._ ”

“Oh, it was absolutely a fit of pique, kitten,” Isabela chortled.

Amelle sat up, looking almost prim as she riposted, “I’m surprised you can remember through the haze of liquor.”

Isabela peered over her cards, her full lips twisting into a smirk.  “You’d never _believe_ the things I remember, sweet thing.”

“Considering what you said about the mud-wrestling, I’m surprised there are things you’ve managed to _forget_ ,” muttered Kinnon, and even as the knight said the words, the tips of his ears went pink.

Bringing up that particular memory diverted Isabela and her smirk melted into a grin as she sighed a little, slouching back in the chair.  “Sometimes I’m surprised too,” she sighed.

Amelle snickered and plucked up another card from the deck.  “Thank you, Kinnon.  I thought I was going to have to knock her over again.”

Sebastian raised the betting with the light clink of coins.  “The night is still young.”

Hawke arched a red eyebrow at him.  “Don’t encourage my sister, love.”

“Indeed,” Fenris intoned, though there was a faint half-smile at his lips as he sent Amelle a sidelong glance.  “Though she hardly needs it.”

Mindful of his cards, Sebastian spread his hands, his expression utterly innocent.  “I was encouraging nothing.”  Then he dipped his head and sent Amelle a wink, adding in an undertone everyone heard, “Ten sovereigns if you do it again.”

Isabela put down her cards and folded her arms, glowering at Sebastian.  “ _Hey!_ ”  Then she looked back at Amelle, “ _Twenty_ if you knock Princess here on his royal arse.”

Amelle pretended to piously study her cards, if such a thing were even possible.  “Oh, I couldn’t _possibly_ do that, Isabela.  Sebastian’s practically family.”

“ _And_ I know where you sleep at night,” Hawke added on a laugh, elbowing her sister.

“Which wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t sleep alo— _Augh!_ ”  Down Isabela went, again.

“Oops,” Amelle said, blinking doe eyes and fluttering a hand to her chest.  “Did I do that?” she asked, deftly catching the gold piece Sebastian tossed, then turned it over in her fingers, huffing a laugh as she looked at it.  “ _Maker_.  I heal people for free and get paid for silly party tricks.  What’s the world coming to?”

Hawke grinned, pondering her cards before trading one in. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until you get paid for healing, too, Mely. I have _connections_ , you know. I hear there might be a position open. Shall I put in a good word with the prince of Starkhaven?”

Sebastian chuckled, but Cullen didn’t miss the flutter of… _something_ that crossed Amelle’s face. Nor did he miss the flash of concern as Fenris turned her way. Almost as swiftly as Cullen saw it, however, and just as Hawke looked up from her cards to meet her sister’s eyes, the flash was gone, replaced by a smile just a little brittle about the edges. _Too soon to joke about the last healer,_ he supposed.

“Nepotism,” Amelle replied lightly, “is a terrible way to begin one’s reign.”

“Not when the sister in question is the best healer in the Free Marches,” Hawke replied at once. “Then it’s just _good sense._ ”

Amelle rolled her eyes, still smiling, still not smiling _quite_ enough. When the play shifted to Isabela and she raised the stakes yet again, Cullen nudged Amelle’s foot under the table. The smile she sent his way was more genuine, and less bright. Then she shook her head, just the tiniest fraction, and Cullen thought he almost understood. It wasn’t about Jessamine at all. Leaning over the table, he reached for the last of the lesser-quality liquor and filled glasses all around. Varric nodded approvingly, but Cullen noticed the dwarf’s gaze lingered just a moment too long on Amelle as well, darkening slightly.

Betting went around the table again, and—forced into the role of bartender or not—Cullen was increasingly glad he’d folded when he did. Corwin was the next to gently place his cards face-down, sliding them away from him with a rueful smile. “Too rich for my blood,” he said, leaning back and folding his hands across his middle.

“Mine, too,” muttered Kinnon, “but I’ll be damned if I let something minor like that force me out now.”

Tasia said nothing. In fact, Cullen noted, the maid had said nothing since the hand started. While the others traded jabs and insults and small talk, she merely focused on her cards. Occasionally she looked up to smile or nod or—most often—roll her eyes at the hapless knight seated beside her, but she rarely let the banter distract her for more than a moment.

And she didn’t _touch_ the glass of whiskey at her elbow. Every once in a while she raised it to her lips, but the level of amber liquid never seemed to drop.

He chuckled under his breath.

“Something you want to share with the rest of us, Turnip?” Varric asked.

“I think not,” Cullen replied, grinning. “I’m afraid it would only be amusing to me. Play on, play on.”

“Turnip,” Hawke sighed mournfully, sending Cullen a sympathetic look. “Maker but that’s _wretched_ , Varric.”

“It’s growing on me,” Cullen said.

“Pun not intended?” Isabela chortled.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully before he, too, folded with a sigh. “There are worse things,” he opined. “A starving family sings the praises of a turnip, no matter how humble it is.”

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Good to see you’re still good old Choir Boy under all that silk and satin and velvet.”

Sebastian smiled wryly. “If you wanted it to be an insult, you should probably have thought it through.”

“Turnip or Choir Boy?”

“Both,” Sebastian returned.

“That’s the thing about most of Varric’s nicknames,” said Amelle thoughtfully as she raised the bet and dropped more coins onto the pile.  “They wind up sticking, whether you like it or not.”

“Hey,” the dwarf said, affecting a wounded air, “we changed yours easily enough, Firefly.”

“Changed it?” asked Kinnon, who was trying not to glare at his cards and mostly failing.  “What was it before?”

Amelle made a face but didn’t reply.  “Little Hawke,” Varric said on a sigh, looking shamed.  

Kinnon made a face. “ _That_ was her nickname?  Little Hawke?”

“I know, I know.  You can’t say anything this lot hasn’t already told me a hundred times.  My least imaginative yet, laziest nickname ever — trust me kid, _I know_.”

“But you _did_ make up for it with Firefly,” Amelle said with a grin.  To Cullen’s surprise, Varric looked — strangely — even _more_ shamefaced.  The dwarf turned his glass around in a circle, looking intently at the way the firelight caught the crystal and illuminated the liquid within.

“Yeah, uh,” he finally began after a long silence.  “I didn’t exactly… come up with that one.”  He let go of his glass to trade out two cards and then fiddled with the hand he held.

“And the ones he _was_ coming up with were awful,” remarked Isabela, tossing her bet in.  The pile of money around the glass of whiskey was growing ever higher, and the golden hue of the coins rivaled the color of the liquor in the glass.  “Glow-worm?  _Really,_ Varric. _Sparkles?_ ”

“Hey,” Varric groused lightly, “can the criticism, Rivaini — until you come up with something better than _kitten,_ I don’t wanna hear it.”

Amelle looked at her cards for a moment and frowned, but Cullen didn’t expect Amelle was frowning _at_ her cards.  “Then who did, if you didn’t?” She glanced at her sister and raised her eyebrows, but Hawke only shook her head.

Varric’s brows lifted as he looked over at Amelle.  “You really don’t know?”  When she shook her head he chuckled.  “Well, at least some people still know how to keep a secret.  Still, I’m surprised Broody here didn’t say something.”

Then Cullen saw something he was fairly sure he’d never see again in the whole of his life: Fenris _blushed._   Scowling, glaring hard at his cards, he never lifted his eyes.  Amelle, on the other hand, gave a start and turned to the elf.

“You did?”

Fenris’ brows lowered further and he shuffled the cards in his hand as though that might somehow make them different.  “It was merely a suggestion.  As Isabela said, Varric’s ideas at the time were lacking his usual… flair.”

The mage just blinked and stared.  “ _You_ came up with Firefly?”

Finally he tore his gaze away from his cards and looked at her steadily.  “We were all perfectly aware how much you disliked being called _Little Hawke._ ”  After a moment he lifted an eyebrow and said, with an air of defensiveness, “You needn’t sound so surprised,” he said, adding with a shrug, “Firefly seemed an apt name for you.”

“I had no idea you… knew me so well, even then,” she said softly.  “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

The elf shot Varric a wry look.  “That was rather the _point_ , as I recall.  I didn’t…” he trailed off, turning his scowl once more to the cards.  Amelle laid a hand on his arm and Fenris looked up again, his scowl fading in the face of her smile.

“Then I’m glad Varric’s got a big mouth.”  Paying no attention to Varric’s indignant “ _Hey!_ ” — or to anyone else around the table — Amelle leaned over and pressed her mouth against Fenris,’ kissing him firmly.  The reactions ranged from Hawke’s raised eyebrows to Kinnon’s blushing ears, to Isabela, who was actually _clapping her hands._   Even Tasia peeked at them surreptitiously from behind her cards, her eyes widening minutely and her cheeks going pink before she jerked her gaze back to the cards she held.

When Amelle pulled back, she gave a funny little smile at the cards she held before placing them face-down on the table.  “I fold,” she announced, scooting her chair closer to Fenris’ and leaning against him as she drained her glass.  With a little smirk, the elf followed suit, and Cullen found himself intensely curious as to the quality of their respective hands.

“And now we learn the truth of it,” Sebastian added, taking a drink.  “Varric, I am most heartily disappointed in you.”

The dwarf jerked a thumb at Fenris and Amelle.  “Hey, this one turned out better than I could’ve _written_ it.  And even you’ve got to admit I’m rallying here, Choir Boy,” Varric said, gesturing at Tasia.  “Case in point: Buttercup.”  His gaze went to Kinnon then and he narrowed his eyes, thinking hard.  “…Nope.  Still got nothin’ on you, kid.”

Kinnon traded out three of his cards.  “You know, that might actually be a relief.”

Hawke was next to fold, shaking her head over her hand as she turned the cards face-down and pushed them away. Then she rose from the table and rang for a servant.

“My lady?” Tasia asked, half-rising from her seat even though she was still very much in the game. “Is there something you—?”

The maid swallowed her question when Hawke gave her a black look.

“Ten to one she’s hungry,” Amelle murmured, making Fenris smile. Tasia’s brow furrowed. “Surely you’ve noticed the late night snacking, Tasia? Orana just made sure to leave plates of food already prepared before she went off to bed.”

This time when the shadow crossed Amelle’s face it was Sebastian who said, “We’ll send for her, Amelle. She will always have a place here.”

Amelle inclined her head, but said nothing, and when Hawke flung herself back into her seat, dangling her legs over the arm, and cried, “Maker, I’m _starving_ ,” Amelle only laughed.

“All right, kids,” Varric declared, pushing the remainder of his coins into the center of the table. “This sodding game’s been going on too blasted long. I’m all in.”

Isabela arched an eyebrow and followed suit, almost lazily. On a deeply tragic sigh, Kinnon reluctantly added his money to the pot.

And Tasia folded.

“What?” Isabela cried. “You _can’t_ fold. We just went all in!”

The maid smiled enigmatically. “I also can’t win with this hand. I’m not going to throw good money after bad.”

The pirate blinked. “Why not?”

“Because I won,” Tasia said improbably. On Isabela’s confusion, she added pertly, “At the end of the night I’m still going to have money in my purse, but you are not. Strangely, I find that’s satisfaction enough for me.”

“Game’s not over until the cards are flipped,” Isabela replied.

Tasia only shook her head. “You’ve been bluffing this entire hand.”

The pirate gaped. And then _blushed_. “I… I was _not._ ”

Tasia’s giggle made Cullen realize he never, ever, _ever_ wanted to get on her bad side. Ever. It was _entirely_ too knowing. “First rule of Wicked Grace: play the hand you have. You weren’t playing your _cards_ , you were playing _me._ And, in this particular instance, I was playing _you._ You had more to lose. So that’s why I won, even though I folded.”

Isabela sat back hard.

Varric guffawed. “Shit, Rivaini. You _have_ met your sodding match.”

Sebastian grinned as he passed Tasia a different glass of precious liquor. “No matter who wins the one on the table, you deserve this, Tasia.”

She accepted it gratefully, and this time when she drank, the level of the amber liquid decidedly did _not_ stay the same.

When the cards were flipped, it was clear _just_ how right Tasia had been. Isabela’s cards were rubbish. Even Cullen, who hardly understood the game, could see that.

Varric looked at his hand, and then at Kinnon’s. “Well, kid,” he said. “I think we may have discovered your nickname after all. Hand like _that_ winning a pot like _this_? You’re just plain _lucky_. We’re talking horseshoe-up-the-ass lucky.”

Kinnon blinked stupidly. “I… won? Maker’s breath, how did _that_ happen?” Then his eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t mean you’re going to start calling me Horseshoe, is it?”

“Tempting, but I think maybe we’ll just go with _Lucky._ Trips off the tongue a little more easily.”

The knight still looked somewhat dubious as he pulled his winnings in.  “The problem with nicknames like _Lucky_ is that they usually wind up being ironic.”

“Take the hand you’re dealt, kid.  Could be worse.”

“Root vegetables,” Cullen said sagely.  From the face Kinnon made, it was plain he agreed.  

“You know,” Isabela purred, leaning forward and pushing to her feet, setting her cleavage on display for everyone, though she appeared to be aiming it directly at Kinnon, “ _I_ knew a Lucky once.”  The pirate slinked around the table, coming to stand by Kinnon’s chair, resting her hip against the chair’s arm — and, by default, Kinnon’s.

The knight gave an audible gulp.  “You… ah, you did, did you?”

“Mmmm.”  She ran one finger up Kinnon’s arm and back down again.  “He was very… _generous._ ”

“Oh, blow it out your arse, Isabela,” Hawke cackled.  “Lucky double-crossed you and got his guts spilled for his trouble.”

Kinnon shot a glare in Varric’s direction.  “See?  _Ironic._ ”

“Sorry, kid.  You’re stuck with it. Better make the best of it, Lucky.”

Isabela recovered her savoir-faire and cozied up against Kinnon.  “Well.  _He_ wasn’t particularly lucky, no, but _you_ , on the other hand…”  She smiled at Kinnon, reaching one hand out and dragging her finger across the rim of the coveted crystal tumbler.

“Uh…”

“So what do you say… _Lucky?_ ”  The way she was stroking that glass was obscene enough to be illegal in at least three countries.

A chilly, barely civil voice replied:  “He isn’t interested.”

Isabela looked with surprise to Tasia, who was giving the pirate as icy a look as Cullen had ever seen one woman give another.  Whatever silent communication passed between blonde and brunette, it was _Isabela_ who backed off with a nod and a smile.  “My mistake, Buttercup,” she said, sauntering back to her seat and dropping down into it.  

Kinnon was the only one at the table who looked as if he hadn’t the foggiest idea what was going on.  “Hey… wait, what…”

“Drink your winnings, lad,” Corwin said, doing a poor job of hiding his chuckle.  “Maybe it’ll make more sense later.”

As Kinnon sampled the contents of his glass, Cullen looked around the table — everyone who’d remained in the game had shown their cards, but something was still niggling at him.  He turned to Amelle, who had her head resting on Fenris’ shoulder, a sleepily content smile at her lips, and gestured at her cards.  “May I?”

Amelle shrugged lazily, but her smile didn’t abate.  “Why not?”

Gathering the discarded hand together, Cullen turned them over, setting them face-up on the table.  And he gaped.  In fact, the entire table had fallen silent.  Even Fenris looked quietly shocked.

Hawke was the first one to find her voice.  “ _Amelle Arista Hawke_.  _That_ was your hand?”

Amelle was still smiling.  “Mm-hmm.”

Isabela’s voice was going slowly higher.  “You had a hand like that _and you folded?_ ”

“I did.”

The pirate sputtered.  “You _folded_ with a _hand like that?_ ”

Varric snickered.  “Pretty sure the answer’s going to be yes no matter how many different ways you ask the question, Rivaini.”

“You could have won the whole pot with a hand like that!  I would’ve _shanked_ someone for a hand like that!”

“It’s a very good hand, Amelle,” Sebastian said, tilting his head a bit, the better to see the cards.  “I must confess I’m surprised as well.”

The mage only shrugged.  “I’ve already got everything I could want.  Anything more would just be greedy.”

Isabela huffed and slumped back in her chair, looking at Amelle as if she were entirely mad.  “And what’s the problem with a little greed?  By the Maker’s balls, Amelle, you could’ve _won._ ”

Echoing Tasia’s earlier sentiment, Amelle only smiled and replied, “I did.”

Food arrived then, and the cards were put away in favor of platters of fruit and cheese and cold meats. Another bottle of ‘the good stuff’ was produced and divvied amongst ten glasses. 

When Hawke declared, “Did any of you know that Sebastian plays the fiddle?” there was a great deal of head-shaking and blinking before an instrument was duly produced and the blushing prince was pressed into quasi-reluctant duty.

And sitting in his comfortable chair, pleasantly warmed by drink and firelight, surrounded by laughter and banter and song, Cullen realized that even if he went back to Kirkwall to face court-martial or worse, he was grateful indeed for this night, with these people. In spite of the way the day had begun, it had become one of the happiest evenings of his life.

Hawke pushed her chair close to his, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. Her smile as she gazed upon the tableau before her—Varric and Isabela twirling a jig that followed no dance steps Cullen knew of; Amelle with her head on Fenris’ shoulder; Corwin tapping his foot to the music; Tasia and Kinnon sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, not dancing but oh so evidently both _wanting to_ if the looks they kept surreptitiously sending each other meant anything—was fond, and tinged with a kind of inclusive possessiveness. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. It was odd, improbable, even a bit _mad_ , but he found he knew exactly how she felt.


	92. Chapter 92

Sebastian woke with a splitting headache, thinking about family.

It wasn’t a new topic. He had, perhaps, spent more time than most considering it.

He wished the question of family could be dealt with as easily as the headache, but somehow he doubted—in spite of her many skills—dealing with the latter would be as simple as asking Amelle Hawke to wave her hands and snap her fingers over it.

Magic couldn’t fix everything. Even magic as helpful and powerful as hers.

For many years, he’d believed all his family gone. He’d even grown accustomed to the strange loneliness, the pervasive sorrow of it. Goran had never been _family_ , not really; his connection to the Vaels was found in very diluted blood and an incredibly tenuous connection to the surname. ‘Cousin’ when applied to Goran had been a generous nod to a connection many generations and bad marriages from the immediacy of Sebastian’s own family. If he remembered correctly, Goran hadn’t even had the blue eyes so distinctively _Vael._ They’d been a muddy hazel. His hair hadn’t even had reddish _highlights_.

Morven was the son of Sebastian’s father’s brother, and though the man’s actions were reprehensible, it was too close a connection to merely brush away or ignore. ‘Cousin’ meant a great deal more when applied to him. Sebastian stood on the cusp of starting a _new_ family—of joining rather permanently a family he’d cared for a very long time—and it was still the question of the old, the _memory_ of the old, that plagued him.

 _The punishment for treason is death_ , he thought, but the words rang cold. Instead, he found himself remembering Kiara’s words, _“Earn your forgiveness from those you wronged?”_

Mercy felt too much like weakness. More than that, mercy felt too much like _forgiveness_ , and Sebastian—in his heart of hearts—wasn’t quite ready to forgive. Blood or not. Family or not. Cousin or not.

Around and around his thoughts raced, until finally he blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes and rose, stretching the kinks from his shoulders and pinching the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t know what to do. It was as clear as that.

He didn’t know what to do, so he stumbled through his morning ablutions, allowed his manservant to choose his clothing, donned the thin gold circlet as a matter of habit, and was halfway to Amelle’s chambers before he realized he was merely turning the problem over and over and over, without seeing anything resembling an _answer._

He very nearly laughed when he knocked on Amelle’s door and Kiara answered. Her smile was wide and bright and had most certainly already benefitted from one of Amelle’s hangover cures. “We’re having tea,” Kiara said sweetly, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Tea and bacon and biscuits. Would you like some?”

His stomach, still unsettled from the evening of indulgence, protested. On his frown of dismay, Amelle said, “Oh, come here. I’ll have pity on you even if my sister won’t.”

_I’ll have pity on you._

Was pity the same as mercy?  They felt the same, tasted the same upon his tongue, but the more Sebastian thought about it, the muddier the waters became — uncomfortably like justice and vengeance.  Pity and mercy were rooted in compassion, but the nuances were different, difficult to separate, like strands of a spiderweb, gossamer-fine and too sticky by half.

Pushing out of her chair, Amelle stepped away from the small table bearing more food than Sebastian thought any two people could possibly eat in a day, never mind in one sitting.  Sunlight streamed in from the windows, making Sebastian’s pupils contract painfully and he winced, turning away.

Amelle chuckled, but not unkindly.  “Remember this moment the next time you brag about ‘the good stuff.’” 

He grimaced, squinting at her.  “Maker. Don’t remind me.”

“Don’t count on that, beloved,” chirped Kiara, plucking up a piece of bacon and crunching down on it.  

Amelle sighed and made a face at her sister.  “Stop rubbing it in, Kiri.  If he gets sick it’s my floor he’ll be sick on. And it’s you who’ll be cleaning it up.”  Kiara made a horrified face, and Amelle laughed, crossing the room to place a hand on either side of his head. After a moment, she closed her eyes.  “Once you’re feeling better you can help make a dent in the mountain of food my sister brought.”

The very thought of food — of actually _eating_ anything at all — made Sebastian’s stomach flip again.  The protest was poised upon his lips when he felt the telltale rush of Amelle’s healing magic, so incongruously hot and cold at the same time.  The feel of it stirred a host of memories and Sebastian thought the scar on his chest prickled, as if Amelle’s magic, having made the trip to that spot so often, was like an old friend visiting after a long absence.

His hangover was gone before the sensation at his chest faded.

“Better?” she asked, smiling as if she knew the answer.

“Much,” Sebastian said on a sigh.  His stomach, which had been protesting only moments before, let out a growl.  Kiara, having reclaimed her seat and now cradling a cup of tea in her hands, laughed.

“Care to join us _now?_ ” she asked.  It was at that moment Sebastian realized there were more cups on the tea service tray than there were people in the room.  Of course Kiara would have anticipated others coming to see Amelle on a morning such as this.

“I’d be delighted,” he replied, claiming an empty chair and taking the cup of tea Kiara handed him.  Amelle sat as well, holding her own cup out, tacitly asking her sister to refill it, which Kiara did without comment.  Kiara helped herself to more bacon and another biscuit before passing the former to Amelle and the latter to Sebastian.

“I’m fine, Kiri,” replied Amelle, waving off the platter of meat.  But Kiara held it steady.

“Come on, eat up.  That’s barely enough to sustain a rabbit, rabbit.”

Amelle looked as if she wanted to argue, but took a small portion of bacon instead.  “You’re as bad as Fenris.”

Kiara was unrepentant.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she tossed back, handing the platter over to Sebastian.

“How _you_ can eat anything in these bloody fashions is beyond me,” grumbled Amelle, crunching on a crisp piece of the smoked meat.

Her sister’s smile was a sunny one.  “You’ll get used to it.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure Kiara saw the cloud that passed over her sister’s face.  Lowering her head suddenly, Amelle took a biscuit and began smearing it with jam to cover.  Sebastian waited for Amelle to say something, but when it became evident she wasn’t going to, he nodded at the empty cups.  

“Expecting company, are we?”

“Amelle’s always popular the day after a good party.”

At this Amelle _did_ raise her eyes, but only to roll them, the shadow gone as though it had never been. “I swear, Kiara… one of these days I’ll just say _no_. Maybe then you’ll learn your limits.”

Kiara made a face. “Oh, I know my limits. I just… ignore them, most of the time.”

Sebastian chuckled fondly. “Maker but if _that_ isn’t the truth.” Aghast, Kiara rounded on him, bacon still clutched in one hand. “You mistake me, love. Most of the time I am all admiration for your willingness to exceed mere mortal limitations.”

“Just not when it comes to drink,” Amelle admonished.

“Or attempting to sneak about without guards,” Sebastian added.

Amelle nodded in agreement. “Running headlong into battle without surveying the situation should probably be avoided, too.”

“And though I appreciate your wit and your unwillingness to be intimidated, you are, at times, worryingly insolent with people who might _kill_ you for it.”

Kiara sighed a deep, tragic, hard-done-by sigh. “This is how it’s to be then? With the mocking and the ganging up upon?”

Sebastian and Amelle exchanged a look and a smile. “Aye, I imagine so. I, for one, am glad of the ally.”

“Especially if it keeps you safe.”

Kiara scowled, pilfering a piece of toast and piling bacon on it.

“You might think about going a _little_ easier on the bacon, too,” Amelle chided.

Kiara shook her head, taking a vast bite and savoring it with her eyes closed. “Mely, I will forgive many things, but if you attempt to come between me and my bacon, there will be words. And blows. And possibly death.”

A knock at the door ended the death threats, and permitted Kiara to return to her bacon in peace. “Isabela?” Sebastian asked.

Kiara and Amelle gave him identically incredulous looks. He suspected the only reason the former didn’t burst out laughing was because her mouth was still full of bacon. Nothing prevented Amelle’s snicker, however. “We will not see Isabela today, Sebastian. We _may_ see her tomorrow. Evening. _Maybe._ ”

Kiara swallowed and asked, “Cullen? Or Fenris?”

Amelle’s lips twitched. “Fenris dislikes mornings only a _fraction_ less than Isabela does. My money’s on Cullen.”

“A templar coming to a mage for a hangover cure,” Kiara said, with evident wonderment. “Who said the two can’t coexist in peace and harmony?”

Amelle snorted before opening the door. Glancing over, Sebastian saw not the templar but Fenris standing there. In a soft voice meant only for Kiara he murmured, “It appears he likes mornings more now he has something to look forward to.”

Amelle sent a glower over her shoulder.

Kiara laughed and swatted lightly at his arm. “Hush, you. You’ll embarrass them.” Then, using her decidedly-not-inside-voice voice, she called out, “Do come in, Fenris. Amelle hasn’t eaten enough.”

“Whose room is this again?” Amelle retorted.

Kiara shrugged. “Sebastian’s? What’s his is mine? Or will be, as soon enough as makes no difference? Besides, it’s not like you’re _not_ going to let him in. I’m just… keeping him apprised of a situation that is of concern to him.”

“You are being a nuisance,” Amelle volleyed back. “And a busybody.”

“You two are bringing my headache back,” Sebastian stated.

Fenris added glumly, “And exacerbating mine.”

“She’s doing it on purpose,” said Amelle, taking Fenris’ hand as he came inside.  She closed the door behind him and, with significantly less teasing than Sebastian had undergone, Amelle released the very same healing magic on Fenris.  Sebastian had never seen the spell performed on another, and to see the change firsthand was utterly fascinating.  When Amelle stepped away from the elf — though she did not relinquish his hand, and Sebastian caught Kiara _smirking_ at that — his color was much improved, and his face lost the sickened, pinched look Sebastian was confident he himself had walked in wearing.

“Come on, Fenris.  The bacon isn’t going to last all morning,” sang Kiara.

“Especially the way _you’re_ putting it away, sister,” Amelle riposted, taking her seat.  Fenris, unsurprisingly, sat next to Amelle and began helping himself to the breakfast laid out on the small table.

“Is Hawke correct?” the elf asked, casting a cursory glance at Amelle’s plate.

Amelle shook her head.  “She’s exaggerating.  Pay her no mind.”  Kiara frowned and Fenris looked unconvinced, but neither said anything. Sebastian couldn’t blame them — Amelle was starting to look mutinous.

“ _Are_ you feeling all right, Amelle?” Sebastian asked cautiously.  Kiara could be somewhat… well, _bossy_ at times, and as a younger sibling himself, Sebastian knew how much that could grate.  He also knew the mage had been through a fair amount of distress and upheaval.  She’d stretched herself too thin healing Fenris.  

Though her efforts had worked against all odds, they _had_ taken their toll.  Sebastian felt a sudden stab of guilt — perhaps these little hangover cures weren’t so _little_ a strain on her mana.

“Sebastian,” Amelle sighed, “I know that look. Stop overthinking.  I’m fine.  I _will_ be fine.  These two,” she gestured at Fenris and Kiara with a piece of toast, “are blowing things wildly out of proportion.  I’m eating.  See?”  She bit into her toast with a crunch and talked around the bite.  “Overreacting.”

Sebastian wasn’t convinced, and by the way Amelle rolled her eyes, he knew she could see it.

“Kirkwall was difficult,” she explained, sipping at her tea.  Fenris’ dark look told Sebastian just _how_ difficult it had to have been. “I won’t lie.  The journey here was hardly restful, and I probably hadn’t fully bounced back by the time…”  She swallowed hard and this time a shadow _did_ cross her face as she set her jaw.  Jessamine was dead, but the memory of her would not be so quickly or easily forgotten.  “In any event,” Amelle went on, inclining her head, “now that things have slowed down and are _restful,_ everything will sort itself out.”  

“And _are_ you resting?” Kiara asked lightly, her tone belying the concern Sebastian saw in her eyes.  “You were awake and dressed when I got here.”

Amelle shot Sebastian a look of long-suffering patience.  “And you’re _sure_ you want to live with this for the rest of your life?”  She leaned closer and, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, said, “It’s still not too late.  Run while you—”  There was a sudden thump beneath the table that made the tea slosh drunkenly in the cups.  Amelle let out a sharp yelp and rubbed at her shin.  “Hey!  You _kicked_ me!”

Kiara sipped placidly at her tea.  “Sorry,” she murmured, looking not at all apologetic.  “Nervous twitch.”

Amelle was clearly unconvinced. “Really? Perhaps it’s the symptom of a disease. You should see a healer about that. A kind, forgiving, sweet-natured healer who will absolutely _not_ knock you unconscious at the first opportunity and shave your head bald out of sheer annoyance.”

Kiara huffed a laugh, turned to Fenris, and mimicking her sister’s voice with eerie accuracy said, “And you’re _sure_ you want to live with this for the rest of your life?”

Fenris’ lips twitched the instant before he opened them to devour a piece of toast stacked just as high with bacon as Kiara’s had been. Amelle blushed, busying herself with preparing Fenris a cup of tea.

 _This_ was family. Bickering over breakfast. Laughing. Even kicking each other under the table— _Maker,_ Connall and Angus had nearly driven their parents mad with their antics. Sebastian smiled sadly, tracing the whorls of the table’s grain with a fingertip.

Kiara reached over and curled her fingers around his. “What is it, love?”

He frowned. “He ordered your death. He sat back and did nothing while the city turned on itself. He drank wine and bedded girls instead of tending to his responsibilities. He _ordered your death_ , and then his reluctance to provide the antidote nearly cost you your life. I don’t know how to be merciful.”

Her grip tightened briefly, and when he looked up he saw three sets of eyes all staring at him very intently. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “This is hardly conversation for breakfast.”

“We’ve had worse,” Amelle replied lightly.

Fenris nodded, but Sebastian knew at once it wasn’t in response to Amelle’s attempt at levity. If anyone could understand, it was Fenris.

Kiara shook her head. “I don’t like him. I don’t approve of what he did… or didn’t do. I won’t be inviting him around for feastdays and festivals. But I don’t think he should die for his mother’s crimes.”

“He committed crimes of his own,” Sebastian insisted.

“Tell me truly,” she said evenly, her gaze so intent she hardly blinked, “in a world where you never went to the Chantry, where you never learned from Elthina, if the boy you were had been made prince would he have done better? If your family had died and you’d been surrounded by sycophantic, power-mad fools like the Caddells or the Harimanns telling you to serve yourself first and your people later because _you deserved it_ by your blood and birth alone, would you have done better?”

Stung, Sebastian tried to pull his hand away, but she would not release him. Fingers that could draw and release with deadly accuracy held tight. He protested, “I would never have ordered the death of an innocent.”

She smiled sadly. “I wasn’t innocent when he ordered my death. He thought the Champion of Kirkwall was come to steal his precarious hold on something he wanted very, very badly, and which he’d been _convinced_ was his to keep. I was a threat. A different you might have seen me as a threat, too.”

 _And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing_ left _of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!_

Fenris’ frown deepened. “It is unwise to let him live, Hawke. There is no saying he will not continue to plot. You would put Sebastian’s life at risk. Your own life.”

“He’ll be mucking stables from dawn until dusk. How much time will he have to plot? How much energy?” She sighed. “I’m not saying he ought to be allowed to run loose—you’ll notice I in no way supported a banishment—but he’ll be working _here_ , where at the _very_ least the Eyes will always be watching. If he breathes a word of treason again, we’ll know the poison ran deeper than his mother’s influence. _That_ is mercy.”

“He didn’t expect mercy,” added Amelle, handing Fenris his tea.  “They both knew they were guilty.  They both knew the sentence for their crimes.”  She spoke slowly, choosing her words with infinite care as she picked up a crust of toast and then used it to push a sliver of bacon around her plate.  “She… wanted to take you down with her.  She would have taken us all down if she could.  But he…”  Here she looked up.  “He… was _expecting_ death. Maker, I think part of him still _is._ ”

“How can you be so sure it wasn’t simply an act?” Fenris asked, dark brows drawing together — it was clear by the tenor of his question _he_ believed Morven to have been acting.  In truth, the idea had occurred to Sebastian as well.

“Because,” Amelle said, “he knew what he would have done if he’d been on that throne.  He didn’t expect mercy because he wouldn’t have been merciful himself.”

Kiara took a sip of her tea and shook her head.  “Mely’s not wrong,” she said, setting the china down with a soft clink.  “He was resigned to his fate.  Couldn’t even _imagine_ a different end for himself.  Someone _hoping_ for leniency would have seen behind what I was asking him and jumped all over it.”

This, too, had occurred to Sebastian.  It was the driving reason why Morven’s body was not now keeping Jessamine’s company. He frowned into his teacup before refilling it.  

Amelle looked pensive, and with a little flick of her fingers steam rose up from the tepid liquid as well as the spout of the teapot it came from.  “Besides,” she said, “it seems as if the people of Starkhaven are… displeased enough with him.  Some may even… disagree with Sebastian’s idea of mercy.”

“You think Morven’s life is the one in danger?” Fenris asked, more than a little dubious.

Kiara rested her elbows on the table and laced her fingers, propping her chin upon them.  “I don’t think that’s out of the realm of possibility,” she murmured on a little sigh.  “Someone who suffered under his rule catches him alone in an alleyway?  Happens all the time. _Maker_ , I have _been_ the one meting out that brand of justice.”

“But that’s not right either,” Amelle said with a frown as she tapped restless fingers against the side of her cup.  “Sebastian’s word should be law.  All it would take is one rabble-rouser to utterly undermine his word.”  She turned her eyes to Sebastian.  “You have already commuted Morven’s sentence of death in front of all the court and assembled witnesses. You can’t change that now. If you grant him leniency, and his sentence is the one he chose for himself—to work off his debt to Starkhaven—what does it say if a week from now someone knifes him in the back of a tavern?”

Sebastian felt his headache returning — or perhaps it was a newer one.  That was a jolly thought.  He rubbed at his temples, grimacing.  “Then the word of the prince means nothing.  Maker’s _blood,_ don’t tell me I have to _protect_ the bloody bastard, too.”

“Surely he is aware enough of the precariousness of his own wellbeing,” Fenris mused.  

Kiara nodded grimly. “I think it’s safe to say he knows exactly where he stands with the people of Starkhaven.  I wouldn’t be surprised if half the horses in the stables kick him on principle.”

His headache was most definitely coming back.  And yet, there was still no clear-cut answer to his conundrum.  There had been enough death in Starkhaven, and he _did_ feel _this_ was the best way to rule.  Jessamine had been an infection, deep in the heart of his city.  She had used and manipulated and poisoned the people — _good people_.  People like Maisie.  Of course the _possibility_ that Morven was merely one of the symptoms of that infection existed — but so, too, did the opposite.

Amelle brushed the crumbs from her fingertips and clasped her hands in her lap.  “You can’t know for certain what he’d do with his fate back in his own hands, Sebastian.  Like Kiara said — he’ll be watched.”

“Closely,” added Kiara firmly, but Fenris still looked unconvinced. 

Several beats of silence passed before Sebastian looked up into Kiara’s grey eyes and asked, “Do you ever regret it?  Not killing Anders?”

He could tell she hadn’t been expecting the question — she tensed, and her eyes shuttered, the bow in her upper lip vanishing as she pressed her lips together tightly.  “Sometimes,” she said after a too-long silence.  “I hate knowing he’s out there somewhere.”  More silence came, and he saw Kiara gathering her thoughts, forming them into words.  “But I have said it before and I stand by it now: he _wanted_ to die. More to the point? He wanted _me_ to kill him. What kind of target would that have then made me, to those who followed him? He wanted me to make him a martyr and grant him some kind of twisted version of immortality with his death.”

“And he was counting on it,” Amelle added softly.  “He was counting on Kiara being furious enough to kill him and… essentially freeing him.”  Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.  “Separating him from that… _thing_ inside him.”

“So, on the one hand,” Kiara said with false brightness, “there’s an abomination walking around I failed to kill. Don’t tell Cullen.  On the other, he isn’t a glorious hero, and he’s forced to wake up every day and live in the world he helped create.  I’m not sure that was merciful of me.”  She let out a breath, glancing down to her lap, where her fingers were picking at a cuticle of their own volition.  Stilling them, she looked up again.  “You didn’t give Morven what he wanted, and you sure as the bloody Void didn’t give him what he was expecting.  This gives him something harder than dying, love.  He may think he’s thankful for it at first, but I suspect he’ll realize sooner or later it isn’t really much of a favor.”

After a long moment, Sebastian said softly, “He ordered your death.”

Kiara replied with tenderness. “And if he’d been successful, there would have been no room in your heart for mercy. I understand that.” Leaning near, she raised his hand and grazed her lips over his knuckles. “Choose the blood on your hands, my heart. I don’t think his is necessary. You saw the heart of him when we threatened to cut his thumbs off—he’s craven. Craven men don’t rise up once they’ve been threatened.”

“You threatened to cut his thumbs off?” Amelle yelped. “That’s—”

“—Effective,” Fenris finished, with an approving nod.

“I was going to say _macabre_.”

“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” Kiara admitted. “Sebastian, however, _was_.”

Sebastian sighed, reaching up to run the ball of his thumb over Kiara’s lips. She smiled and kissed it. “I’m not saying he didn’t _deserve_ it, love,” she said lightly. “He really did call me the most abominable names.”

“I am not entirely rational when it comes to those who would threaten you,” he said softly. From the corner of his eye he saw Fenris and Amelle exchange a look before studiously turning their attention elsewhere.

“Let those who would harm me beware.”

“It was a clever trick, having him name his own punishment.”

She tilted her head and gave him a wink. “I am occasionally clever.”

“Though not quite as often as you _think_ you are,” Amelle mumbled.

Kiara ignored her sister entirely. “Send for him, love. Pass your judgment. Let him stop taking up your time.”

He raised querying eyebrows at Amelle. “Do you mind? In spite of your sister’s selfishness, this _is_ your room.” He groaned slightly. “Though I do have serious doubts that my office will be in _any_ way inhabitable today.”

“Ahh, all part of my master plan to keep you away from your desk and all those tedious decisions about curtains,” Kiara said on a grin. “I am _so_ clever.”

“And humble,” Amelle added, in the same low mumble. “Mustn’t forget _humble._ ”  She took her teacup into her hands and leaned back in her chair, turning her gaze to regard Sebastian as she sipped.  “Frankly, I imagine just _entering_ your office again would be enough to bring your hangover back.”  She grinned and shot him a quick wink.  “Besides, my sister isn’t wrong; this _is_ your room — I’m just staying in it for a time.”

Sebastian returned the smile, but only just barely bit back the words, _Aye, but for how much time?_   Amelle would keep her own counsel until such time as she decided not to, and that would have to suffice.

Kiara rose and rang for a maid to clear away the remains of their meal, taking care to ask the young woman to bring another pot of tea later.  “After the prince has finished his… business.”

She looked at them all once the young woman was gone and shrugged.  “Like we weren’t all going to talk about him afterward.  Might as well have refreshment for it.”

“I only hope you don’t plan ahead to talk about _me_ after I’ve left a room,” remarked Amelle, giving her sister a look.

“When have I ever waited until you _leave_ to talk about you?” Kiara tossed back, taking her seat again.

“This… is an excellent point.”

Sebastian sent for Morven to be brought to him, and in the interim found that he was excessively restless.  Pushing out of his chair, he strode across the room to partake of Amelle’s excellent view.  As he stood by the window, he noticed Spero, stretched out on the sill.  Smiling a little, he reached down and ran a gentle fingertip down the kitten’s side.  Spero blinked and mewed, rolling onto her back.

“The better to scratch her belly,” murmured Amelle.  “She knows what she wants.”

“She’s not half as thin as she was.”

“Because she’s got an appetite to rival Kiara’s.”

“And excellent taste, too,” Kiara sniffed.  “She took the bacon I gave her.”

Fenris looked displeased.  “You fed the kitten _bacon?_ ” 

“And she ate it.”

The good-natured bickering continued behind him as Sebastian picked the kitten up in his hands.  She had more weight to her, certainly — in fact, coloring aside, Spero barely resembled the half-drowned wretch he’d brought to Amelle in the first place.  It was difficult not to smile as the warm fuzzy body stretched and wriggled in his palms, tiny paws batting at his fingers.  

Then, all at once, the kitten _stopped_.  Going entirely still and tipping her head back, Spero looked at him and held his gaze for a long moment before blinking those bright jewel-green eyes once and letting out a single mew.

Cradling the kitten in his hands, Sebastian turned to Fenris.  “What did you say _spero_ means?”

Fenris blinked at the non-sequitur.  “The word means _hope_.”

Sebastian ran a thumb over the feline’s head until those eyes closed and a soft purr issued forth from her throat.  “Mm.  That’s what I thought.”

There came a low shuffling sound from the other side of the door and Sebastian set the kitten back down on the windowsill and turned, linking his hands behind his back as the door swung open, revealing Morven and two guards escorting him.  Sebastian kept his pace even as he stepped ever so slightly away from the window, meeting this man — pretender, traitor, _cousin_ — eye to eye.  

For his part, Morven appeared confused at the change in venue and Sebastian explained, “My office is indisposed at the moment.  I trust you have no objections to an alternate location for this conversation.”

Morven’s confusion faded —  but only minutely — as he shook his head.  His throat worked a moment as he swallowed before he gave his hesitant reply:  “No.”

Nodding and breathing in deeply through his nose, Sebastian took a hard look at his cousin.  The man’s health was still questionable. He didn’t look as if he’d recovered fully from his poisoning, and he was still unnaturally thin.  The hand that had been shot—and then cut—was still bound in white bandage.  Shadows made dark smudges beneath his eyes as his gaze twitched nervously around the room, as though searching for an executioner in every corner, or the cold kiss of a dagger or the sharp whistle of an arrow lurked in the sunny room’s few shadows.

“Your sentence of death _was_ commuted,” Sebastian said with the faintest hint of impatience.  “You can stop looking for the hangman.”

Morven startled and flushed suddenly, the color too red and mottled and out of place on his pale cheeks.  “I doubt you’d blame me for thinking _that_ particular decision was a little good to be true.”

“It so happens we were just discussing that.”

“Not much of a surprise.”  Morven paused, his eyes taking in the others in the room.  “Well.  The audience is a _bit_ unexpected.”

“These are my trusted advisors,” Sebastian replied, indicating Amelle and Fenris.  “You’d do well to have them on your side.”

Morven bent his neck, shoulders hunching. “Maker, but she underestimated you.” His voice cracked slightly when he added, “She’s… gone?”

“Aye,” Sebastian replied. He was still standing close enough to the window that he started a little when he felt Spero’s small head butt into his clasped hands. Sebastian swallowed and added, “She was your mother. You are allowed to grieve her.”

Morven gave a low, broken chuckle. “She’s still the one I went to when I fell and skinned my knees, who soothed me with lullabies when I couldn’t sleep, who made me soup when I was ill. I… know what she was. But she was these things, too.”

Again Sebastian felt the kitten’s insistent head, followed by the faintest pressure of sharp, little teeth. “You will report to the stables tomorrow morning. Stablemaster Colin’s word will be your law. You will be given quarters with the other stablehands. You will be watched, closely, and at all times.”

The shudder that ran through Morven was so violent Sebastian noted it from across the room. This time when he bowed his head, it was to hide the relief and surprise that had brought tears to his eyes.

“Do not give me cause to regret this mercy, Morven.”

“I will not,” the man mumbled, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice. “I—Your Highness. I don’t _deserve_ it.”

“Then strive to,” Sebastian replied evenly.

“May I ask a question?” Kiara asked. Sebastian felt his brow furrow, but nodded. “How… how _did_ your mother know about Amelle? About her being a mage? About her healing Sebastian? It’s always… bothered me. Did she have some contact in Kirkwall who knew somehow?”

Morven raised his chin. His skin was even more mottled with emotion, and his cheeks were damp. “She did have contacts in Kirkwall, but it wasn’t from them she learned it. You talk in your sleep,” he said hesitantly, as though he feared reprisals for the words. “She gave you the antidote… to, to the Maker’s Light. But she knew she could keep you sedated. When…” Morven’s eyes flicked to Sebastian, who nodded for him to continue. “When the prince was not with you—with her—she allowed you to wake from the sedation enough to speak. I think she would have kept you that way indefinitely, if she hadn’t forgotten… forgotten the three day death sentence Maker’s Light carries. You—you thought she was your sister. Evidently there is… very little you won’t discuss with her.” Morven closed his eyes, wincing. “M-mother was… euphoric. So much _information_. But she underestimated you. She underestimated Starkhaven. She thought they would turn against you at the first opportunity. They… didn’t.”

Sebastian remembered then that horrible vigil, sitting at Kiara’s bedside, expecting her to die at any moment. Waiting for it. And he remembered that when she’d woken, blinking and bleary, she’d asked for Amelle— _believed_ Amelle was somewhere nearby. Knowing that Jessamine had been… _playing_ him— _letting him believe Kiara would die_ —only made him wish he could kill her all over again. His heart thudded in his chest, beating an angry tattoo. Behind him, Spero mewed plaintively. 

At the table, Kiara had gone dreadfully pale, her hands clenched tight around the edge of the table. Silently, Amelle rose from her seat and moved to stand behind her sister, laying a hand on Kiara’s shoulder. The dark head bent to the red, and though Sebastian couldn’t hear Amelle’s words, they did appear to go some way toward returning the color to Kiara’s cheeks. After another second, Kiara nodded, and Amelle pressed a kiss to the top of her sister’s head.  She remained standing behind Kiara, not yet pulling her hand from her sister’s shoulder.  After a moment, Kiara’s hand crept up and clasped Amelle’s tightly.  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire, broken only by another of Spero’s mews. Morven bowed his head again, either intensely uncomfortable after revealing such information or simply waiting for Sebastian to dismiss him.

Sebastian was on the verge of doing precisely that when Spero head-butted his hand again and began to nibble on his pinky finger.  Sebastian frowned and stretched his fingers out to discourage the kitten, but the next thing he felt was a tiny paw batting at the same finger that had been nibbled.  He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see the kitten sitting on the windowsill, looking up at him intently, white whiskers twitching.

Across the room, Morven cleared his throat and when Sebastian turned, he saw the other man still staring at the floor.  He cleared his throat a second time and closed his eyes, drawing in a breath and saying, “May I… may _I_ ask a question?”

Sebastian exchanged a look with Kiara, whose color was returning, however slowly.  “I think that’s fair,” she answered, looking briefly up at Amelle, who shrugged and offered a small nod.

It took a moment for Morven to find the words — or gather his courage — and when he finally spoke, the words came haltingly.  “Her cell was only a few down from mine.  She… she spoke at length—” he winced again, “—bragged about striking a blow against one of your own.”  He swallowed hard and glanced up only briefly before looking again at the floor.  “An… an elf, she said.  That the antidote window had passed.”

“That would be me,” Fenris said, his voice low and even, but a warning lurked beneath the words, daring Morven to speak foolishly at his peril. 

At that, Morven _did_ look up, his eyes wide as he blinked.  “Then it’s true?  You… you _survived_ Maker’s Light?”

Fenris and Amelle exchanged a quick glance before Fenris addressed Morven again.  “I was poisoned and then I awoke.  I know little more than that.”

“That’s…” Morven trailed off, bafflement still clear on his features.

“Yes,” Amelle replied dryly. “Impossible. We know.”

There was no mistaking the uneasiness when Amelle spoke; Morven flinched, then looked ashamed of himself for having done so. With another mew, Spero hopped down from the windowsill. She wound around Sebastian’s ankles before making her way across the room with the nonchalance only a cat could properly project. She didn’t, as Sebastian had expected, head for Amelle. Spero stopped at Morven’s feet, sat primly, wrapped her tail about her small body, and _stared_ at him.

After an eternity, Spero turned and blinked at Amelle, uttering another of her small meows. When Amelle did not—evidently—immediately understand Spero’s wishes, the kitten flicked the end of her tail and meowed again. The fingers on Morven’s wounded hand twitched, for a moment miming the action of scratching. Spero glanced slantwise up at him, and for an eerie instant Sebastian was certain if cats could smile, Spero would have been smirking.

When Amelle crossed the room and bent to retrieve her kitten, Spero darted away, hiding herself beneath Kiara’s chair. Amelle laughed under her breath and brushed her hands down her skirt. “Fine,” she said. “Be that way. See who gets treats now.”

Spero poked her head out from beneath Kiara’s voluminous skirts, looked directly at Kiara, and meowed expressively. “That’s right,” Kiara cooed. “Auntie Kiri will always have bacon for you, sweetling.”

With Amelle standing less than an arm’s length away, Morven went very, very still. Even the blotchiness faded from his cheeks as he stared at her, and Sebastian could see the instinct to flee etched in every line and muscle of his body. Amelle blinked at him. “Oh,” she said. “Really? That wasn’t all theatrics? Maker, I can hear your heart pounding from here.” Amelle glanced at Sebastian, and he saw an instant of something like _pity_ in her eyes. “He’s _terrified_ of me.”

Sebastian sighed. “Give them time and opportunity to overcome their fear. Most have no way to understand.”

Amelle looked down at her hands, a frown etching its way across her forehead.  Sebastian could almost see her thoughts forming — how could she undo so much damage done by so many different mages?  Not only had Anders single-handedly cast an unfading shadow across the Free Marches—perhaps all of Thedas—but Starkhaven was doubly traumatized by events both at home and abroad.

Amelle snuck a look at Morven, then looked glumly back at him.  “I’m only one person, Sebastian.  People are going to believe what they want.  We’ve seen evidence of that often enough.”

“You can’t undo it in a day, Mely,” said Kiara. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t undo any of it at all.”

The same shadow Sebastian saw earlier clouded Amelle’s features.  “Tell _that_ to the Divine.”

Fenris pushed out of his chair and stood, his expression impassive, almost angry.  “Amelle, you must cease this.  If you wish to change an opinion, you must take measures to do so.”  The anger faded minutely as the elf’s lips twitched.  “You _can_ change such opinions, as you have daily proof.”

“How _did_ she do that?” Kiara asked, reaching down to retrieve the kitten. Spero walked several circles before settling contentedly into her lap.  

Fenris was inscrutable as ever as he looked first at Amelle, then back to Kiara as he sat again.  “She was herself.  Nothing more.”

Snorting, Kiara gestured at her sister as she petted the kitten.  “Well, that is one thing you do better than any other.”

Amelle pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and frowned, brow furrowing. Sebastian watched the thoughts shift across her face, too quickly to name. Finally she swallowed and, without moving the slightest bit nearer Morven, said, “May I see your hand?”

Morven jerked, jaw clenching so hard even Sebastian could hear his teeth grinding. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline and trickled down the side of his face. He pressed the wounded, bandaged hand even closer to his side. “P-please,” he stammered. “I-I won’t cause trouble. I p-promise.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly. It was the voice she used with patients. Sebastian recognized it at once. He glanced over and saw Kiara and Fenris watching with equal intensity.

Morven’s breath was coming in little gasps now, harsh and quick and clearly frightened, but he didn’t run. And Amelle didn’t press. She chewed thoughtfully on her lip and waited. The only sound in the chamber was the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth, and the sound of Spero’s tongue rasping against her fur as she cleaned herself. Finally, with a wrench and a brief cry Sebastian thought was involuntary, Morven lifted his hand.

Very, very slowly, Amelle reached for it. Morven’s arm shook. Indeed, his entire body trembled, but still he stayed, still he did not run. Tears of strain joined the sweat on his cheeks as Amelle gently unwound the bandage. She inhaled sharply when the last of the linen was peeled away, and Sebastian smelled the infection before he saw it.

“Maker’s breath,” Amelle breathed. “This must be horribly painful.”

Morven still looked as though he expected death by lightning bolt to strike at any moment, but he managed to say, “W-what’s a little pain to a dead man?”

Amelle shook her head, still frowning. “Sit down please,” she commanded, still lightly holding onto his wrist and gesturing toward one of the chairs at the table with her other hand.

Morven swallowed hard, looking first at the chair, and then rapidly between Amelle and Sebastian, looking entirely too much like a trapped animal.  “I-I don’t—”

“Do as she says, Morven,” Sebastian told the man.  The panic in his eyes was wild, and Sebastian could see the fear of which Amelle spoke clear as day.  Morven was indeed terrified and trembling, and he looked for a moment as if he might ask _Sebastian_ to intervene on his behalf.  

Finally, with another shudder, Morven sat gingerly, keeping his eyes averted as Amelle stood before him, his wounded hand still trapped in both of hers.

“I don’t imagine you’ll be much use to the stablemaster with a hand like this,” she murmured, turning the injured hand this way and that, frowning at it, and gently soothing Morven when she tried to extend his fingers and he hissed in pain at the effort.

“I’ll make do,” he said with a whisper of defiance that reminded Sebastian incongruously of a child trying to prove isn’t afraid of the monster under the bed.

Sebastian remained silent.  No one but Amelle herself could convince Morven that _she_ wasn’t the monster responsible for Starkhaven’s fear.  Pursing her lips, she looked hard at Morven, who shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.  He suffered it when she placed her hand against his forehead, but it was a very near thing indeed.

“Is his fever due to the infection?” Amelle asked quietly.  Sebastian shook his head.

“He was poisoned.”  At Amelle’s arched eyebrow, Sebastian sighed, adding, “Jes—Laymia was… assuring herself of his silence.  Something went… awry, I imagine.”  

Amelle’s expression reminded Sebastian powerfully of her sister — disgust and _anger_ flashed in her eyes, and he could see in the way she clenched her jaw she was struggling to remain silent.  “I see.”  Amelle looked again to Morven.  “So was that your plan?  Volunteer to take care of the horses so you could work yourself to death?”

Morven started and stared at Amelle, blinking hard, trying to process what she’d said.  “I… no, I didn’t—not at all.”  He looked at the hand she still held and said, with that same air of defiance, “What are you talking about?”

“Your wound is infected, and you’re running a fever on top of that.  And the two are not — well, not _directly_ related, at any rate.  So I ask you: are you _attempting_ to work yourself to death?”

“…No.”

“Well, at least there’s that.”  With that, Amelle pressed one hand above the wounded hand, and her other hand below.  She took a breath and soon a soft blue-white light began emanating from her hands.

“What… w-what are you doing?” Morven asked, but appeared not to be trying to yank his hand away from her.

She offered him a small, but genuine smile.  “Giving you your hand back, for a start.”

Morven didn’t pull his hand away, but the moment the glow began to once again emanate from Amelle’s hands, he gave a horrified yelp and cried, “Please. I—please, don’t!”

Frustration twisted Amelle’s features, followed quickly by something akin to understanding. “Forgive me,” she said. “I-I should have asked. And I should probably explain things as I go along.”

“I don’t—I would rather death than life as a mage’s thrall,” Morven looked pained as he admitted this—and a strange admission it was, particularly after his display during the trial—and he turned his face, tucking his chin close to his chest. Sebastian thought it was instinct—and instinct alone—that kept Amelle from dropping his hand in complete and utter astonishment.

“She is no blood mage!” Fenris growled, halfway to his feet before Kiara’s hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. His markings flared bright until Amelle raised her eyes to meet his and shook her head ever so slightly. The elf continued to scowl as he sank back into his seat, and he glared at Kiara’s hand until she released him.

Amelle lowered Morven’s hand, before loosely clasping her own neatly—and visibly—before her. A moment later, Spero jumped down from Kiara’s lap and hopped onto Morven’s thighs, walking in a circle before twisting herself into a tiny knot. He stared at the cat. Amelle stared at him.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Here’s the thing. You’re going to lose that hand if I don’t treat it. A healer without magic would be telling you to amputate now. Do you understand?”

Reluctantly he nodded, his unwounded hand drifting nearer the kitten.

“You’ve already dug yourself a pretty deep hole. Do you _really_ want to be a cripple on top of it all? Do you want to die?”

“I don’t want to die,” he retorted sharply. “Stop _asking_ me that.”

Amelle nodded, ignoring his tone. “I don’t use blood magic,” she said. “And without blood magic, I can’t control you. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” She sighed, as if her words were costing her something dear. “I… I won’t use magic to heal you if you do not wish it. I know you’re frightened. I know this is… _new_ for you. But I _can_ help you. You’ll be able to keep your hand.”

“You’re… you’re a _mage_. I-I don’t know how to—”

“To trust me?” Amelle inhaled, glancing toward the ceiling as if for guidance. “You know I healed Sebastian, right? Believe me when I say I poured far, far more power into him than I’d have to use for you, and _he’s_ not in thrall to me. Are you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “Tell me that’s not a question you honestly want an answer to.”

Her lips twitched. “Very well. Sebastian Vael, I _command_ you to do a jig.”

The other eyebrow rose to meet the first.

“That’s a ‘no’ then, I gather? Very well.” She returned her attention to Morven, now very gently running one fingertip down Spero’s spine. “Please, Morven. Will you let me help you?”

This time when he extended his arm, there was no trembling, there were no tears. On his lap, the kitten purred.

The tension that had been building in Amelle’s shoulders released slowly as she pulled a chair close, exhaling a deep breath as she sat and took Morven’s hand.  “Thank you,” she said softly, clasping the injured hand gently.  

Morven still watched Amelle warily, but his uninjured hand continued petting Spero, whose bright green eyes were closing lazily.  “What… are you going to do?” 

“Every mage has an affinity for certain aspects of magic,” Amelle explained.  “I had a knack for basic elemental and healing spells when I was young.  I practiced, as you would any skill, and developed the necessary skills to make me a spirit healer.  That means I can channel some of the power of the Fade and use its restorative properties to heal.”

With that, Amelle bowed her head and drew in another breath.  Before long, the tell-tale blue-white glow pulsed from her hands as thin strands of light wrapped around their joined hands.  Morven gave a start and stared at Amelle as she worked.  But for all he looked so unnerved by the light emanating from Amelle’s hands, Morven continued petting Spero, apparently finding some measure of solace in the fact that the kitten seemed to utterly unimpressed by the show of magic.

It didn’t take long before the sickly stench of infection began to fade, but Amelle didn’t stop when Morven’s hand was healed.  The thin strands of light crept up his arm, and though he appeared to have stopped breathing for a moment and his eyes widened, he did not pull back and did not utter a sound.  Spero rubbed against him, dragging her tail across his fingers, distracting him.

When Amelle released his hand, the flesh was no longer angry and red.  The skin was shiny and new, and all that remained of the wounds were two small scars, one at the base of his thumb, the other at the center of his palm.

“There,” she said, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap.  “How do you feel?”

Spero leapt lightly from Morven’s knee to Amelle’s lap.  The kitten collapsed onto her side and stretched out before starting to clean one paw.  Amelle smiled and traced her fingertips along Spero’s markings as the kitten rolled onto her back, showing her belly.  

Morven watched this in silence for a moment before he seemed to remember he’d been asked a question.  “I…” he looked at his hand, flexing his fingers.  “It… doesn’t hurt at all.”

“You still ought to be mindful of it for a little while longer.  That was quite an infection.  The new skin and muscle may be… weak for a few days, so be patient. And for the Maker’s sake, _eat_. Magic can’t put flesh back on your bones, and you’re dangerously undernourished.”

Morven nodded slowly, still staring at his hand, turning it over this way and that, running his thumb over the scar.  Sebastian was fairly certain it wasn’t a trick of the firelight that the man’s color had improved as well. The look on Morven’s face when he slowly curled his fingers into his fist and out again said a great deal: he’d never expected to be able to do so again. Wonderment overspread his face, and in that instant, in spite of the weight he’d lost and the lingering shadows under his eyes, he did look a great deal like Connall.

Suddenly overcome with sorrow, Sebastian had to turn away.

“I… I don’t feel different,” Morven said. “It is… it is nothing like _she_ said it would be.”

Amelle gave a rueful little chuckle. “Do you want me to order you to do a jig, too? Just to make sure?”

Before Morven could reply, Sebastian turned on his heel and said firmly, “Perhaps you have lingered long enough, Morven.” Nodding toward the guards, he added, “Take him to Corwin. Have rooms found.”

Amelle blinked at him, eyes wide and startled, and even Spero raised her head and gave him a look that positively _yowled_ disappointment. Morven, however, scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply. “Your Highness,” he said. “I… thank you. I will not give you cause to regret this clemency.”

“Words are words, Morven. Give me deeds.”

Once more Morven bowed, and then he left. A free man. Sebastian’s stomach twisted at the thought, but he did not call him back again, did not unspeak the words he’d already spoken. Amelle looked poised to say something—and nothing particularly flattering, if her expression was anything to go by—but this time it was Kiara who rose and laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder briefly. Then she joined him at the window. She didn’t attempt to touch him, and yet still he felt the desire to twist away from her, to hide from the openness of her gaze and the concern on her brow.

“That was harder than yesterday, wasn’t it?” she asked softly, pitching her words low. “For you.”

He nodded once, brusquely.

“Tomorrow will be easier.”

Swallowing past the sudden emotion caught in his throat, he said, “ _You_. You are my family.”

Her fingers reached out and wove through his, squeezing gently. “Always.” Then, louder, she declared, “Now. Where’s the bloody tea I ordered? If ever a person needed tea, it’s _me_. Right now.”

Amelle’s gaze flickered over him quickly, but the admonishment he’d thought he’d seen earlier was gone now, replaced by compassion. Understanding. “This about-to-be-princess business isn’t helping with the bossiness, Kiri. I’m afraid it falls on me to point out that you are _well_ on your way to becoming utterly insufferable.”

Kiara grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I have to meet with the _wedding planners_ this afternoon. Mely—”

“Fenris and I have plans,” Amelle retorted at once. “Very important plans.”

Fenris lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

 _Wise man_ , Sebastian thought.

Kiara only snorted indelicately. “All I can say is it’s a good thing Isabela’s not here. You left the door _wide open_ there. Please note that this is me _not_ walking through it. See what a good sister I am? _Surely_ such a good sister deserves a _little_ help planning her wedding?”

“Plans,” Amelle murmured feebly. “Important ones. Oh. _Fine._ But I’ll have you know I refuse to sit through conversations about bunting. Or seating arrangements.”

Kiara smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. The seating arrangements are all mine.”

Sebastian huffed a breath of laughter, wondering just how unpleasant a table his beloved would find for the Caddells, but was wise enough not to speak the words aloud.


	93. Chapter 93

“Mely.”

Amelle groaned and rolled over, pulling the pillow over her head to drown out the sound.

“Mely!”

She’d been having a pleasant dream. Something about… there had been blackberries. Perfect, sun-warmed, ripe blackberries. And an elf. A very particular elf.

“ _Amelle!_ ”

Blindly, Amelle threw the pillow at the voice, and was rewarded by a grunt and a muttered curse. But her tormenter refused to let her go back to sleep. “Amelle, wake _up_!”

Opening her eyes, Amelle found the room still completely dark. She blinked, and a moment later Kiara’s face appeared above her, grinning maniacally. Amelle swallowed the urge to blast her sister into the next Age and asked, “ _What_ , Kiri? It’s the middle of the blighted _night_.”

“I know,” Kiara replied, needlessly whispering—now that Amelle was awake it wasn’t as though anyone _else_ was nearby to be disturbed. “Come on.”

“Is it life or death?”

“No,” Kiara replied, a hint of a frown pulling at her lips. “Of course not. I’d’ve dumped you out of bed long before this if it was. But it’s _good_. And you have to come _now_.”

“If it’s not life or death I want to go back to sleep.”

Kiara pouted. “You’ll miss it.”

“Sleep? Yes, yes I will.”

Kiara snorted, poking Amelle lightly in the ribs. A moment later, she turned the poke into a tickle, and Amelle was once again nearly overcome with the desire to do her sister serious injury. “Mely, Mely, Mely,” Kiara sang. “Wake up!”

“I _am_ awake. What I want is to be _un_ awake.”

“Would I risk your wrath if it wasn’t worth it, Mely?”

Amelle pushed herself up on one elbow and glared at her sister. Kiara was armored, and draped with a black cloak. She could see the telltale bulge of the bow at her back. “You’re sure this isn’t life or death?” Amelle asked, nodding her head at her sister’s attire.

Kiara grinned. “Oh, this? No. I was just… out for a walk. Which is when I found the thing I want to show you. If you will _please_ get up.”

“You go out for walks in the middle of the night? Armed and armored?”

Kiara wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Yes, well, Sebastian gets tetchy if I attempt to go anywhere _un_ armed or _un_ armored.”

Amelle snorted lightly, even as she pulled her legs from the delicious warmth of the blankets, hoisting herself to the edge of the bed. She refused, however, to put her feet on the cold floor—she could feel the chill tickling the bottoms of her feet. “Why do I feel like _tetchy_ is the understatement of the decade?”

Kiara waved dismissively. “Oh, probably because it is. But we’ve come to an arrangement.”

Narrowing her eyes, Amelle sent out a flash of swift magic to rekindle the flames in the hearth, and another to light several of the candles. Kiara blinked in the abrupt glow and then smiled. “Does this mean you’re coming?”

“Kiara, you’ve made it very clear I don’t have a choice in the matter. But I’m not going anywhere until I’ve got slippers on my feet.”

“And a warm cloak. You might think about something other than a nightgown, too, but I won’t force you.” Kiara searched near the foot of the bed until she found a pair of matching slippers, tossing them Amelle’s way.

Amelle arched an eyebrow. “Won’t force me?”

“Much.”

“That sounds more accurate, thank you.”

Disgruntled as she was by the abrupt awakening, it was hard for Amelle _not_ to be caught up in her sister’s enthusiasm. It seemed an age since she’d last seen Kiara quite so carefree. If it took being hauled out of bed at an ungodly hour, Amelle was glad at least to be paid in Kiara’s smiles. After a moment of firmly telling herself sleep was no longer an option, Amelle pushed herself upright and headed for the wardrobe.

Kiara peeked over her shoulder, scowling. “Andraste’s ass, Tasia must be slacking. I only count _two dozen_ gowns in there.”

Amelle’s laugh startled them both. “And most of them utterly unwearable, if I want to keep my bosom modestly covered at _all_. Every time she brings me something new, I think it’s cut an inch lower at the chest, Kiri. Your maid hates me.”

“Hate’s a strong word.”

“Is not fond?”

Kiara giggled. “Well, you’re a challenge. And she does love a challenge.”

Amelle gaped at her. “I am _not_ a challenge. What under the Maker’s blue sky is wrong with wanting to wear gowns one can get into and out of on one’s own? Answer me that, Kiara.”

Kiara only smirked. “Oh, you’re _definitely_ a challenge. And as long as you continue to be a challenge? Tasia will be unrelenting. Come on. Choose the warmest one and find a cloak. I’ll be so upset if we miss it.”

“And who wouldn’t want to miss freezing her arse off in the middle of the Maker-forsaken night?”

On a raised eyebrow, Kiara only remarked, “ _Who’s_ tetchy?”

When Amelle was adequately bundled, Kiara peeked into the hallway. “All right,” she whispered. “Coast is clear.”

“What, no guards? You’re asking for Sebastian to upgrade from tetchy to downright cantankerous, Kiri.”

Kiara stuck her tongue out and pulled Amelle bodily into the hall. When they reached an intersection, Kiara once again peeked around the corners before shooting a grin over her shoulder. 

“I’m not sure if this makes me feel better or worse about the state of the palace guard,” Amelle whispered. 

Kiara snickered. “And you say I’m not a _real_ rogue. I do _know_ the rotation of the guard, Mely.”

“But if _you_ were able to figure it out, doesn’t it make sense that an enemy might be able to do the same?”

Kiara nodded, thoughtful. “You’re not wrong. See? It will make Sebastian so much _less_ cantankerous once I give him a valid reason for my skulking.”

“You two have a strange relationship.”

Kiara laughed, and then quickly glanced about to make sure she’d not been overheard. “Why hello, kettle. I’m pot. Awfully black, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

With a brief roll of her eyes, Kiara maneuvered them past another hallway, and up a seemingly _endless_ flight of stairs. Just when Amelle was preparing to tell her sister there was _nothing in all of Thedas_ worth climbing so many bloody steps, they reached the top. With a heave of her shoulder, Kiara shifted a trapdoor open, pushing it up and out, revealing the night sky above.

They were atop one of the palace’s many crenellated towers, and though the air was sharp and cold against Amelle’s cheeks, it took her no time at all to realize why Kiara had bothered dragging her all this way.

The night was dancing with falling stars. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Kiara looked up, wide-eyed. The night was moonless, but even in the starlight Amelle could see the wonderment on her sister’s face. Without looking away from the sky, Kiara said softly, “Do you remember that time—?”

“With Papa,” Amelle said. “He woke us all up and hustled us outside and at first we didn’t _see_ anything. You whined.”

“Loudly and at length, yes. And Carver fell asleep.”

“And then the stars started falling.”

Kiara sighed, but the sigh was one that seemed to speak of happy memories, and not the sadness that had come after. “We thought it was Papa doing magic.”

Amelle wrapped an arm about her sister’s waist and pressed herself close. “It _was_ magic. Just not Papa’s.”

For a long time they stood, eyes turned skyward. “I’m glad you’re here, Mely,” Kiara said at last.

“Freezing my arse off on a roof in Starkhaven?”

“Of course. What else could I possibly mean?”

Amelle knew precisely what her sister meant, but it didn’t need words. “Thanks for waking me up.”

She felt Kiara’s silent laugh. “Told you it was worth it.”

“We’ll see if I feel the same way tomorrow afternoon when I’ve had no sleep,” Amelle murmured, knowing very well she would still be grateful.

“Do you want to stay up and watch the sun rise?”

“Like we did with Papa?”

Kiara nodded, and then grinned, her teeth flashing in the darkness. “Except better,” she said, drawing a flask from underneath her cloak. “This time I have rum.”


	94. Chapter 94

_Maker, this place is huge._

Amelle was trying her hardest not to gawk, but had a feeling she was failing miserably.  She couldn’t help but feel out of place a little, a sensation made all the worse by the fact that _bloody everyone knew she was a mage._   She was used to hiding it, used to passing as a non-mage whenever she could, but not a single person in this palace hadn’t seen or heard of her little… _display_ in the square.  

And with that knowledge came the _looks._

Some were genial enough, but Amelle knew cordiality could be faked.  Some watched her with undisguised wariness.  Others eyed her with barely-veiled contempt, and Amelle knew it wouldn’t take long for that contempt to make itself known through more than just looks.

“My lady?”

Amelle whirled, surprised to find Ser Kinnon watching her, his look one only of curious concern.  She, however, was deeply and thoroughly pleased to see him, and she was sure it showed.  One friendly face might not have been much _,_ but under the current circumstances, it was exactly what she needed.

“Don’t pay them any mind, my lady,” he said, and Amelle didn’t have to look where he was indicating—she already knew a stately, well-bred pair of dark-haired women stood nearby, watching her with cool disgust, as if she were a particularly filthy bug crawling across the toe of a pristine satin slipper.

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered.  “No one’s looking at you like you’re a dung beetle.”

“It’s early yet,” the knight said, sounding entirely too cheerful.  “We could stop by and bother Tasia if that’s something you’d really like to see.”

She tilted her head, breathing a huff of helpless laughter.  “Tasia doesn’t look at you like you’re a dung beetle.”

“True, true.  She looks at me like I’m last year’s hemline.”

“Ouch,” Amelle said with a smile, already looking around, since where Kinnon was, Kiara was usually not far away.

“She sent me off,” he said, hanging his head.  “Traded me in.”  The look he sent Amelle was truly the most pathetic expression she’d ever seen on any face beside Cupcake’s.  “Told me she didn’t need me anymore, that—”

“What you mean to say,” Amelle cut in pertly, “is there’s some secretive little errand she doesn’t want any witnesses to see, and she told you to bugger off so you wouldn’t be incriminated?”

“Well, yes,” the knight replied with a shrug.  “But it sounds so much better if I’m bemoaning my state.  I mean, what’s a guard if he hasn’t got a lady to guard?”

Folding her arms with a chuckle, Amelle pressed her back against the cool wall.  “As it happens, I don’t need a guard—”

“Don’t you?” he riposted.  “I don’t see hide or hair of Braden.”

“And maybe this Hawke sister has her own secretive errands she doesn’t want witnesses for, hmm?”

“Gave him the slip, did you?”

Amelle’s guilty flush warmed her cheeks.  “Just a little one.  I don’t think he likes me much anyway.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” Kinnon protested.  “You just frighten the blazes out of him.”

“And that’s _so_ much better.”

It took a moment for Kinnon to realize what Amelle had assumed, and then he let out a sudden laugh.  “Oh.  Oh, no, my lady.  It’s not the, ah…”  He gestured a little, wiggling his fingers at her.  “It’s not that at all.”

“It’s… not.”

“No.  See, the thing you’ve got to understand about Braden is that he’s…”  Kinnon wrinkled his nose, thinking.  “He’s a bit… _proper_ ,” he said, finally.  “And from what I heard, the first impression you made was, uh, kind of…”

“Kind of… what?”

“You intimidated him, my lady,” Kinnon said with a shrug.  “He thought for sure you were going to barge through the palace, banging on every available door, shouting fit to tear the Veil if he didn’t take you to your… er, Fenris’ chamber.”

Feeling vaguely guilty at having intimidated— _really?_ —such a mountain of a knight, Amelle plucked at her fingers.  “It had been a very stressful day,” she said, somewhat lamely.  “And he was telling me to _rest_ , and—”

“You’ll get no arguments from me, my lady.”

“Of course not.  You know my sister.”

“Indeed I do.  Which brings us back around again, doesn’t it?  So what secret errand required the younger Hawke sister to abandon her guard?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.  And I don’t need a guard right now—I need a _guide._ I’m… a bit lost.”

“As it happens, I can do that too,” he said, puffing up a little.  “Where does my lady need to go?”

She chewed on her bottom lip.  “That’s… part of the secret.”

“That’s unfortunate, as my mind reading’s a bit rusty and I can’t help you find where you need to go if you can’t tell me where you need to go.  So—”

“Sebastian’s office,” blurted Amelle.

That silenced Kinnon’s prattle, sure enough.  He blinked at her once, then twice.  

“I’ve got an appointment with him,” she added, hiding her fidgeting hands in the voluminous folds of her gown.

“The prince’s office,” he began, “where we played cards until the wee hours of—”

“Yes,” she replied, with a hint of impatience.  “I thought I could find it again, but… well.  We were all a bit impaired by the end of the night, and…”

“And now you’re lost.”

“Hopelessly.”

“Well,” Kinnon said, stepping back and, with a gesture that was nothing if not _knightly_ , he invited her to walk down the corridor with him.  “I can still take you there.  Won’t do anybody a bit of good if you’re late for an appointment with the prince.”  He paused.  “That you do not want your sister to know about.”

“I need to have a few words with my future brother in-law,” she said. “That’s all.”

This seemed to satisfy Kinnon, as he led her down one hall and through another that looked completely identical to the first, before eventually coming to stop at a door that was, yes, _very_ familiar, now she looked at it.

“And here we are, my lady,” Kinnon said with a flourish.

“So we are,” she murmured, pursing her lips.  Amelle knew what she had to say, knew it was important—important enough to have made an appointment through Corwin to speak with Sebastian and, _Maker,_ she dearly hoped Kinnon kept his mouth shut about that _._   With a resigned sigh, she lifted her hand to knock, then looked at the knight, who was already standing sentry by the door.  “You’re just… you’re going to wait, then?”

“It is part of the job description.”

“I told you I needed a guide, not a _guard._ ”

He sent her a wry look.  “Humor me, my lady.  Once you’re finished here, I’ll escort you to wherever your elf friend might be so he can glare at me.”

Amelle sighed, shaking her head at Kinnon as she knocked firmly upon the door.  “He doesn’t glare that much.”

“Oh. Right. And Tasia doesn’t know thirty-seven different words for the color blue.”

“Again with Tasia,” Amelle quipped, even as Sebastian called out from within and her stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of her ankles. “One might start to wonder, Ser Kinnon.”

He grimaced, his ears turning just the faintest shade of pink. “One might do nothing of the sort. And now you’re just stalling.”

She wrinkled her nose at him—mostly because he was _right_ , damn him—and hesitated only a moment longer before gathering up her courage and pushing the door open.

Like everything else in the palace, Sebastian’s office was large, and looked far different without a card game going on, to say nothing of the drinking, the dancing, or the fiddle-playing.  Now, though, it struck her the single room was larger than Gamlen’s entire _house_ , and it took her a moment to orient herself. To the left, where the table had been, was a sitting area before the hearth. The far wall boasted a vast tapestry map of Thedas, vividly colored and—even from a distance—painstakingly detailed. To the right was Sebastian’s desk. She wondered if it was always in such a state of disarray, or if he just had _that much_ correspondence. He was leaning heavily on one elbow, head propped on one hand, peering at something on the desk in front of him, but he glanced up with the door opened and smiled at her.

“And here I thought Kiara kept the messiest desk in the Free Marches,” Amelle said, annoyed when she sounded even more nervous than she felt.

“Amelle, a pleasure.” Just as quickly, his welcoming smile faded. “Is Fenris well? Kiara? Is something the matter?”

She coughed nervously. “Amelle Hawke, harbinger of doom. Charming. No, they’re both fine.”

Relief swept over his features and he rose, clasping her hand. “Forgive me. I’m afraid my time is not my own. According to Corwin’s itinerary, I’ve an appointment shortly, and—”

Amelle grimaced, scuffing her slipper against the lush carpeting. It was _white_ of all things. She wondered how many servants were employed with the express purpose of keeping the carpets _white._ “That’s… me, actually. The appointment.”

Astonishment replaced relief. After too long a pause he recollected himself and ushered her toward the hearth. She almost wished he’d taken her the opposite direction; having a desk between them might have bolstered her courage. Instead, she sank into the plushly upholstered chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

Sebastian offered her refreshment—which she politely refused—before taking the chair opposite her. He was wearing what she thought of as his prince-clothes: white and gold and very, very fine. He was not, however, wearing his stern-but-fair prince-face. Under the thin golden band of his crown, his blue eyes were plainly concerned. “I confess I myself at a loss, Amelle. If you wanted to speak with me you needn’t have made an appointment.”

“No.  No, I did,” she replied, keeping her hands folded carefully in her lap.  “I…” Suddenly, the very many times she’d rehearsed everything she wanted to say vanished in a sea of white carpet.  “I didn’t… want—” she stopped, chewing on her lip.  “I’d rather not be… interrupted.  This is—this is important.”

“Very well,” he said, but she could see the concern hadn’t abated in the least and she looked down at her hands again to find her knuckles were just about as white as the carpet.  When she didn’t speak after a few seconds, Sebastian leaned forward slightly in his chair.  “Amelle, whatever it is you have to say, say it and I will list—”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she blurted.  Sebastian’s eyes clouded slightly with confusion.

“All right.  I… what is this all about?  _Worry_ about you?  Why on the Maker’s green earth…” But he only trailed off, shaking his head in bemusement.  “I beg you, Amelle, speak your mind as I am accustomed to you doing.”

She closed her eyes and nodded quickly, inhaling deeply and then exhaling.  _Right.  Let’s try this again.  This time without the open-mouth-insert-foot part._   “I understand, Sebastian,” she said more slowly, trying to will her racing heart to slow as well, “that… I understand I’m a, an _inconvenience._ ” And when she finally said the word, she injected just enough weight into it to make her point delicately, without belaboring it.  “And I understand that… my being a mage is… is a complication.  And—and it’s… politically, it’s… well.  _Complicated._ ”

She paused, waiting for Sebastian to say something, but he was just watching her, which only served to make anxiety claw at her gut and her heart beat just that much faster.  _Maker,_ she thought, _it’s almost easier when Kiara interrupts me every other word._

“I want you to know I’m not going to—to make trouble for you and Kiara.  I know she’s worried about it, especially now everyone knows, and there’s no… there’s no hiding it anymore.  I don’t want to make things harder for you—you or Kiara or Starkhaven—and I know… well.  The Divine is… I imagine she’s… a bit cranky.  With mages.  And I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I _swear to you_ , Sebastian,” and as Amelle said the words, she was horrified to realize her eyes were beginning to burn with tears.  “I _swear_ I… I won’t ever—ever do anything that will… embarrass or compromise you or Kiara or—or cast any doubt on you, or, or your loyalties…” 

For several, very long seconds after Amelle trailed off, there was no sound save that of the fire crackling behind the grate.

“So,” Sebastian finally said, and he was looking at her like she was speaking Arcanum, “allow me to see if I’ve got the right of it so far.”

Amelle nodded jerkily and recrossed her ankles as she tried to slow her pounding heart.

“You’ve made an appointment through my steward to speak with me privately because you want me to know you… don’t want us to worry about you.”

Her cheeks went suddenly hot and Amelle closed her eyes.  When tears spilled free, she brushed them away impatiently. “No.  I… I want you to know that I love my sister and I know how much she loves you, and… and when I go back to Kirkwall—” and, oh, how her throat caught on that “—I want to give you my word that you will never, ever have an ounce of trouble from me.”  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and sat up a little straighter, inclining her head and meeting his gaze with what she desperately hoped was self-assurance.  “Starkhaven might even forget the princess has an apostate sister in the first place.”

Sebastian was still regarding her with his steady, thoughtful gaze, still just faintly tinged with confusion. The confusion concerned her; she’d been as clear as she knew how to be and— 

“When you go back to Kirkwall,” he said at last, disturbing her racing thoughts.

Amelle nodded. “The mountain passes won’t be getting any easier to cross, and I’d rather avoid a sea voyage if I can help it.”

Sebastian sat back in his chair, clapping his hands to the armrests as though he needed them to hold him upright. “Amelle, are you _mad_?”

“Am I—what?” She cursed her voice for cracking on the final word, but refused to look away again.

“Are. You. Mad?” Sebastian repeated, enunciating every word with painful clarity. “Wait, allow me to phrase it differently: have you met your sister?”

“I know,” Amelle said miserably. “She isn’t going to like it, but… but _politically_ —”

“To the Void with _politically_ , Amelle. It would be one thing if you truly desired a return to Kirkwall, but no one looking at your face is going to believe _that_.” Sebastian rose, moved to the sideboard, and poured two glasses of wine. Amelle meekly accepted the one he offered. “Least of all your sister. I have only just managed to convince her it is in her best interests—and mine—that she remain in Starkhaven. Are you _trying_ to make my life difficult?”

He said the words lightly, almost jestingly, but Amelle held the wine glass close to her chest and said, “Sebastian, this isn’t… this is serious.”

“I am perfectly aware how serious this is. You are a mage—”

“An _apostate_ mage,” she interrupted.

“Please, Amelle,” he said, with a kind of quiet authority that both impressed and bloody terrified her, “I did you the courtesy of listening when you asked it of me. I would ask the same of you now. You are a mage in a city that has, until recently, been less than fond of mages. I can see why this might make you uncomfortable, but tell me truthfully, do _you_ wish to return to Kirkwall?”

It was not the first time she’d wondered the same thing herself. She still wasn’t entirely sure she knew the answer. She worried the stem of the wineglass between her fingers, twirling it this way and that, watching the liquid within form a dark whirlpool. Sebastian sipped calmly from his own glass, and if he was impatient, his expression gave no indication of it. “I… it was my home for seven years. My house is there,” she said. “And the clinic. I-I’m sorry, I know it’s _your_ home, but I don’t know Starkhaven at all yet, well, except for… you know. It’s just… Kiara… I don’t know.”

“Your sister will be in Starkhaven,” Sebastian said gently. “You will always know where to find her. But Amelle, no one is asking you to leave. As long as I am Prince in Starkhaven, you will be welcome here. You and I both know your sister… your sister will not want to see you go, but I will support your decision if you make it for yourself, and not out of fear or… politics. Tell me what _you_ would like, and I will do my best to see it done.”

Amelle looked down into the wineglass for a moment, then took a sip in an effort to collect her thoughts.  _Tell me what_ you _would like…_

Oh, that was a list too long to count.

She could barely look at him—the concern for her hurt too much, and he was making this more blighted difficult than it had to be.  She breathed in and out again.

“I would like,” she began quietly, forcing herself to look up from the wineglass.  “No.  I would _love_ for my sister to not have to worry about me like it’s her job.”  She held a hand up quickly, adding, “And I don’t mean that I don’t care for my sister’s concern or don’t appreciate it.  But protecting me has always been her responsibility—it’s always come first, and that isn’t fair to her _._   And… and I wish I could absolve her of that.  But, as we’ve seen, people view me as a way to hurt her.  I don’t want to be used as a tool for my own sister’s destruction, Sebastian.  I love her.  But her whole life has been dedicated to keeping me safe, and… she deserves her own life.  With you.”

“And you believe returning to Kirkwall is the wisest course of action to achieve this?”  She had to hand it to him — his tone was even and politely curious.  She might have just expressed an opinion on the vintage in her glass.

Amelle sipped again at her wine.  “I think maybe returning to Kirkwall is a starting point.  And—and _Cullen_ … Sebastian, I don’t know what’s going to happen to him, either.  He… he lied _._   For _me._   And he could be stripped from the Order for that.  I’m—I am tired of watching the people I care about get hurt because they tried to help me, or simply because they _know_ me.”She ticked off on her fingers, saying, “Jessamine wanted to hurt you and Kiara; Grace and Thrask wanted bloody _leverage_ ; Cullen left his post and lied to the Revered Mother to keep me safe; Fenris nearly bloody well _died_ to save my life.  Honestly,” she said with a broken laugh and a poor attempt at levity, “it’s enough to make me want to run off to sodding Rivain and raise sheep.”  She raked a hand through her hair.  “I heard what Jessamine called me, Sebastian — your shame _._   The shame of the prince of Starkhaven.  I… I don’t want to be anyone’s shame. I just want to be Amelle Hawke, healer, part-time shepherdess.”

Sebastian gave her a look.  It was one she knew well—Kiara frequently gave her the same one.

“What?” she asked, a shade defensively.  “It’s the only job I know of where I can carry a staff and not have to worry about people burning me for it.”

“Unless you are prepared to make such a voyage entirely alone, I doubt you’ll find very much satisfaction regarding your problem.”

“I won’t be alone; I’ll have the sheep.”

A huff of laughter escaped as he closed his eyes and shook his head.  “I would worry if I thought you were in earnest about the sheep, Amelle.  But I… I believe I understand at least part of what troubles you.”  

“I don’t want to make waves in anyone else’s life.  That hideous Caddell woman has been telling anyone with ears what a shame there’s magic in the Amell line, what a horrible burden that must be, what a taint to any noble house.”  She glowered.  “Kiara doesn’t deserve that.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes.  “Dare I ask how you heard any of that?”

Amelle gestured at her head.  “I have ears.  Also, her voice carries in that way only the strident and self-righteous can ever really manage.”

“And yet she remains alive to speak her vitriol,” Sebastian said wryly. “I admire your restraint.”

“I told you,” she replied, “I’m not going to cause any trouble. See how well I’m doing?”

Sebastian gave a long-suffering sigh. “In this case the line between causing trouble and doing me a great service is a thin one. Though I suppose it isn’t the done thing to immolate one’s annoyances?” He raised the last sentence into a vague question and then quirked a smile her way. “No? Pity. No matter. Aileene Caddell’s words are those of a woman whose hopes were disappointed, nothing more. She thought, wrongly I might add, Kiara might be put aside after the… debacle with Jessamine.”

“Even Kiara thought she might be put aside, Sebastian.”

She saw a muscle jump in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. A flash of the pain she remembered from the first days after the… _debacle_ darkened his eyes, but when he spoke, none of that agony remained. “Your sister is many things, but omniscient is not one of them.”

Amelle couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Oh, you two are going to have some of the most _spectacular_ arguments. It almost makes me wish I was—”

“Mmm?” He smiled at her over the rim of his wineglass, gaze entirely, _entirely_ too perceptive. “Almost makes you wish you were going to be around to witness it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“To say nothing of the children,” he added mildly. “I _do_ have to consider the necessity for an heir sooner rather than later, and it will be such a pity Aunt Amelle will be so far away.”

She glowered, even as she felt a pang of dismay, imagining tiny, fat, red-haired, blue-eyed babies.

Sebastian continued on, blithely ignoring her murderous expression. “But I must say, I feel sorriest of all for the kitten.”

“The… kitten?”

“Poor Spero, aye,” Sebastian lifted his shoulders as if to say _what can you do?_ “The kitten is a citizen of Starkhaven, after all. I’m not sure I can permit an apostate mage to abscond with one of my valued subjects.”

“Spero’s a _kitten_.”

“How many mice might survive to nibble at my winter stores if she isn’t here to defend them? I’m a prince, Amelle. I have to consider the broader picture.”

“You’re a manipulative bastard, is what you are.”

Sebastian threw her a wink. “You forget, Amelle. I was a youngest sibling, too.”

“Hmph.”  Amelle continued to fidget with the wineglass, weighing her thoughts.  She was very nearly angry with Sebastian for making light of this, when she’d made the decision to come speak with him seriously, and after a great deal of _thought_ , and here he was, using imaginary nieces and nephews she’d never get the chance to spoil— _Maker, what if one of them turns out a mage?_ —and threatening to take her cat away, which was even less fair, as fond as Fenris was growing of Spero, for all he tried to pretend otherwise.

But Cullen… she had less than no idea what punishment awaited him now, and she could not in good conscience send him off to meet it _alone_.  He’d already done so much for her—more than she could ever repay, she knew—and she knew he’d do it all again for her in a heartbeat.  No, she could not leave him to face his consequences alone.

“I pray you, Amelle, speak.  I am unaccustomed to this much silence from a Hawke.”

“Kiara has no concept of inside voice,” she murmured distractedly. “Never has.”  Before Sebastian could comment, Amelle sipped again from her wineglass and leaned forward, clasping the delicate piece of crystal in both hands.

“You honestly don’t care that harboring an apostate mage in this day, in this climate, may be more trouble than it’s worth?”

“Before I answer that, tell me this: did you think at any point trying to heal the stubborn man you see before you, whose wound was not only infected, but his spirit as well, was more trouble than it was worth?”

The answer came honestly and instantly, “Never.”

“Even when you had to travel into the Fade itself to talk sense into him?  Even when you had to help defeat a demon to get him out again?”

She sighed.  “There are so many more problems for everyone if I stay, Sebastian.”  She sounded as if she were pleading with him and she hated it.  “You—I’m not worth that kind of risk.”

Surprise registered first on his features, ebbing slowly into something _stern_ , and for a moment Amelle pitied those imaginary nieces and nephews.

“I can think,” he replied evenly, but still leveling a look at her so stern, so uncompromising, it took every ounce of effort for Amelle not to squirm in her seat, “of several people who would disagree heartily with that assessment.  One of them recently survived a bout of poison—against all odds, I might add.  Perhaps you know him…”

Amelle grimaced, but hid it behind her wineglass as she tilted her head back and drained it.  Sebastian played dirty—of that she had no doubt.  

It all would’ve been harder to take if he wasn’t _right._   That was the worst of it.

“Amelle, I…” Sebastian’s eyes clouded slightly and he rose, returning to the sideboard and refilling her glass as well as his own.  “I do not wish to bring up unpleasant memories, but I cannot help but wonder if you are not—at least in part—acting upon words said too long ago—and in anger.  An opinion—a _very impaired_ opinion—expressed that you _are_ a job and a responsibility: a burden.”

“N-no,” she said quickly, shaking her head.

 _…But I know… those things I said, they didn’t come from_ nothing _. I was hurt and I was angry and I was afraid, and for a little while I let those things mean too much._

“Amelle…”  Sebastian handed her the glass and her shoulders sank a little as she accepted it.

“That was the nicest thing about having the clinic, you know,” she murmured into her glass.  “You aren’t anyone else’s responsibility but your own.  You help alleviate other people’s worries and illnesses — _their_ burdens.”

“And if the templars come looking?  What then?”

“Templars can come looking for me anywhere,” she answered tiredly.  “Even here.”

“And not all of them will be as susceptible to your charms as—”

 _That_ was enough to make Amelle sit upright, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass.  “Maker!” she blurted.  “ _What_ has Kiara been _telling you?_ ”

Sebastian smiled, revealing the jest, but there was nothing remotely unkind about it.  Indeed, the fact he was teasing her, the fact he felt he _could_ tease her, made a sudden rush of affection swell in her chest.  She not only had nieces and nephews to look forward to, but even a _brother_ again.  Her long-shattered family was slowly starting to piece itself back together. It wouldn’t ever be the same, but it would be something, and she was starting to believe she would come to love that something just as much.

“She didn’thave to tell me anything.  I saw Cullen lie.  I knew it was a lie, because he’d already told me he’d abandoned his post to help you.”  He peered down at the liquid in his glass, then up at her again, and his expression was suddenly inscrutable.  “However, I fear I have caught you in a small bit of hypocrisy.”

“…Where?”

“You insist you want not to be a burden or responsibility to others, but you yourself are doing that very thing you claim not to want.”  At her evident confusion, Sebastian plunged on, “At least part of your decision to return to Kirkwall has to do with what reprimands you fear Cullen will face.  Am I wrong?”

“No,” she said reluctantly, “you aren’t wrong.”

“For all you insist it is your fault he abandoned his post, as I understand it you never asked any such thing of him.  It was an act done freely and willingly, done with eyes open and being entirely aware of the risks and consequences.”  Sebastian smiled a little, sadly.  “One does not become Knight-Commander—even acting—without possessing intimate knowledge of actions, consequences, and the chain of command.  He knew what he was doing.”

“That doesn’t mean I can just leave him to twist in the wind.  He’s my friend _._ ”

“Aye, I understand that.  And neither does it mean you should _._ ” Sebastian tilted his head back, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling as though seeking answers there. After a moment he continued, “Cullen has more friends than he knows. As do you, Amelle. May I ask something of you?”

“…Of course.”

“I do understand the seriousness of your concerns, please don’t doubt that, but… I would ask you put any plans to travel back to Kirkwall on hold, at least for a short time. I am not quite at liberty to speak of it yet, but I believe Starkhaven’s climate toward mages may not be quite so dire as you fear. Or as recent experience would have you believe.” She raised a curious eyebrow, but he only shook his head and gestured wearily toward his desk, with its piles of papers and complete lack of organization. “Half of that mess is to do with the coronation and the wedding. Both of which will be sooner rather than later. I do not think I exaggerate when I say Kiara would walk to Kirkwall through a blizzard and drag you back by the ear to ensure you are present for the latter. Stay until then.”

“But Cullen…”

Sebastian nodded. “I daresay I am more familiar with the inner workings of the Chantry than you are, Amelle.” A shadow of something like regret crossed his features, but was gone again almost before she named it. “I have some idea how Cullen feels at the moment.”

“I… I suppose you do.”

He smiled. “Done with eyes open and being entirely aware of risks and consequences. For what it’s worth, I hope Cullen will stay in Starkhaven for the upcoming events as well.”

Amelle finished the last of her wine and rose, setting the empty glass back on the sideboard.

“Amelle,” Sebastian added, “given that I’ve told you you’re welcome here, and that the risk of having a mage—an apostate mage—at court is one I’m willing to take, I do think you ought to speak with your sister. I will not betray the confidences spoken in this room, but if you _do_ plan to leave…”

“She’ll lose it entirely if it gets sprung on her at the last minute.”

“If you must break her heart, give her time to prepare.”

Amelle gasped. “Sebastian, that is not fair!”

This time, when she looked at him, no lightness colored his expression, and no laughter shone in his eyes. This was no jest about kittens. He looked terribly, terribly sad. “It’s the truth, though. For all your talk of not wanting to be a burden or to be your sister’s responsibility… surely you must see that taking yourself away from her won’t change the way she feels. You are her family. Staying or going won’t alter that. So if you must leave, please, be certain you are going for your own reasons, the _right_ reasons. Anything less…”

“I understand,” she whispered.

“I know you do,” he replied. Then, with a hint of mirth, he added, “I don’t suppose you have your sister’s flair for interior design? People have been bothering me for decisions about a guest room and I can’t think of anything appropriately outrageous enough. Thoughts?”

Amelle tapped her chin thoughtfully, resting against the back of the armchair she’d vacated.  “Outrageous, huh?  Hmm…”  After a few moments of thought, she tilted her head at him, winked and _grinned._   “Well, if you’re so very fond of your noble subject Spero, perhaps you might decorate a guest room in her honor.  I think kitten-print curtains are very much the done thing these days, don’t you?  Embroidered mice on the coverlet?”

A smile, entirely relaxed and beyond amused, changed Sebastian’s face more than Amelle could say.  Any anxiety she’d felt upon entering this room was gone, the last lingering vestiges of it burned away by Sebastian’s deep laughter.

“Maker help me, Amelle Hawke, there are days I’m _relieved_ to have you on my side.”

She smiled, and though not all her decisions were made, she felt something tight loosen in her chest, and a weight lift from her shoulders.


	95. Chapter 95

Kiara found Fenris in a quiet corner of the gardens. In itself, this was not altogether surprising.  What gave her pause was that he seemed to be playing with Spero. Fenris. _Playing._ He sat beneath a willow tree, smiling the very same self-satisfied half-smile she would have thrown a hundred games of Wicked Grace just to see again back when she thought she never would, teasing the kitten in his lap with a long blade of grass.

She cleared her throat and watched the way Fenris instantly schooled his amusement into something far more neutral.  So different from Amelle, who never hid her mirth—only her magic.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, inclining his head slightly.

“Fenris,” she replied, crossing the distance between them, her slippered feet sinking gently into the soft grass.  Mindful of her skirts, she carefully settled herself beside him. “How are you feeling?”

“As well as I felt yesterday, and the day before that.”

She nudged him with a gentle elbow, “Which is to say you’re sick of people asking how you’re feeling?”

With level, unblinking gaze and lips unsmiling, the expression was so utterly, perfectly _Fenris_ she couldn’t help smiling. “Even so.”

Kiara addressed the kitten, at that moment wrestling with the blade of grass.  She wasn’t sure who was winning, but the grass seemed to have a slight edge. “I think he’s feeling better, Spero.  Don’t you?”

Spero’s only reply was to chew upon the blade’s end.

Fenris sighed, the sound tinged with long-suffering, though Kiara didn’t know how genuine it was anymore.  “Amelle daily reminds me I spent three days asleep—”

 _“Poisoned_ , Fenris.”

“—and must take care not to indulge any of my rasher impulses.”

She wondered what rasher impulses Amelle had advised he stay away from and then, fighting a sudden blush, decided she didn’t really want to know.  _It’s Fenris,_ she told herself sternly.  _If Amelle let him, he’d be in the practice yard beating the stuffing out of a practice dummy. It doesn’t mean anything… like that._ “Only daily?” she said lightly, hoping she didn’t betray the actual direction of her thoughts.  “Maker, she’s slipping.  I’d imagine she’d be reminding you of something like that once an hour.”

Fenris looked troubled for a moment, but seemed to push aside whatever thoughts had surfaced.  Kiara watched him struggle with it for a few seconds before saying his name and snapping him out of whatever reverie he’d fallen into.

“It is nothing, Hawke.  Merely… a memory of my illness.  Nothing more.”

Kiara nodded, suppressing a shiver of her own as she thought about her experience with Maker’s Light.  All she truly recalled were strange, disjointed flashes and images—not quite memories, not quite dreams, but some haunting combination of the two.

“She was… very worried,” Kiara said.

He looked down at Spero, now on her back, tiny paws with tiny pink pads and tiny curved claws flailing as she played with the piece of grass.

“She does not wish to speak of it,” he finally said, still watching the kitten.  His brows drew together in a frown.  “I find myself wondering if _she_ was well enough to undertake such a strain.  I… saw much that troubled me during your absence in Kirkwall.”

“I heard about the nosebleeds.”

Fenris nodded, but did not elaborate, and his silence made her wonder if there was even _more_ to the story she wasn’t being told.

“As it happens,” she said lightly, clearing her throat, “do you know where my sister is?”

He rested his head against the tree trunk, and she’d never seen her friend so at ease.  Relaxed.  “I believe she wished to speak with Sebastian.”

“So it’s safe to assume she’s otherwise occupied?”

Fenris looked at her, his gaze unerringly level.  “For the time being.”

“Good.”

He shot her a questioning glance, which Kiara answered with a bright smile.  At her smile, Fenris’ look went from questioning to wary in less than a heartbeat.  

“Why is that?” he asked evenly, striving—she could _hear it_ —to sound utterly neutral. He might’ve fooled anyone else, but she wasn’t just anyone and she clearly heard suspicion in the timbre of his voice.

“Because it so happens I wish to speak with you about the small matter of my sister and I would rather she not interrupt.”

Kiara couldn’t be certain, but she would have sworn she saw the elf _blush._

When he didn’t say anything, Kiara continued, “Truly, you ought to thank the Maker for small mercies, Fenris. If _Carver_ were still alive…”

“Hawke…”

“Don’t hurt her.” Kiara meant it to sound like a command—if Carver had been alive to defend his sister’s honor, or whatever he would have called it, it would have sounded like a command—but instead the words held a pleading quality she couldn’t quite control.

Fenris’ brow furrowed. “I would never wish to cause your sister harm. Indeed, I would shield her from pain if it were in my power to do so, but—”

Kiara shook her head on a wry chuckle. “Always so literal, Fenris.”

Fenris bowed his head. The sunlight through the leaves threw dappled green shadows across his white hair. “I have already caused your sister pain. It was unconsciously done, but it was done nonetheless. She has… forgiven me.”

“But you haven’t forgiven yourself?”

“It is difficult.”

“The things worth doing too often are,” she replied, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. “Fenris, she’s a _mage_.”

“She is Amelle.”

Kiara worried her bottom lip and said quietly, “But she’s a mage. I need to know… you can’t care for someone—not really—if you would _change_ who they are, or if there’s part of them you pretend doesn’t exist.”

He looked down at the kitten and rubbed his thumb along the spot between Spero’s eyes; after a moment, the faintest ghost of a smile warmed his lips, as if he were reliving a pleasant memory.  

“I would not unmake her,” he said quietly, still looking at the kitten.  “I would not change her.  Even if I could.  She is Amelle.  She is infuriatingly stubborn, rash, reckless, and headstrong—but if she were none of these things, I would not be here right now.”

“But she’s a _mage_.”

“Indeed. And that is every bit a part of who she is as her stubbornness.”  He looked up and regarded her shrewdly.  “I confess, this conversation runs counter to what I was expecting.”

“You were _expecting_ —”

He shrugged.  “I believed you would wish to have words with me, once you found out.”

“Oh.”

“Not so very long ago, Hawke, you would have been urging me to see past that which makes a mage a mage.”

“Well. That’s precisely my point, isn’t it? This whole thing is… it’s a surprise. Maker, what did my little sister say while I was gone to charm you so—”  Fenris’ eyebrow arched suddenly with something very akin to affront, leaving Kiara with the distinct feeling she’d misstepped.  

“You believe my feelings for your sister are a result of a few weeks spent in each other’s company.”  The words were spoken with such a chill there was no way it could have been a question—it was an accusation.  Kiara blinked as a snatch of conversation uttered over a glass of wine, in front of a roaring fire came to mind.

_“She must take better care.”_

_“Amelle knows her limitations, Fenris. I daresay I’m more likely to end an abomination than she is, magic or not.”_

_“You misunderstand me. I speak out of concern for her wellbeing, not because I fear she’ll fall to a demon’s lures.”_

“Maker’s bloody balls,” Kiara muttered, resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands.  “This isn’t a _new_ _development_ , is it?”

“Perhaps not quite so long in the making as your relationship with the prince of Starkhaven, but… no, I would not use the word _new_.”

“So much for the fabled eagle-eyes of the rogue.” Kiara groaned. “My failure to observe, oh, you know, _massive emotional changes_ is giving me something of a complex.”

Again Fenris’ lips quirked in the slight half-smile that might have been a grin on a different man’s face. “I did take some care my feelings might go unperceived, Hawke. I was… as you say, your sister is a mage. My feelings about mages I never tried to hide. I did not think she could…” This time Kiara _knew_ she wasn’t imagining the blush that stained his cheekbones. “In any case, I was proven wrong.”

“So you’re… this isn’t… it’s not some kind of _temporary_ thing?”

“Are you asking me my intentions toward your sister?”

Kiara lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow. “If I am?”

Fenris looked thoughtful. At his side, Spero spun in a circle, chasing her own tail. Entranced by her own hindquarters, the kitten tumbled down a slight hill and then staggered to her feet, looking somehow offended. “I would follow her to the Void. I am hers, as long as she will have me.”

“Oh,” Kiara said, tears welling in her eyes.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, with no small amount of distaste, “you are not weeping.”

“Of course not!” she snapped, dashing away the tears before they could have a chance to fall. At Fenris’ impassive look she rolled her eyes and shook her head briskly. “All right, _yes_ , fine _,_ I am.”

He made no effort to hide his wonder.  “ _Why?_ ”

She knew she could not explain it. Not in a way he might accept. When she’d met him, all those years ago, she’d understood him. Understood the running, the hiding, the fear, the reluctance to trust. Her life, her father’s life, her sister’s life had been consumed with the same ever-pressing concerns. She’d spent her whole life worrying about Amelle losing herself to the lonely fate of an apostate. It hadn’t taken long before she found herself worrying just as much about him, for much the same reason. Fenris, her dear friend who, when freedom was finally his, realized his hunger for vengeance had made that freedom taste like ashes upon his tongue.

And now it seemed neither he nor Amelle ever needed face that lonely life. Not, she hoped, as long as they had each other.

But she said none of this. She merely sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the scented handkerchief Tasia forced her to carry and said, “I’m just—just _glad,_ all right?”

Spero picked her way through the grass and crouched, wiggling her hindquarters a second before launching herself into the air and landing in a sprawl upon Fenris’ lap.  He didn’t quite smile, managing to look fondly amused all the same.  Running a finger down the kitten’s spine, he murmured, “I confess I am relieved.”

Kiara watched the kitten bat at Fenris’ fingers, amused at this side of him she’d never seen before.  She never would have guessed _Fenris_ of all people could become enamored of a kitten.  

“Relieved?” she asked suddenly, looking up.  “Why?” 

“I’m an elf and a former slave.  I do not doubt my usefulness as a warrior, however…” he trailed off.  “She is your sister, and I know no one is dearer to you.”

“So you thought I’d say you’re good enough to watch my back and risk your life, but not good enough for my little sister?”

He inclined his head and met her gaze evenly.  “I am undeserving of her.  It would have been no surprise to discover you felt the same way.”

Quick as she could—one always had to be quick to defeat Fenris’ reflexes, but luckily he was preoccupied with the kitten—Kiara punched him on the arm. He glanced from her face to her fist and back to her face again. “At least I’m not the only one completely missing the emotional signals all over the place,” she retorted. “Glad to know I’m in good company.”

He peered up at her through the fall of his hair.  “Missing the emotional signals?”

“Fenris,” she said. “You are relentlessly stubborn and sharp-tongued and yes, occasionally broody. But you are also loyal and brave and, though you rarely speak it, I know you care deeply. About more things than simply the horrors of Tevinter. Somehow you seem to have missed the part where you realize you’re more than just the warrior at my back.” Fenris frowned slightly and Kiara rolled her eyes. “Surely you don’t think I share the good vintages with just _anyone_. I don’t give a bloody damn that you’re an elf or a former slave. You are my best friend. You’ve been unhappy almost as long as I’ve known you, and if you think I haven’t noticed or been affected by it, you’re wrong. I’m happy for _you_ as much as for her.”

Fenris rubbed at his arm where she’d punched him, brow furrowed. “So you… approve?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. With your characteristic overabundance of words.”

She snorted, leaning back against the tree, shoulder to shoulder with him. “We don’t all have your talent for brevity, my friend.” Then she tilted her head and sent Fenris a sly, sidelong smile. “Is that how you won over my sister?  Being the strong, silent type?”

He didn’t look up, save glancing at her from the corner of his eye.  “You are attempting to bait me, Hawke.”

“No, I’m attempting to tease you.  Entirely different.”  Fenris looked skeptical and Kiara nudged him with her shoulder.  “Oh, come on.  You’re in love with my sister—you’re practically _family_ now. Teasing comes with the territory.”

She wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that she’d called him family or her use of the phrase _in love_ , but something made Fenris jerk and go completely still.  Kiara watched carefully, and waited.  She’d botched the big signs sure enough, but she still did a fair job of reading the smaller ones now she knew what to look for.  Fenris’ hands weren’t moving, and Spero was doing her best to wrestle the elf’s index finger into submission.  The tiny kitten bit down on the pad of his finger, sinking her fangs in—that was enough to make Fenris react, pulling his hand away and shaking it, glaring at the dark blood welling up.

“Didn’t think about that part, did you?”

His reply came out sounding vaguely strangled.  “I’m sorry?”

“The part where we’d be family,” she answered breezily.  “Officially, actually family.”

His voice went softer then, more introspective.  “No, I… confess I did not.”

She noticed Fenris did not contradict the other portion of her statement, and she smiled, able to imagine only too clearly Carver’s crooked grin.  _Good one,_ she could almost hear him say.  _Can’t let him off too easy…_

“Of course, that means you’ll also have to call Gamlen family.  But then, you’ve got to take the bad with the—”

“Hawke.”

“Hmmm?”

He frowned at her, but it was a different sort of frown this time.  It was uncertain and puzzled and not a little pensive.  “What you’re talking about would only come to pass if…”

She let the silence hang for a few moments.  “Well.  I _did_ ask what your intentions were. Sort of. At least I insinuated I would like to know what your intentions are.”

“Now you are trying to bait me.”

“I would _never_.”

Fenris did not have to say a word. His eyebrow spoke clearly, and it was saying _I don’t believe a word out of your mouth._

“Fine,” Kiara admitted. “I might be baiting you a little. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for Amelle to bring home a boy for me to tease? That the boy she brought home is you is only icing on the cake, really. I already know exactly what to say to get under your skin.”

A shadow passed over Fenris’ face, but he quickly turned away and rescued Spero before the kitten could flip head over tail down the little hill again. When he spoke, he directed his query to the kitten, who blinked up at him and yawned widely, showing her tiny teeth. “Do you not think this is perhaps a conversation I ought to first have with your sister?”

“I don’t know. If you run things by me, I could tell you if you’re going to put your foot in your mouth.”

“Hawke…”

“It’s Gamlen, isn’t it? He ruins everything. I don’t blame you for wanting to avoid him. I would if I could.” Kiara made a face. “I suppose one day someone will tell him his niece is going to be Princess of Starkhaven. I dread thinking of how much some unscrupulous moneylender might forward him based on _that_ little tidbit.”

“Perhaps it will mitigate the distress when he learns the other niece cares for an elf who was once a Magister’s slave.”

Kiara leaned her cheek against Fenris’ shoulder and smiled up at him. He gave her a slight scowl—one of the friendlier ones—but didn’t pull away. “That’s my Fenris,” she said lightly. “Always looking on the bright side.”

Fenris huffed a laugh.

Closing her eyes, Kiara felt the breeze cool on her cheeks. She almost thought she smelled autumn on the air, and though the leaves were still green she knew they would be turning soon. “Everything is changing, Fenris.”

“Everything is always changing, Hawke.”

Kiara felt a slight tug at her skirts, and when she opened her eyes and looked down it was to see Spero valiantly attempting to scale the fabric-draped mountain of her drawn-up legs. She rescued her before she could do irreparable damage to her dress and send Tasia into fits. Holding Spero in her cupped hands, without looking away from the kitten’s unblinking gaze, she said, “Fenris, is she planning on leaving?” 

Fenris frowned, and though she knew there could be a million different reasons for that frown, starting with, “No, and you’re mad for asking,” somehow she didn’t think that was the case.  It was taking him too long to answer, which meant he was thinking.  If the answer had been an unmitigated negative, there would have been no such pause.

“You do not ask easy questions.”

Something about Fenris’ reply made Kiara’s gut give an icy twist.  “No,” she said with forced lightness, “it’s actually a very easy question. Pretty much yes or no. Very straightforward. And that you didn’t answer it right away…”

Without meaning to, without _wanting_ to, Kiara felt the memories surface from that horrible fight they’d had back in Kirkwall, the horrible words they’d flung at one another.  Hadn’t Amelle implied then that she wanted to be out of her shadow?  What cast a longer shadow than being Princess of Starkhaven?

“You are wrong,” Fenris said, unaware of the turn her thoughts were taking.  “It is not an easy question.”  He fell quiet a moment and Kiara recognized this particular iteration of silence as one that did not want to betray another’s confidence. “Amelle is uncertain of her place.”

“Of her place in Starkhaven?”

“Of her place at all.  You did not see the work she did those days in Kirkwall after you left.” She began to protest, but Fenris silenced her with a shake of his head. “I am not talking of the time she spent trying to cure Kirkwall’s madness.  I am speaking of the days before the first signs of illness began.  Even when there was nothing more exciting to be done than rolling bandages and replenishing potions, she was still content to be working in the clinic.  You told me, before you left, you were leaving Amelle behind because you wanted her to smile like she did the night she delivered that woman’s babe.”

“I remember,” answered Kiara, still looking at Spero, rubbing an index finger beneath the kitten’s chin until she purred.

“She was happy doing that work, but though she was content, moments of melancholy plagued her, for you were not there to see any of what she’d done.  It was evident she missed you a great deal.” He sighed. “And now she… has much to consider.  Anders’ actions will have widespread repercussions, and she must decide for herself how she will weather the storm.”

Kiara turned Spero over on her back and began scratching at her soft belly, ignoring the way the kitten batted and chewed at her fingers.  “But if she stays here she’ll have—”

“The protection of the prince and princess of Starkhaven?”

“Well.  Yes.”

“Has it perhaps occurred to you your sister might prefer to take some measure of responsibility for her own safety?”

“She’s going to have _you_ by her side.”

“There is a difference between having someone by your side and having no choice but to stand behind them.”

“But she’s—”

“Hawke.”

“You don’t understand, Fenris.”  Kiara twisted around, the better to look him in the eye.  “She’s my _little sister._ ”

“I understand better than you think,” he replied evenly, but the look he gave her was at once challenging and just a little bit cool, and Kiara remembered suddenly what Amelle had told her about Fenris’ memories.  She did not contradict him.

“I just want her to be safe,” was all she finally did say, sounding every bit as wretched as she felt.

“As do I.”

Kiara sighed and Spero did not object when she cuddled her closer to her chest. The kitten’s tiny furry body was still skinny, but less so, and her furry warmth made something loosen inside her. 

“There is also…” Fenris began uncertainly, “there is also the matter of the templar.”

“Cullen.”

“Yes.  He will be returning to Kirkwall to face whatever repercussions may await him for abandoning his post.  Your sister is troubled by this.”

“As we all are, but what in bloody, blighted blue blazes does Amelle think she can do about that?”

“There is very little she can do. I have tried to make her understand this already.”

Kiara shook her head, and blew the fringe out of her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “It seemed like such a harmless request. Look after my little sister, Cullen. Don’t let your templars drag her off to the Gallows, Cullen.”

Fenris’ gaze was level and just a bit amused. “Now you wish to take responsibility also?”

“No,” Kiara replied on a faint smile. “At no point did I say ‘If my sister hares off, make sure to abandon your post and follow her, Cullen.’” She shook her head. “I think Revered Mother Illona might have an idea.”

“The very Revered Mother he lied to?”

Kiara snorted. “Not much gets past her. I’m pretty sure she knew what he was doing. And I’m pretty sure she was pleased he gave her an out she could take. I… we haven’t had time to speak with her about it, but I hope she will not throw him to the wolves. I have some small reason to believe she won’t, in any case.”

The kitten rubbed her jaw against the skin left bare by Kiara’s dress. She smiled down at her, but the kitten’s eyes were closed. The white whiskers were ticklish. Something about the peacefulness of the tiny face prodded Kiara onward and she blurted, “It’s not just that I want her to be safe, Fenris.”

Fenris employed the eyebrow that clearly asked _What in the Void are you going on about now?_

“I don’t just want Amelle to stay because I want to keep an eye on her. I want her to stay because…” Kiara swallowed hard. Still cuddled against her chest, Spero gave a bolstering mew. “Because everything is changing, and I’m _scared_ , and I want my sister.”

Fenris frowned. “What have you to be frightened of?”

“Are you _kidding_? I’m a just a… a bossy girl who’s good with a bow. This life? This… with the responsibilities and the subterfuge and… and the _politics_? Out of my element doesn’t begin to cover it. It’s terrifying.”

“But you care for Sebastian.”

“Oh, I _love_ Sebastian,” she said, subtly emphasizing the word Fenris so absolutely refused to use himself. “Enough to volunteer to live this life. But that doesn’t mean it frightens me any less. I’m just afraid that even if I talk to Amelle about… all of this, she’ll still only hear big sister worrying about little sister. I don’t need to have Amelle under my wing all day every day for the rest of our lives, but I want her to know that me wanting her around isn’t only because I’m worried for her safety.”

An entirely different, entirely too familiar voice piped up. “Well, maybe if you told her that, she’d listen.”

Just off to the side and behind her stood Amelle, one hand on her hip, and wearing one of the most insufferable smirks Kiara had ever seen upon her sister’s face.  Behind her stood Kinnon, who was doing an incredibly poor job of _not_ looking mightily amused.  From the corner of her eye she saw Fenris glower a bit at the knight’s presence, at which point Kinnon shot her sister a look that positively screamed of _I told you so_.  Amelle, being Amelle, just shook her head at him, still smiling her self-satisfied smile.

Kiara closed her eyes and groaned, “Maker’s _balls_.  Fenris, you could have _warned_ me.”

“I could have,” he replied mildly.  

“I told her to,” Kinnon said.

“He did nothing of the sort,” Amelle replied pertly as she came over and dropped down onto the grass, leaning against Fenris’ outstretched legs and smiling.  “Besides, one hears the most illuminating things when—”

“—When one eavesdrops.” Kiara sniffed.  “So.  What _did_ you hear?”

The smile softened somewhat.  “Enough.”

“And dare I ask what you were speaking with Sebastian about?”

“Just giving my beloved sister’s fiancé a few tips and tricks on how to live with Kiara Hawke and not kill her in her sleep.”  She gave a thoughtful frown.  “And he _may_ have just given me permission to zap Lady Caddell and her wretched daughter.”

“And?”

“And I’m trying to convince my lady’s sister she ought to sell tickets,” Kinnon said, nodding at Kiara.

“Oh, it’s tempting, certainly.”  Amelle inclined her head and, in a near-flawless reproduction of Aileene Caddell’s voice, said, “Such a _taint_ on the line, my dear.  What good is any young lady with _magic._   Why, my _Serie_ can speak three languages, play the pianoforte, and sing Orlesian opera, to say nothing of her exceptional skills upon the dance floor _and_ —” here the act dropped and Amelle was smirking again, a positively devilish gleam in her eye, “if rumor is to be believed, behind the equipment shed in the practice yard.”

“Amelle!”

From behind Kiara, Kinnon chortled.  Her sister shot a conspiratorial grin at Fenris, who only shook his head, a ghost of a smile at his lips.  She then looked back at Kiara, clearly pleased with herself. “Hmm?”

“I suspect your sister is curious to hear your thoughts regarding the conversation you happened upon,” said Fenris, though Kiara saw clearly that the look he was giving Amelle said he was wondering much the same thing.

“Yes.  I—” Kiara stopped and hesitated before blurting out, “Are you leaving?” She tried not to place too much emphasis on the question, tried not to make it sound either tremulous or accusatory.  

“I haven’t yet decided,” Amelle answered honestly, with the sort of hesitation that accompanied difficult news rather than a lie.  “But,” she added, deftly plucking Spero from her sister’s hands and nuzzling the kitten’s head, “I am notmissing my only sister’s wedding.”  She wiggled her fingers at Spero, smiling when the cat batted at her digits. All trace of the drowsy kitten of only a few minutes ago was gone as Spero flopped onto her side, tail twitching as the little body hung over Amelle’s hand.  

“Which means,” her sister went on, still playing with the kitten, “we’ll be here for the coronation, too.  So.  Coronation and wedding, and if you make me wear something hideous, I will _never_ forgive you.”

Kiara turned a wide-eyed, mock-excited look Amelle’s way. “Oh, don’t worry, Mely. I’m sure it will only be a little bit ruffled, and I daresay the bows won’t be excessive. It will be an absolutely hideous shade of puce. Nothing for it. Starkhaven tradition.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes. Kinnon laughed. A moment later, Kiara joined him. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve never gone in for tradition, right?”

Amelle huffed a breath. “I bet Tasia still insists on bows.”

“And ruffles,” Kinnon added. “No escaping a bit of ruffle.”

“Surely nothing so ugly as some of the mage headgear we recovered over the years,” Fenris mused. “That you refused to wear, no matter what advantages it offered.”

Amelle’s scowl became a giggle and she pushed herself up to press a kiss to Fenris’ cheek.

 _Yes,_ Kiara thought fondly. _Exactly like family._


	96. Chapter 96

Amelle’s first thought was that she’d been robbed.

That was ridiculous, of course.  It wasn’t as if she had a great many things _in_ her room—only what she’d packed in a whirlwind after receiving that thrice-damned letter from Jessamine, and the dresses and gowns and assorted thingsthat had managed to simply appear since she’d taken up residence.  

But now everything was gone.  From the intricately carved hairbrush and mirror, to the tiny bottle of Orlesian perfume, to the delicately crafted decorative combs and pins Tasia had presented her in an effort to make her haircut look “less like a boy’s.”  All proof she’d ever spent any time at all in this room was gone.

Amelle felt a little kick of panic.  What if Starkhaven’s templars had been sent to collect her?  What if they were coming for her _even now_ and her room had simply been cleared out preparatory to her inevitable departure and incarceration?  Had Cullen’s lie been discovered?  Had _he_ been arrested?  Panic turned to nausea and one hand shot out as Amelle braced her weight against the wall.  The room swam dizzily and she closed her eyes, breathing in and out, taking slow, deep breaths, reining in the swirl of energy that had kicked up inside of her.

“…My lady?”

Amelle turned to see Tasia, evidently on her way to some errand or other, her arms laden with brightly colored silks, a quizzical, almost worried look marring her otherwise pretty face.  Amelle realized how she must have looked to the young woman, standing in the doorway of an empty room, hovering on the brink of panic.  She swallowed hard and attempted to calm herself, but her voice still shook slightly when she spoke.

“Tasia?  What… happened?” she asked, indicating the room.

It might have been her imagination, but she thought a tinge of blush colored the maid’s cheeks.  Amelle wondered for a moment if it was a guilty flush, and if Tasia had been in charge of the mass exodus of her belongings.

“You… you will have to speak with my lady about that.”

“Okay…” Amelle replied faintly.  “But can you… can you at least tell me where it all… is?”

Tasia straightened slightly, the blush still upon her cheeks, and cleared her throat.  “You’ve been relocated to another room in the palace, my lady.”

Cool relief washed over Amelle, leaving her lightheaded and almost giddy, and she closed her eyes, sagging heavily against the wall. “Oh.  _Oh._   All right.  I thought…”  She swallowed hard and waved weakly at the bare room, feeling silly now.  “I thought I’d been evicted,” she managed, not wanting to share with the other woman her other panicked worries.

The blonde shook her head.  “No.  My lady—your sister—thought you might rest more easily in another chamber.”

“Ah,” Amelle said, unable to keep from feeling slightly foolish.  “So, where is it?”

The blush returned.  “I believe that is a question best answered by your sister, my lady.”

Amelle had the fleeting wish that everyone would stop with the “my ladys,” but that was a battle for another day.  It was time she had a talk with her sister.

Kiara was holding court in her rooms. When Amelle peeked in, she almost turned around again directly. It appeared as though some kind of _wedding demon_ had been viciously massacred in her sister’s bedchamber, leaving behind scraps of silk and flowers and other things best left unidentified. No less than a dozen ladies of the court were in attendance, all—it seemed to Amelle—talking at the same time, and at full volume.

Kiara sat at the center of the maelstrom, her expression somehow managing to be both amused and patient at the same time.

Amelle knew at once Kiara wasn’t paying a lick of attention to the women chattering in her ear. She nearly laughed. Poor Lady With The Shockingly Red Hair was going to be so distressed when she realized her epic monologue on the suitability of lavender over lilac—Amelle didn’t know if it was colors or flowers, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to—would amount to nothing. Kiara was likely pondering archery practice. Or perhaps killing slavers. She wondered absently if, in Kiara’s fantasies, the slavers wore the gowns of court ladies.

But Kiara glanced up when Amelle entered, and a genuine smile overspread her face. She clapped her hands once and all the ladies silenced at once. Amelle smirked, wondering if her sister might teach her the trick of it. As she shooed them away—”I need a moment with my sister, Ladies, I’m sure you understand.”—the women drifted away on eddies of silk and overwhelming scent.

“Thank the Maker,” Kiara said by way of greeting, rising to press Amelle into a swift embrace. “Who knew the debate over silk, satin and samite could be so volatile? Lady Ambralee was very nearly beheaded by the mob when she had the gall to propose _velvet_. Please tell me you’re not here to talk wedding.”

Amelle grinned. “Well, I thought we might discuss seating plans. I heard a rumor you were going to sit Lord Saggy-Britches next to Lady Heaving Bosom and I _must_ tell you it _simply_ isn’t to be _borne_. Why, where would Lord Devastatingly Dull be placed?”

Kiara laughed and squeezed Amelle again. “I love you, Mely. In case I haven’t told you lately.”

Amelle arched an eyebrow. “You love me enough to have moved me to some other part of the castle without telling me?”

“Ahh, that, yes.”

It was just a little startling that Amelle couldn’t read her sister’s expression _at all._

“Well?”

Kiara raised both eyebrows. “Well what?”

“Where is my new room? Tasia wouldn’t tell me. And why in the Maker’s name was it so important I be moved? And _why_ didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

“Andraste’s knickers, Mely. You’re worse than my passel of planners. Your room wasn’t nice enough. I found a nicer one. I had the servants move your things—it wasn’t meant to be a vast conspiracy or anything.”

“I thought you were kicking me out.”  She didn’t mention the _first_ thought she had, and didn’t plan to.  Templars and the hovering lack of anything resembling a firm decision regarding her… _situation_ was a battle she still wasn’t prepared to face.  

Kiara snorted indelicately at this. “ _Please_. Not after all the effort took to get you to agree to _stay_.”

Amelle arched an eyebrow at “Well?”

“Well what? Again.”

“Kiri, honestly. Where’s my room? What does a girl have to do to get a _nap_ around here?”

“Sell her soul probably,” Kiara murmured mournfully. Then her brow furrowed. “But… are you not feeling well?”

“I’m fine.” Amelle sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. “I haven’t… sleep has been somewhat elusive, but I am _fine_ , I promise you.”

Kiara echoed Amelle’s sigh as she gestured at the guts of the wedding monster strewn about her chamber. “I’d take you myself, but we’d never make it before the planners found us. You don’t want them to drag you in, Amelle. There’s no escaping their clutches. Soon you’ll be dreaming in ribbons and rosettes. Run. Run far and fast.” Kiara winked as she said it though, and Amelle had the strangest feeling her sister was actually… _enjoying_ the madness. “Fenris knows where your new room is. Ask him to take you? He’ll be in his chambers, I think. I know you know the way.”

Kiara pressed a quick kiss to Amelle’s cheek. “Best go, Mely. If you’re here when they come back, they might start hounding you about _your_ dress.”

“I thought we already decided on my dress.”

“You say that as if it would stop them.”

Amelle was most of the way to the door again when Kiara called out after her, “Amelle? I’m sorry for not seeing to your room earlier. The new one’s… much more comfortable, I think.”

“The old one was _fine_ , Kiri.”  But her sister only shooed her off.

She knew the way to Fenris’ chamber by heart by this point, her feet following twist after turn of marble hallway.  There was a time when she’d considered leaving a trail of breadcrumbs just to find her way around, but now she simply knew, just as she rounded another corner, Fenris’ bedchamber would be on the left.

As luck had it, his door was wide open and she could see he was within, though he didn’t see her. If his expression was anything to go by, he was pondering something else entirely.

Fenris stood in the middle of his chamber, arms folded and head bowed slightly—the posture of one in deep, intense thought.  Amelle cleared her throat and rapped lightly on the open door; when Fenris looked up, she saw his brows were lowered in something akin to a scowl, but lacking entirely in heat.  It was the expression of one exceedingly puzzled.  The expression lightened when he saw her, but only somewhat.

“Amelle.”

“Fenris, I…” she trailed off, narrowing her eyes at him.  “Are you well?  You look… confused.”

Before he could answer, however, Amelle spied the very item that appeared to have Fenris so deeply confused.  There, on an ornately carved table situated incongruously next to a weapons rack laden with Fenris’ blade, was a tiny, delicate crystal bottle of pale amber liquid Amelle knew to be the very Orlesian perfume that had vanished from her bedroom.

“I am… puzzled, yes,” Fenris admitted, casting about the room again.  Amelle stepped over the threshold and looked around the room— _Fenris’ room_ —and saw not only the perfume bottle, but several potion bottles, her hairbrush and comb, and her staff, laid carefully upon the weapons rack, just under Fenris’ Blade of Mercy.

_Kiara, I am going to kill you._

“These are… your things, Amelle, are they not?”

_Fenris knows where your new room is._

There was nothing accusatory in his tone, but Amelle still felt the heat of a monstrous blush creeping up toward her hairline. “I… this wasn’t _me_.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, but he might as well have shouted his question. “Yes, they are my things. I don’t know why they are _here_.”

_The new one’s… much more comfortable, I think._

Amelle put her face in her hands for a moment, seething with embarrassment.

“I confess I expected to find _you_ ,” he said, looking once more around at the room and its new contents, “but instead I found only your things. Hawke’s little page indicated you were looking for me here.”

“I am going to kill my sister, Fenris,” she said, the words coming out strangely choked. “I am actually going to kill her. I’m probably going to choke her with my bare hands, but I might go for something more explosive if the mood strikes.  And it might strike.  Like _lightning._ ”

Fenris’ eyebrows twitched. “She is somehow to blame?”

“Of course she is,” she cried, looking around her and feeling a fresh wave of horrible prickling heat creep up from her toes and rush all the way to her hairline. “When _isn’t_ Kiara to blame for things that leave me _dying of embarrassment_? Fenris, don’t you see? She has _moved_ me _into_ your room. Without asking. Either of us.”

Though Fenris was often a man of few words, it was nevertheless startling to see him rendered actually speechless. His lips parted, but nothing emerged. Then he blinked. And _blushed_.

“I’m going to kill her,” Amelle said again.  The more she said it, the more it felt _right._   She could do it.  She _could._   She was even reasonably certain Cullen could be persuaded to see it had been the only course of action available to her.  And Sebastian… well, he’d get over it.  He might even _understand_.

Fenris looked around again, evidently taking in the scene with new eyes.  The blush didn’t abate.  Amelle knew how he felt; her own face felt as if it were on fire. “She…”

“Yes.  She did.”

Fenris shook his head slowly and walked around the room—he had so few belongings to begin with that the room had been positively spartan even when he had been staying in here alone.  Somehow that made the contrast between his things and hers even more obvious.  The armoire stood next to an armor stand—Amelle’s dresses hung neatly inside, but alongside Fenris’ armor the whole affair simply looked _strange._

He shook his head and looked again at Amelle.  “Why?”

“Because she’s sadistic and apparently bored?” she asked tartly.  Fenris said nothing—he only furrowed his eyebrows at her, clearly skeptical, and Amelle threw up her hands.  “I don’t _know._ I don’t know why she’d do something like _this._ ”

He looked at her for a second or two.  “She must have a reason.  You spoke with her directly—did she tell you nothing?”

The blush heating her face had just started to recede when it flared back to her cheeks with a vengeance.  “She was bloody evasive as all the Void, and you’d think I’d be used to it now.”  Huffing out a breath, Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose and thought back to the conversation she’d had with her sister.  “She said she thought I’d… she said it was a nicer room and that I’d be more… comfortable in it,” mumbled Amelle, looking away suddenly.  Oh, this would never do.  She’d have to move her things back—maybe Fenris would help—and then she would strangle her sister.  Possibly with a length of rosette-studded ribbon.  That had the air of poetry to it, certainly.

“And you are clearly uncomfortable.”

“I’m getting the feeling my sister has…”  Maker, she was going to burst into _actual_ flames if her face got any hotter, “made certain… incorrect assumptions.  About us.  And the state of our… um.”  She couldn’t finish, couldn’t actually give voice to the words, _I think Kiara thinks we’re sleeping together._

She’d never seen _quite_ that look cross Fenris’ face, and so she wasn’t _entirely_ sure how to categorize it, but it certainly bore a striking resemblance to discomfiture.  Intense discomfiture.  _Blindingly_ intense discomfiture.  

He coughed and looked away.  “I… see.”

Amelle grimaced, checking surreptitiously to make sure the heat of her blush hadn’t set the sleeves of her gown to smoking. But no, it was still confined only to _every inch of flesh on her body._ “Oh, Maker, I’ll just—”

“Am I to assume then you are… averse to the idea?”

“—Collect my things and— _what_?”

The world had gone mad. Amelle had the sudden urge to pinch herself—she didn’t _feel_ like she was dreaming and this didn’t _look_ like the Fade, but Fenris was still blushing and he had the _strangest_ expression on his face and she thought he’d just—

“What?” she repeated.

“It is nothing,” he replied.

“ _What_?” Pure, unadulterated shock had modulated her blush somewhat, in favor of open-mouthed gaping. “Did you just ask if I was _averse_ to the idea? Of staying here? With you?”

Fenris said nothing. He picked up her bottle of perfume and focused on it with the kind of intensity he usually reserved for slavers or blood mages.

“Are you… are you _not_ averse to the idea?” she choked out. “Fenris?”

He did not look up from the bottle, and cut crystal bottle looked so _strange_ in his hands—it would have looked stranger still had he been wearing his gauntlets, she had to admit, but something so delicate, so undeniably _feminine_ in those deadly, calloused hands was unspeakably bizarre.  Also strangely, inexplicably _appealing._

“Fenris…?” she asked again, unable to keep her voice from cracking even as the second syllable of his name slid into a question.

“Yes?” he asked quietly, concentrating entirely on the bottle as he turned it this way and that, evidently admiring the way the sunlight in the room caught the crystal in a riot of color.

“Are you saying you… _are not_ averse to… to me, um, staying… here?  In this room?  With you?”

His eyes slid away from the crystal bottle, but his expression revealed nothing.  “Would I ask you such a thing if I were?”

At that moment, Amelle honestly didn’t know _._ Because the world had gone bloody backwards _mad_ at some point when she hadn’t been looking.

“If the prospect of remaining is so… unpleasant, perhaps—”

“No, wait— _hey!_ “  When he lifted his eyebrows, tacitly inviting her to continue, Amelle said, “I never said anything about it being _unpleasant._   Just… embarrassing. Because… Kiara.”

Fenris’ expression was carefully, studiously _neutral_ and Amelle cursed silently, covering her face with her hands.  “Maker, what a mess.”  _Kiara, I am going to kill you, bring you_ back, _and then kill you_ again _for this._

“If you prefer it, I will help you move your—”

Amelle dropped her hands and took several steps closer, plucking the perfume bottle from Fenris’ hands.  “Fenris.  Please.  Just…”  She drew in a breath and let it out again.  “I don’t find it _unpleasant._   Just a little…”  _A little too terrifying?  Intimidating?  Maybe just a little too tempting?_ She closed her eyes and bowed her head, letting out a soft huff of laughter.  “I’d just like for something like—like _this_ to be _our_ decision.  Not my nosy, meddling sister’s.  Especially if we haven’t even—”  Amelle snapped her mouth shut and grimaced, feeling heat flood her face all over again.

“Amelle…”

She closed her hand tightly around the cut-crystal bottle until she could feel its edges pressing into her palm. “It’s not that I don’t—”

And then Fenris kissed her. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head for a better angle. The other reached for her waist and pulled her flush against him. With a sound halfway between indignation and pleasure, Amelle snaked her arms around him; the perfume bottle fell, and only the plushness of the carpet kept it from shattering. She didn’t care. With Fenris’ lips on hers and his hands skimming her body and his hair brushing her blushing cheeks suddenly things like a few moved objects and wanting to kill her sister—okay, she still wanted to kill her sister a little bit—seemed very far away indeed.

When Fenris finally pulled away—just enough to look her in the eyes—her blush was everything to do with having been thoroughly kissed and nothing at all related to embarrassment.

“All other concerns aside,” Fenris said, his voice low and gravelly and positively _rich_ with the kind of emotion that made Amelle’s heart pound and toes curl, “if my options are sending you to sleep in a different bed, or having your face be the first thing I see upon waking, I would choose the latter, Amelle Hawke. Your nosy, meddling sister be damned. As to the rest? It will be _our_ decision, as you say.”

The words Fenris said and the tone in which he said them made Amelle’s breath catch and her whole body shudder.  Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against his.  The fiery blush had left her skin aflame, but _this_ warmth, _Fenris’_ warmth was something else entirely.  She tightened her arms around him, pressing closer, though she was nearly certain not even a scant breath of space remained between them.

“You certainly make a persuasive argument,” she murmured, before dropping her head to rest upon his shoulder.  She could see the pulse beating at his throat and brought her fingers up to feel the thrumming beneath his skin.  “Nervous?” she breathed.

His fingers ghosted up the length of her arm and along her shoulder, following the path to that same spot on her neck.  His chuckle was deep and rich and she shivered as his breath hit her ear.  “I could ask you the same.”

A husky chuckle escaped her lips as she captured Fenris’ hand and kissed his palm.  “Maker, all I wanted was a bloody _nap_.  If I’d _known_ this is what was in store…”

“Yes?”

“Well.  I probably would have come here _first._ ”

The answering laughter was soft but genuine and Amelle let herself snuggle against him and close her eyes.  His arms were around her and every ounce of tension seemed to drain from her limbs the longer Fenris held her.

Several heartbeats of time passed in this manner, and by the time Fenris said, “A nap?” Amelle felt positively boneless.

“Hmm?”

“You said you were in need of a nap.”  He paused, rubbing a circle against the small of her back.  “Are you not sleeping?”

“Mm.  Not that well, I’m afraid.  Not for lack of trying, though,” she added, stifling her yawn.

Before she could do more than yelp a slight protest, Fenris stepped away just enough to bend and hook one arm under her knees. The other supported her back and he carried her effortlessly to the— _their?_ —bed, settling her gently amongst the pillows.

“Fenris, _honestly_ —”

He pressed a fingertip to her mouth to silence her. A surge of warmth that once again had nothing whatsoever to do with embarrassment curled in her belly, and she swallowed hard to curb the instinct to capture that insistent finger between her lips. Before she could act, Fenris vaulted over her, landing lightly on the other— _his?_ —side of the bed. Spero, who’d been sleeping curled in a tiny ball at the foot of the bed, raised her head and meowed at their antics before settling back to sleep.

“The kitten knows the way of it,” Fenris murmured in her ear as he settled beside her. Propped up on one elbow, he carded his other hand through the hair swept across her forehead, his fingers light and his touch soothing. “Sleep, Amelle.”

When she opened her mouth to protest, another yawn betrayed her. Fenris smiled, bending to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, and then a second to her lips.

“Just a nap,” she replied, curling onto her side. She smiled when she felt him curve behind her, fingers still skimming lightly along her neck and shoulders and down her spine. After a moment, he let his arm rest at her waist, and she… _relaxed,_ comforted by the sheer _presence_ of him.

And as Amelle drifted into sleep, her last thought was that maybe, just _maybe_ , she _wouldn’t_ kill her sister after all. Maybe.

#

For what felt like an eternity, Kiara bore with the flock of ladies all twittering their plans and opinions. She had long since lost the ability to tell the difference between the hundred and three shades of white—to say nothing of the _accent colors_ —she was meant to be choosing from. _Two weeks_ , she told herself firmly. _Two weeks and this is a memory._

Finally, Tasia appeared to shoo the pack of planners away and Kiara was left, at last, to her own devices. Oh, and they were _such_ devices, she could hardly _contain_ herself.

“Did she run back to her room right away?” Kiara asked Tasia, and when her maid arched an eyebrow and shook her head, it took a supreme effort of will not to bounce out of her chair and dance for joy. She contented herself with a grin and a giggle. When Tasia stepped behind her to begin fussing with her hair, Kiara sighed. “Sebastian and I are dining alone tonight, Tasia.”

“That’s _no_ excuse for an unkempt hairstyle, my lady.”

Kiara gave her maid a skeptical look. It seemed _every_ reason for an unkempt—nay, nonexistent even—hairstyle, but she’d long since learned it was best to let Tasia do as she willed. Arguing only meant the primping took longer. “There we go, my lady. That was none too strenuous, was it?”

Kiara was in such good spirits that she ignored Tasia’s snideness entirely and rose, embracing her. Tasia sputtered, momentarily speechless, and Kiara giggled again.

Sebastian was already in his vast suite when she arrived, a book open on one knee and a glass of wine in hand. He took one look at her, set the book aside, poured a second glass, and offered it at a distance. “I’m terrified,” he said by way of greeting, but his eyes were sparkling.

“Why so?” she asked.

“You’ve done something. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell you are _inordinately_ proud of yourself.”

Kiara only grinned more widely and crossed the room with a light step, taking the glass and immediately sipping from it. It was an _extraordinary_ vintage.  “And why should that _terrify_ you, I wonder?”

“Where shall I start?  Perhaps it’s the smile, smug and pleased and oh, just a little mischievous.  Or maybe it’s the sparkle—nay, the _gleam_ in  your eye.  Yours is a dangerous gleam, Kiara Hawke, and I know it well.  If it is neither your smile nor your gleam, it might be the spring in your step.  But it isn’t merely _one_ of these things, love—it is the combination of all three.  Such a combination I _know_ to be trouble.”  He took a sip from his glass.  “And so I am terrified.  Rightly so, I imagine, if you’re trying to play coy about it.”

As Sebastian spoke, Kiara leaned against the back of an upholstered armchair, taking absolutely _no_ pains to look guileless, lifting her glass up and examining the color of the liquor in the firelight.  “Maker,” she said when he was through, “I’d no idea you were so _suspicious_ of me, Sebastian _._ ”

His brows lifted.  “Suspicious?  No, you mistake me, love.  I would be suspicious if you were not on my side.  I’m merely wondering how many conciliatory letters I’m going to have to write to—oh, sweet Andraste, please don’t tell me Cullen smote Aileene Caddell again.”  But he didn’t sound terribly worried about the prospect; in fact, something in his tone sounded almost hopeful _._

Kiara laughed and moved around to fling herself into the very chair she’d been leaning against.  “It grieves me to have to tell you I think it will be a very long time before Cullen is impaired enough to smite a forked-tongued harridan like the good Lady Caddell again.”

“More’s the pity.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Am I to guess, then?”  Kiara lifted her glass, inviting him to try, and he narrowed his eyes either in scrutiny or thought.  “Were arrows involved?”

“No.”

“Weapons of any kind?”

“This is hardly a compliment to your future wife, Sebastian.”

He chuckled and sank down into the seat opposite her.  “No _physical_ damage done, then.  Are the wedding planners still in possession of all their wits?”

“As much as they ever were.”

His expression turned long-suffering. “Dearest, how much paperwork will be on my desk tomorrow because of whatever you’ve done?”

“No more than was there when you left it today, I promise.”

Sebastian looked off thoughtfully, toying with the stem of his wine glass. Kiara, still nearly _vibrating_ with excitement, raised her eyebrows and watched him intently. At length he fixed her with a look bordering on mortified. “You did something to your _sister_.”

“Not to. _For_.”

“Kiara…”

She affected a look of innocence she was certain bore little resemblance to the actual state of being. “Yes, heart of my heart, light of my life?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing much. I just moved her things to a different room. You know, I am her _very observant_ sister, and I could tell she hasn’t been sleeping well. I thought perhaps it was that she was getting so _very_ much morning light.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, warily parsing her words for meaning. She could see the thoughts turning over and over, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from giggling _yet again_. “You’re only telling me part of it.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“Maker, but you _are_ insufferable when you’re smug.”

“I’m _not_ smug. Or insufferable! I’m just… _pleased._ ”

“Because?” Sebastian pressed.

“I thought maybe Amelle was having trouble sleeping because she was lonely.”

“Kiara Hawke! You _didn’t_!”

She batted her eyelashes. “Won’t it be funny when you have to call me Kiara _Vael_ in that same horrified tone of voice?”

“You are changing the subject.”

“He hasn’t been sleeping well, either.”

“You _are_ smug. And insufferable. And a _terrible_ meddler.”

She laughed. “And you love me. I’m not sure _what_ that says about you.”

“You do realize, heart of my heart, light of my life,” he said, but with a far more ironic edge to the words, “one of these days your sister _is_ going to turn you into a frog, and there won’t be a blessed thing I can do about it.”

“That’s just an old wives’ tale,” Kiara said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.  “Mely can’t _actually_ turn anyone into a frog.”

“I suspect recent events might induce her to _try,_ ” he remarked dryly, looking at her over the rim of his glass.

“Then I’ll think her horribly thankless.”

“Your sister has been through a great deal even without the stress she put upon her abilities.  Just because she isn’t bouncing back as quickly as you’d like—”

“It’s not that at all.  On more than one occasion, while she was watching over Fenris, I _did_ catch her resting peacefully.”

“She was emotionally and physically exhausted, Kiara.”

Here, Kiara held up a finger.  “Proper _rest_ was the only way she would have been able to maintain her mana for Fenris despite… everything.  A restless sleep does a mage no favors.  I _know_ my sister.”

“All right,” he conceded. “Let us assume for the moment you’re correct—”

“My, how generous,” drawled Kiara, swirling the liquid in her wineglass.

“Why did you not simply _tell_ her you planned on doing such a thing?  Surely if she and Fenris are…” Sebastian gestured a little uneasily as if it were _his_ little sister he was speaking of, and the sudden hesitation and awkwardness in both his words and movements struck Kiara as perilously adorable.

“Because if I _told_ her, she would have said no,” Kiara explained, as though to a very slow child or very thick prince. “Unless I am much mistaken, she discovered my little—” Kiara wiggled her fingers, “—planand proceeded to plot my demise for, oh, the first ten minutes _at least_. Then she… warmed to the change. And decided against murder. She won’t actually ever thank me, but she didn’t stalk back to her old rooms in a huff so I know things were successful.”

“Did you warn Fenris, at least?”

Kiara gaped at him, aghast. “ _Maker_ , no. Why would I do that? He might’ve gone over all proud and noble and _resistant to good sense_. Trust me, love. I’m not wrong about this. If you look _very closely_ you may actually see Fenris _smiling_ tomorrow.”

Sebastian glanced down into his wine, and Kiara caught the telltale hint of a blush at his cheeks. “Why in the Maker’s name you think this is any of your business I will never understand.”

She felt a twinge of dismay. Just enough to make her feel she had _perhaps_ been just a little insufferable. Very slightly. An _iota._ “You think I did wrong?”

On a fond glance he rose and set his wine glass the table again. Then he offered her his hand and helped her from her chair. “I suppose we shall have to wait and see how the reluctant lovebirds react.”

“I only want them to be happy.”

He ran the ball of his thumb over her cheekbone and she leaned ever so slightly into the touch. “Your good intentions don’t make you less of a busybody, love.”

“And is that a punishable offense, Prince Vael? Will I be sent to the stocks?”

“I doubt the stocks will be necessary.”

Kiara sighed. “I don’t know. What if I don’t learn my lesson? It’s a very small leap from trying to make my sister and Fenris happy to, I don’t know, rampant matchmaking and general romantic mayhem.”

The look he gave her was a knowing one, at once too shrewd for Kiara’s liking.  “I rather imagine if your little scheme turns out counter to your expectations, the sting of it would cure you for a long while.”

Kiara opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it again, frowning.

“Second guessing your best-laid plans, my own one?” he asked, brows raised as he lifted the glass again.

“No,” she retorted, but there was no heat behind it.  “…Maybe a little.  A very little.  An infinitesimal amount.”  She bit down on her thumb, bottom teeth worrying against the nail.  “Tasia told me Amelle didn’t storm off.  I _know_ this worked.  I’m _certain_ it worked.”

“Would it have been so horrible to let them find their own way?  It is more than obvious they are dear to each other.”

“And in the meantime they’d be getting less and less sleep.”  This time Kiara was certain Sebastian’s cheeks had turned pink, and she somehow doubted it was entirely the wine’s fault.

“You are… _assuming_ a great deal, my love.”

“I can hardly see how they’d sleep _less_ now that—ah.  _Ah._ ” Kiara felt a matching blush creeping up her own cheeks at the thought—which she stifled _immediately_ lest her thoughts drift places she _absolutely did not want to go_ when considering her sister. “Doubtless that kind of sleeplessness would only contribute to the happiness that was my primary objective,” she retorted defiantly.

Sebastian chuckled. “Very well. I see you are resolved to be in the right. And while the happiness of your sister and Fenris is yet to be determined, you are clearly _very_ happy, and I’ve no wish to cure you of that.”

She pouted at him, which only made him laugh and pull her closer. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she was surprised when she felt him deftly pluck one of the pins from her hair. A lock tumbled across her shoulders, followed by a second and a third. “Tasia won’t be happy with you,” she warned.

“Tasia is not here,” he replied. “And I miss seeing your hair loose.”

“You know, if you _told_ her that, she wouldn’t make me suffer so much.”

Sebastian pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “She’d find a different way to make you suffer, love. You make it so much fun for her, with all your bluster and petulance.”

“I am _never_ petulant!”

“She said, petulantly.”

“You are spending entirely too much time with Varric. I ought to banish him back to Kirkwall at once.”

Sebastian laughed and repeated, “She said, _even more_ petulantly. And you are not princess yet, my dear. Your banishing lacks the authority of the crown.”

“Now who’s being insufferable?”

“Oh, both of us, I daresay. Good thing we’ve no audience but each other.”

Kiara smiled up at Sebastian, marveling for a moment at the warmth of his gaze and her own answering contentment.  For the first time in a long time, she was _happy._   She wasn’t sure she’d truly been anything like happy since Mother had been killed.  And at the time she hadn’t been sure she’d ever reach happy again.  

She brought one hand up to Sebastian’s face, her thumb lingering over his cheekbone as she remembered warm hands covering hers, washing away days’ old blood from her skin.

“You are thinking,” Sebastian murmured, never taking his eyes away from her face.

“I am.”  She sent him a faintly crooked smile.  “And does that terrify you, too?”

“Never.”  Sebastian set down his glass with a soft clink, took her face between his hands, and kissed her.  The emotion poured into the gesture made her heart twist and ache sweetly in her breast.  Sighing, she rose on tiptoes, pressing back into the kiss, resting her hands flat against his chest.  She felt his heart beating hard against her palm.

Happiness, she thought, was something she could get used to.

When Sebastian pulled away, his hands still cradling her face, he looked into her eyes.  For the space of a heartbeat, of a breath, Kiara was certain he could see into the very depths of her soul, casting light on every piece of her, every secret she’d ever held.  And _she didn’t care._   She knew he would love her regardless.

Tears prickled at her eyes and Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

“I am _nearly_ certain my kisses should not make you cry, my love.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she slid her hands from their resting place on his chest up to his shoulders. She loved his shoulders, broad but not bulky, with all the lean muscle of years spent practicing archery. He tilted his head ever so slightly, faint concern furrowing his brow. She even loved the way his bloody brow _furrowed_ , though the current concern was unnecessary. Slipping her hands further, she interlaced her fingers behind his neck. Looking up into his face, she felt a tear slide down the curve of her cheek. “I love you,” she said at last.

It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d said the words, but still Sebastian looked slightly taken aback. It was, perhaps, the first time she’d uttered them so _seriously_ , without immediately adding a jest or a grin or a deflection. She felt his breath catch, and saw him swallow hard. “I love you,” she repeated, tasting the words with something like wonder.

Sebastian ran his fingers through her freed hair to lift the strands away from her face, brushed away her tears gently with his thumbs, and then bent his neck to touch his forehead to hers. 

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I should have let them find their own way. I just…”

“Want them to be happy.”

She smiled slightly. “I _am_ a meddler.”

“I hear meddling is a fine trait for a politician to have. Use your powers for good, my own one.”

“I’ll try.”

“I know you will,” he murmured. “It’s one of the reasons I love _you_.”

Here, she did grin, pushing herself once again onto her toes to better follow his kiss with one of her own.


	97. Chapter 97

Sebastian heard the clash of weaponry even before he turned the corner. With only a week before the wedding, it was a challenge to find _any_ time away from his office. Even this visit to the yard was not the archery practice he longed for, but yet another pressing obligation he’d put off too long. Still, the fresh air was pleasant, and the sun on his face reminded him that in less than a fortnight all this planning would be but a memory.

That time couldn’t come soon enough.

But first: duty.

Pausing, he listened. Sword meeting sword. Sword meeting shield. A muffled grunt. A curse in Arcanum. A different one in the common tongue. A few steps more brought Sebastian into the practice yard, but still he kept well back, content to watch the spectacle without being noticed himself. 

Even without using the advantages afforded him by his markings, Fenris was always a force to be reckoned with, and though it was by no means a rare sight these days, any time the elf was in the practice yard he drew a crowd. This morning was no exception. It was not quite the exhibition of the archery contest, but every guard not on duty seemed to have gravitated to the yard.

Not only guards, Sebastian noted with a smile; a coterie of ladies, both servant and noble alike, tittered in one corner, talking behind their hands or their fans. He caught himself looking automatically for Kiara amongst them, before remembering his beleaguered betrothed was ensconced— _trapped,_ was her word—in yet _another_ dress fitting.

“How many times do they have to fit me?” she’d moaned as they broke their fast together in his office. “Maker, Sebastian, it’s not like _I_ keep changing size. Can’t they just make it right _the first time_?”

It made him smile to remember her face as she’d been led away, as tragic and reluctant as a woman headed to the gallows.

Truly, she had an _obscene_ number of fittings. It made no more sense to him than it did to her, but thankfully he did not have to be involved.

Fenris circled, a blunted greatsword at the ready, and when his opponent followed his lead, Sebastian smirked to see Kinnon, flushed with exertion and sweat dripping into his eyes, was the other combatant. The knight, more quickly than Sebastian would have expected of him, darted in, feinted, and though his attack failed, he still managed to have his shield up in time to deflect Fenris’ blow. The force drove him hard to one knee. Even with practice weapons, Sebastian winced at the sound, and imagined Kinnon’s arm must be aching to the shoulder.

“Do you yield?” Fenris called. Sebastian saw Kinnon shake his head in the negative even as he took a moment to shake his shield arm. By the time Fenris came at him again, however, Kinnon was once again at the ready. Other soldiers called out advice, but Kinnon did not appear to heed them, his attention wholly focused on the task at hand.

Leaning against the wall, far from the view of combatants and crowd alike, Sebastian watched intently. Kinnon knew he was outmatched, and Sebastian could see him trying to think his way around the problem. It wasn’t simple, of course. In this case, the problem was stronger, faster, and carrying a weapon with longer reach.

The problem could also pull Kinnon’s heart from his chest with his bare hands, but Sebastian doubted the knight was considering such a dire outcome. Sebastian allowed himself to imagine it, however, just for a moment, though not with any of the earlier vitriol the knight had once engendered.

Once, twice, Fenris tested Kinnon’s defenses. Once, twice, Kinnon held firm and allowed the elf no advantage. The third time Fenris moved toward him, however, the knight stepped back at the last possible moment, eerily quick, and Fenris was distracted just enough—thrown _just_ enough off balance—for Kinnon to lunge, catching him in what most certainly would have been a death blow had the blade not been blunted.

Fenris grunted, lowered the point of his own blade, and nodded. “Well done.”

For half a heartbeat, Kinnon looked as though the elf had just given him the keys to a kingdom. Then he recollected himself, wiped at least _some_ of the grin from his face, and offered Fenris a formal salute. Sebastian knew the elf well enough to know he was momentarily taken aback by the courtesy, but after a moment he merely nodded briskly and strode away, rolling the kinks from his shoulders as he went. A number of the giggling, gossiping ladies followed his departure with their eyes and Sebastian snorted lightly. _The Hawke sisters bring with them a world of disappointed hopes for the young ladies of Starkhaven._ With an amused quirk of his lips, he crossed the yard and caught Kinnon just as the young knight was removing his shield.

“A word, Kinnon?”

Kinnon blinked owlishly, and looked around as if hoping to find some _other_ man of the same name in the near vicinity. When he saw he was alone, he returned his attention to Sebastian and blinked again, executing a far more awkward salute than the one he’d just given Fenris. “Your Highness. I, uh, forgive me, I didn’t see you.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt the bout.”

Kinnon’s lips turned up in a self-deprecating little smile. “I think he went easy on me, my lord.”

“Fenris never goes easy,” Sebastian replied. “And he meant his praise. It was well done, Kinnon. You’re quicker than you look.”

Pushing the sweaty curls from his brow with one hand, Kinnon raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying I… look slow?”

“No, indeed. I have not forgotten you were once fast enough to take an arrow for me. I meant only that plate armor is hardly known for its maneuverability, but you manage it well.”

The knight inclined his head. “I don’t much like plate, actually, Your Highness. I know it’s expected, but when I first learned, Maisie and I only had ragged old leathers to keep from gutting ourselves. Heavy armor… took some getting used to.” A shadow crossed his face when he realized he’d spoken of his disgraced and imprisoned one-time partner. His traitorous friend. “Have you… have you decided what you’ll do with her, Your Highness?”

Sebastian did not answer at once. Kinnon did not look away, didn’t flinch, but he could see the lingering pain in the younger man’s eyes, and disappointment and anger stiffened the set of his shoulders.

Still carefully watching Kinnon’s reactions, Sebastian said, “I thought I might let you decide.”

“ _Me_? Maker, what _for_?” The astonishment was genuine, of that Sebastian was certain. It almost amused him, except the subject was too grim. “Y-your Highness, that’s—that’s a punishment you should name, certainly. Or… or perhaps the new captain? When you appoint one?”

“Aye, Kinnon,” Sebastian replied. “As it happens, that was my intention.”

The confusion didn’t ebb. If anything, it grew only stronger, furrowing the young knight’s brow. “But I—Your Highness, you’re not—my lord, you can’t be _serious._ ”

Kinnon’s expression was horrified, and Sebastian allowed himself a moment of doubt. He’d anticipated any number of reactions, but horror hadn’t been on the list. Smugness, perhaps. Or glee. Or pride. Nothing that might cause a man’s eyes to widen, his knuckles to turn white around the hilt of his blade, and his cheeks to drain of color.

“You have proven yourself loyal to Starkhaven, to me and to Kiara, on any number of occasions. Some… restructuring may be in order, and I trust you to know what needs to be done. The position is yours, if you’ll have it, Kinnon.”

The knight said nothing. He didn’t so much as blink, and when a rogue drop of sweat rolled down his cheek, he made no move to brush it away. Sebastian saw him swallow hard before he said, “A-as you will, Your Highness.”

“Maker’s breath, man. It’s a promotion, not a death sentence.”

Kinnon nodded, but didn’t quite look him in the eye. “Is this… did Lady Kiara put you up to…?”

Sebastian shook his head. “She knows I intended to ask, but the decision was mine. Kinnon, am I to understand you don’t _wish_ to take the position?”

Again Kinnon was silent too long, and Sebastian saw his throat constrict as he swallowed. “I… I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Your Highness.”

“But you don’t want to be Captain?”

Kinnon bowed his head. Sebastian had the strangest feeling he’d _hurt_ the man somehow, and he was so baffled he nearly missed it when the knight replied softly, “I’m not a _leader_.”

“Elias looked to you often enough.”

Kinnon’s dark eyes darted up before glancing past Sebastian again, out toward the practice yard. Several more pairs were sparring, and Fenris was practicing alone, much to the despair of the poor dummy taking the brunt of his attacks. “I-I’m a good lieutenant, Highness. I’m a good second. But I know myself. A captain—a good captain—has to have eyes everywhere. He or she has to know everything going on. I’m… Your Highness, if I say so myself, I am a very good _guard_ when I’m asked to guard something specific.”

“As I have had cause to witness.”

The knight nodded again, his shoulders slumping. “I am _honored_ , Your Highness. More honored than you know, especially… especially given the wrong foot we started out on. But I won’t make you a good captain. I’ll be in over my head before the week is out—and this is… this is a _very important week_ , my lord.”

Sebastian knew _that_ well enough. Dignitaries and guests had already begun to arrive, and more were expected at any moment; amazing how quickly travel could be arranged when the motivator was a royal wedding _._ Still, minutes and hours were slipping away at alarming speed. “Aye,” he finally said with a nod. “You’ve got the right of that, Kinnon.”

“And getting in over my head on _this_ of all weeks might end with me _losing_ my head.” When Sebastian shot the knight a stern look, Kinnon amended, saying, “A week in the dungeons then, maybe. Bread and water rations. Accompanied by the crippling guilt of having failed you. Which I would much rather not do.” His tone was light enough, but the color hadn’t yet returned to his cheeks.

 _Still, isn’t it better to beware those who crave leadership and power? Kinnon does not want it, but mightn’t that make him the best choice?_ Sebastian thought about pressing the matter, but found himself asking instead, “If you yourself are not interested in taking over the post, who would you recommend?”

This question evidently startled the younger man as well, but not to the extent the promotion had. “Well, my lord, the captain should be someone loyal to Starkhaven, who… who leads well, but not blindly.” Sebastian arched an eyebrow, and Kinnon hastened to add, “Someone who might… not _challenge_ your word, but who wouldn’t be afraid to speak up if he feared you were acting rashly.”  

Sebastian’s eyebrow arched higher and Kinnon’s face flooded with all the color he’d lost earlier.  

“…Which obviously isn’t _me_ ,” he mumbled, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I do take your point,” Sebastian finally replied on a sigh. “I must rely on those around me to keep me honest. And, believe it or not, I do appreciate _your_ honesty on that score.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Pushing a hand through his hair, Kinnon sighed. “Captain Elias’ boots won’t be easy to fill.”

“But you have no recommendation you’d offer?”

Kinnon let out a breath and turned to survey the still-bustling practice yard. Archers shot arrows into far-off targets. Two men Sebastian knew for off-duty Eyes sparred dangerously with daggers that looked not in the least bit dulled as they glinted sharply in the golden autumn sunlight. A number of the guard still worked in pairs, some dressed down in leathers as they clashed quarterstaves against each other, others in full armor battling it out with swords as Kinnon and Fenris had. Toward the back of the yard, Sebastian saw the elf in question had momentarily paused his abuse of the practice dummy to demonstrate a particularly complicated attack pattern to a pair of younger knights, both of whom wielded greatswords.

“You might ask the men. They’ll tell you true.”

“And if they tell me they would like to see _you_ lead them?”

Kinnon gave an indelicate snort and shook his head. “Then I’ll take the job just so I can lock them up in the dungeon for being so bloody daft.”

“You realize that might leave you with no men under your command.”

“I’ll take my chances, Your Highness.” Kinnon shook his head again, more definitely. “They won’t choose me. They know better than that. If she weren’t to be so busy, I’d suggest naming your future wife.” Kinnon’s tone held a hint of jest, but layered with seriousness. “They’d follow her. I… I hope you know that, Your Highness. Some of the nobility might be snide, but the guard knows her merit.”

Sebastian inclined his head, accepting the compliment more graciously than Kiara would have done. “And were she not to be so very busy, she might even accept. Maker knows the woman inspires loyalty. Sadly, she has any number of responsibilities—most unfamiliar to her—and they will not leave her time enough.”

Kinnon’s lips quirked. “I bet Tasia’d be glad to hear that. Can you imagine the fits she’d have, trying to marry Princess and Captain of the Guard in a single outfit?”

“And Kiara can’t wrap her head around the concept of an archery gown.”

The young knight laughed. “Poor Tasia.”

“Poor Tasia, what?”

Kinnon jumped visibly, his eyes widening, and Sebastian chuckled. The maid in question was standing behind Kinnon, having approached silently from within the palace, her cheeks pink and her arms crossed over her chest. Sebastian saw the knight’s gaze slip downward before latching very firmly to Tasia’s face. “Poor Tasia…” Kinnon began weakly. “Poor Tasia’s had to deal with Lady Kiara in a mood all week, hasn’t she. We, uh, feel sorry for you.”

Tasia’s eyebrow rose very, very slowly and then stayed lifted. She said nothing. Kinnon twitched. Sebastian swallowed his smile and looked toward Fenris, still battling away with several other warriors, to keep from laughing at Kinnon’s misfortune.

“Speaking of Lady Kiara,” Tasia said archly, “as you tell me you _were_ , have either of you seen her? She’s meant to be at a meeting.”

“Wasn’t she meant to be at a dress fitting?”

Tasia’s expression was long-suffering. “The dress fitting was ages ago. She disappeared afterward, even though I’m _certain_ I mentioned _this_ meeting as well, before she went to the fitting this morning.”

“And is this meeting she’s missing in any way related to the wedding?”

Tasia turned her eyebrow on him. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Sebastian suddenly understood Kinnon’s twitching. Maintaining his composure—he hoped—he shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I’m afraid she’s rather reached her limit. Not that I blame her. Her hiding places are only bound to get more obscure.”

On a heavy sigh, Tasia nodded. “I feared as much. I’ve already looked in the most obvious ones.”

“She and Amelle may have gone into town,” Sebastian suggested. If Isabela was not off on her very pressing mission to make certain Aveline was as present for Kiara’s wedding as Kiara’d been at hers, Sebastian felt certain his beloved would already have sold all her belongings—and perhaps her soul—to induce Isabela to sail her to Rivain and far away from the endless chattering of the wedding planners. 

Aghast, Tasia scowled. “She was _not_ dressed for a visit to town. _Neither_ of them were.”

Almost under his breath, Kinnon muttered, “I’d put money on that’s where they are, then.”

The maid shot him a flushed, frustrated glance, and Sebastian felt a moment of pity for her. Hers was not an easy job, and right now she was playing lady’s maid and personal steward and _wrangler_ all at the same time. Kinnon’s expression softened, and Sebastian wondered if the knight was coming to the same conclusion; Tasia looked so dreadfully _harried_. “I’ll help you look,” Kinnon offered. “She has to be somewhere. And if she can’t be found, I’ll even face down the raging ladies for you.”

Tasia didn’t quite smile, but some heavy thing shifted and her shoulders straightened. “I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere, Ser Kinnon—”

“Not at all,” Sebastian interjected, before the young woman could scare her would-be partner off. “He’s off-duty. And he’s already bested Fenris and turned down a promotion. I’d say his work in the practice yard is done.”

The knight blushed again, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

“Turned down a promotion?” Tasia asked, and for a moment all the artifice disappeared. “What promotion?”

Sebastian said nothing, so Kinnon was forced to reply. “His Highness was under the… misapprehension I might be a suitable replacement for Captain Elias.”

The smile started slowly, spreading across Tasia’s cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. And then she _giggled_. When she looked up at Sebastian, she giggled again. “Oh, Your Highness,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh. Oh, _Maker’s breath_ , no!” For a moment she looked as though she was going to say something more, but further giggles stole her words.

Sebastian hazarded a brief glance toward Kinnon, whose expression was caught somewhere between embarrassed and horrified.

“Surely—” Sebastian began, only to be interrupted at once by Tasia again.

“No. Ser Kinnon has many talents, I’m sure, Your Highness, but… Captain of the Guard?”

“Andraste’s tears,” Kinnon muttered. “I could _do_ it, you know.”

Tasia reached out, patting the back of his hand in sympathy. “You have any number of sterling qualities, Kinnon, but _leadership_? Or, Maker-forfend, _organization_? No.”

The knight scowled, but Sebastian saw the hurt ghosting behind his eyes. Tasia tilted her head and smiled, dimpling, and for just an instant Sebastian felt like an interloper. Something about the smile chased the hurt away, and Kinnon said lightly, “So, tell me about these other sterling qualities you think I have, and I’ll help you find our future princess, no matter where she’s hiding.”

Cheeks tinged ever so slightly pink, Tasia rolled her shoulders. “It may take me some time to think of the specifics.”

Kinnon smirked. “Ahh, well. It may take us some time to find Lady Kiara. There’s no rush.”

Tasia rolled her eyes and immediately started off in a swirl of skirts. Kinnon turned his smirk on Sebastian and hooked a thumb toward the departing maid. “I’m starting to think she likes me, Highness. She did say _sterling_ , after all.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian agreed gravely. “Best think how you plan to propose, Kinnon.”

Kinnon sputtered, eyes going wide, before offering a jerky salute and stumbling after Tasia. Sebastian allowed himself a brief chuckle as he watched them depart. He saw Kinnon offer his arm, and after a moment, Tasia accept it.

Sebastian was still fairly certain they’d have no luck hunting down his hiding fiancee, however. On a sigh, he turned back to the practice yard. He was no closer to solving _his_ problem, either. He admired Kinnon’s forthrightness, and could even see why the man was right to refuse the position, but a palace needed a Captain of the Guard. A palace about to play host to a coronation and a wedding in a Free Marches climate that might almost be classified as _hostile_ —the ripples of what had happened in Kirkwall were far-reaching, even with the amount of damage control Revered Mother Illona _was_ doing, and _intended_ to do—required one even more.

Watching a particularly heated bout between Fenris and a different knight armed with sword and shield, he found himself wishing for Aveline. Fenris swiftly put the other soldier flat on his back, before crossing to stand next to Sebastian. He seemed hardly to have broken a sweat. The elf inclined his head in greeting, before turning his gaze to mimic Sebastian’s.

“They are coming along well,” Fenris said at length. “Your captain did the best he could, and it shows. Even amongst those whom he did not personally train in archery.”

Sebastian nodded, but said nothing.

“You are not pleased?” Fenris queried, lifting a dark eyebrow.

“They need a new captain. I am… honestly, I am not familiar enough with their structure, or with them as individuals, to know whom to name. I asked Ser Kinnon—”

Fenris interrupted him with a low chuckle. “No, Sebastian. He’s a fine guard, and a good man, but he’s no captain. Such a position would break him within the month.”

Sebastian blinked. “So everyone says. Himself included.”

“Then he is wiser than I took him for. But still not a leader of men.”

Holding his hands wide in a gesture of supplication mixed with surrender, Sebastian said, “Who is?”

“Hawke,” Fenris replied at once. “You. Though perhaps not Guard-Captain material, I believe Amelle possesses those qualities as well; she is coming into them only now after spending so much of her life hiding. I don’t suppose you are able to recruit the Knight-Commander?”

Huffing a laugh, Sebastian said, “And give the Divine yet another reason to be displeased with me? Best not.” Sebastian paused, weighing his words. “I’d ask you if I could, Fenris. You’ve done a great deal even in such a brief time with them.”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth turned up very faintly. “I am happy to lend my aid while Amelle yet remains in Starkhaven. Until she decides she might stay, I could not accept such a role in good conscience, even were you to offer it.” The elf watched another bout, his expression thoughtful. “Though… though I find myself… strangely affected by the idea. It is strange. I believe I would agree, were things different, and I had not expected it to be so.” Fenris lifted his hands, staring at the markings on the skin there, before flipping them over to peer at his calloused palms. “I have long been solitary. First it was safer. Then it was habit. Even these past years, with Hawke, a part of myself remained… aloof.”

“Ready to run?”

After a moment’s contemplation, Fenris nodded. “I believe so.”

“And you no longer wish to do so?”

“I have come to see the strength in forming attachments, where previously I saw only weakness. It is a small thing, perhaps, but I have had some time to consider it while I watch the way your guard works. They are stronger because they work in harmony. What is weak in one is strong in another. They rely on one another. They are a family not unlike the one Hawke built in Kirkwall. I admire it.” Fenris gave his head a mild shake. “More than that, I would wish myself part of it, were it possible.”

“It may yet be. In time.”

“It may.”

Folding his hands loosely behind his back, Sebastian watched a platoon of archers move through their drills, one line shooting whilst the other reloaded their bows. “Until then? You say you’ve had time to consider my guard. Who might you name?”

“Alanna, if you wish another archer; she’s young, but swift and clever. Caris, perhaps. He has taken over preparing the roster in Elias’ absence, and has proven a deft hand at it, though it takes him a long time to do so. Or Dann. But no, I believe he is too impulsive, for all his skills.” Fenris’ brow furrowed as he thought, and Sebastian did not interrupt. Indeed, Sebastian felt only awe. He did not even _know_ Caris or Alanna; that Fenris not only knew them, but was aware of their strengths and weaknesses… it put him to shame. Sebastian determined to put forth a better effort once the wedding and coronation were done with. At length, Fenris shook his head. “Hannis might be the best choice. A sword-and-shield warrior would grant a different perspective. He has served his whole life with this guard. If I understand things correctly, he nearly lost his life protecting your family. He is loyal. He would do an admirable job, I believe.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in companionable silence a long time while mock battles raged around them. Sebastian noticed how, when any of the guard passed, they saluted him and Fenris both. If they thought the presence of an elf—an elf _warrior_ —strange, they showed none of it in demeanor or expression. He wondered, a little, whether more of the Starkhaven elves might find places within his guard, and whether they might feel more welcome—more _equal_ —with Fenris there.

“I hope you stay, Fenris,” he said softly. “I hope you both stay. For what it’s worth.”

Fenris’ expression gave nothing away. “It is worth a great deal,” he said at last. “And such an arrangement… I wish you to know it would not be unacceptable to me.”

Then the elf extended his hand, offering to trade grips, and Sebastian swallowed a knot of emotion as he accepted. He felt certain, after all, it was the first physical contact Fenris had ever initiated with him. Sebastian found himself thinking about home, about family. About belonging. “And if you do go,” Sebastian added, “know you are always welcome back again. Always. The both of you will always have a home in Starkhaven, as permanent or temporary as you wish.”

Fenris inclined his head, but not before Sebastian saw the ghost of a grateful smile turn up the corners of his lips.


	98. Chapter 98

Amelle stared at Kiara, trying to tamp down on the rush of adrenaline as what her sister was saying began to sink in.  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to breathe.  Spero slept, perfectly still in her hands, purring softly.  She focused on the gentle vibrations against her fingertips.

“S-say that again, Kiri?” she managed.  _Breathe, rabbit.  Slowly.  In.  Out.  Breathe._

Kiara shot her a look that could only be described as skeptical. It certainly wasn’t _worried_. Perhaps she’d heard wrong after all. But when Kiara spoke, the words were the same. “I said, Revered Mother Illona would like to speak with you. She apologizes for not making a point to see you sooner.”

“Oh.”

The day had started out full of promise.  The barest whisper of autumn chilled the air pleasantly, and the sky was clear and cloudless.  Fenris was in the practice yard, training again, only too glad to be outside with a sword in his hands.  Amelle certainly wasn’t about to come between her elf and his sword, not when he appeared to have made a full recovery, so, instead, she’d made her way—only getting lost three times—to the kitchens, where she’d sweet-talked one of the cooks into helping her procure a picnic.

And now here she was, sitting upon an old blanket in the garden, the kitten in her lap as she waited for Fenris, armed with a hamper full of food she now—thanks to her sister—had absolutely _no_ appetite to eat.

“Do you know… why?”  The last word came out on a wheeze.  Her heart was beating too fast, thundering against her ribcage, as her mind raced, already thinking of escape routes.  The mountain path would certainly be impassable by now, even if they could get the horses together in time.  If Isabela were still in the city, she’d be half-tempted to beg for a ride to… to Antiva, or Denerim, or… or anywhere. Seasickness be damned.

Kiara’s fingers on the back of her hand brought Amelle’s attention back, away from the desperate plans. “Breathe, Mely. You look a little like I’ve told you you’ve an appointment with the headsman.”

Amelle didn’t laugh. She did take a deep breath in and a slow one out again.  “Right.  Breathing.  Sorry.”  

Kiara curled her fingers around Amelle’s, giving them a squeeze.  Amelle set Spero down in the grass where she padded into a spot of sunlight and tumbled over.  “Maker’s balls, you’re like ice.”  She frowned and rubbed Amelle’s hands between hers.  “Isn’t the opposite usually the problem?”

“Kiri.  You haven’t answered my question.”  

Kiara’s hands stopped rubbing at Amelle’s, but her sister still held her hand.  “I would rather not say too much.”

“Is there… is there trouble?”

“If there were, don’t you think I would’ve warned you by now?”

Amelle could not argue with this rationale, and so she gave Kiara a hesitant nod.  Her sister, however, shot her a look and said, “My, what a vote of confidence.”

“I’m sorry.  I just… wasn’t really expecting it.  I thought it was safe to relax a little.”

“It’s _still_ safe to relax, Mely,” Kiara said with a small smile, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from Amelle’s forehead. “She just wants to talk, I promise.”

“It’s not the talking that has me worried.  It’s what she might want to talk _about._ ”

“Does it make it better or worse that she wants you to go with Cullen?”

Amelle wasn’t certain how to answer that, actually. So she frowned. And it did not help in _the slightest_ when her sister snickered and said, “My, I hope she isn’t going to chastise you for your garden antics. The Chantry does so frown on fraternization—”

“ _Kiara_. That is not funny.”

Kiara grinned, reaching for the picnic basket only to have Amelle wrench it out of her reach, hiding it protectively behind her back. Even this obstruction did not dim her sister’s smile. “I beg to differ. It’s _very_ funny. To me. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall. Or in the garden. As it were.”

Amelle glowered. Very hard. And made a vaguely threatening gesture, as though summoning fire or a lightning bolt was only one more of Kiara’s giggles away. “Bloody Cullen and his inability to _shut up_ when drunk.”

“He hasn’t had much practice.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes. “He’s not the only one who has trouble shutting up when drunk, Kiri. And some people ought to have had a great _deal_ more practice at it by now. Considering the amount of wine she drinks. And how bloody _chatty_ she gets when she drinks it. Fenris says you’ve had any number of illuminating conversations while under the influence. Though why you felt the need to talk about your sister’s love life—or lack thereof—is completely beyond me.”

Kiara had the grace to blush. “Yes, well. I never said he was the _only_ one. And it’s not my fault my little sister went and fell for the one person I never bothered keeping secrets from.” On a sigh, she leaned back on her hands and glanced up. Sunlight through the turning leaves left autumn-colored shadows across her face. “I swear on all that’s holy, if I thought Illona was planning on locking you up and throwing away the key, I would not be _laughing_ about it.”

“I don’t… I don’t entirely _trust_ her, Kiara.”

“Good,” Kiara replied, her grin fading. “She may wear a Revered Mother’s vestments, but she’s a politician, too. You can’t trust a politician.”

“No?” Amelle asked lightly, arching a brow.

“Except me,” Kiara amended, though her smile did not quite return to its earlier brightness. “And Sebastian.” A furrow creased her brow. “And I wouldn’t entirely trust us, either.”

A chill fell that had little to do with the breeze or the changing leaves. After a moment Kiara sighed and pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t mean that,” she said softly. “ _You_ can always trust me. Us. But Illona would be a fool to do so, and she’s no fool.”

Amelle sighed, trying not to fidget. “When does she want us?”

Kiara’s expression turned wry. “Yesterday, probably. You know how these politicians are. But this afternoon will do.”

Amelle felt her heart begin to race again. “That soon, then?”

Her sister’s eyebrow twitched. “Mely, best get it over with. You’d only worry yourself sick and sleepless if she didn’t want to see you until next week. No matter _how_ many times I tell you to breathe. And not to fret. I don’t want you sick and sleepless at my wedding. Honestly, I think she’s only waited this long because of how busy things have been.”

“I’m not… fretting.”

“And I’m not hiding from my wedding planners.”

“Fine. I may be fretting a little bit.”

Kiara bent at the waist—and oh, how Amelle envied the ease of her sister’s movements, corsetry and all—and pressed a brief kiss to Amelle’s brow. “Don’t fret. Not even a little bit. I’ll see you later. Because you will absolutely _not_ be locked in some Starkhaven version of the Gallows. Okay? Not now and not ever. So enjoy your picnic.”

“Does a prisoner ever enjoy truly his last meal, do you think?”

“Maker, but you’re melodramatic. Where _do_ you get it from?” Then Kiara reached down and tousled Amelle’s hair.

Amelle let out a distressed shriek. “Tasia’s going to blame _me_ for that.”

Kiara winked. “You never know. She might blame Fenris.”

Frowning, Amelle attempted to smooth down her mussed hair.  “Oh, she might.  But it’s still me who’ll get all her grief.  She tends not to talk to Fenris overmuch.”  Here, she let out a wistful sigh.  “Lucky him.”

“Maybe you should practice the silent glowering thing.”

“You say that like I haven’t been.  He’ll always be better at it than I am.”

“Clearly it’s a natural talent.”

Amelle smiled, and then as she pictured the silent glowering in question, she felt her smile widen slightly.  Kiara chortled.

“One of many, if the look on your face is anything to go by.”

“Oh, _shut up._ ”

There was the faint crunch of grass and the rustle of leaves and by the Maker’s grace alone, Kiara didn’t say anything more on the subject.  Which, as it turned out, was truly a blessing — mere seconds later Fenris came along the path that curved into the small garden niche she’d chosen.  He’d come straight from the training field, as evidenced by the flush of exertion upon his face and his sweat-damp hair.  Amelle swallowed hard.

Kiara brushed nonexistent dirt from her skirts as she announced, “And that, I believe, is my cue. Alas, I’ve tormented Tasia and the wedding planners with my vanishing act long enough.”  Again she leaned down and brushed a kiss across Amelle’s cheek, taking just a moment to whisper in Amelle’s ear, “And _speaking_ of the look on your face…”

Amelle swatted at her sister, who only giggled, clapping Fenris on the shoulder as she left.

Fenris watched Kiara go, then slowly lowered himself to the ground, joining Amelle.  “I have the distinct feeling I’ll regret it if I ask what that was all about.”

Amelle gave a snort as she opened up the picnic basket and began unloading its contents on the blanket she’d spread out.  “That’s only because you know my sister.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and Amelle knew right away he could tell something wasn’t completely right.  “Amelle.  What is the matter?”

Amelle held a bottle of wine in her hands, fingers tracing the wax seal upon it.  “Nothing, if you ask Kiara.”

Gently, he took the bottle from her and wove his fingers with hers.  She sucked in a tiny involuntary gasp at the warmth and strength, even when he was doing something so inconsequential as _holding her hand._   “And if I ask you?”

Amelle sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand.  Setting down the wine bottle entirely, Fenris captured that one too, leaving Amelle with little choice other than to look him in the eye.  “Revered Mother Illona wants to meet with me.”

Fenris went entirely still.  His fingers tightened minutely around hers and Amelle felt suddenly justified in her reaction.  “That was my reaction too.  Only more.”

“But Hawke isn’t concerned?”

“She promised me they wouldn’t be…”  She looked down at their joined hands, then scooted closer to him.  “She promised me I wasn’t in danger. She says Illona only wants to talk.”

“If that is what Hawke promised, then—”

“I know.  But at the end of the day, I’m still an apostate supposed to be in the custody of a templar Knight-Commander who _lied_ about being the Knight-Commander and she wants to see _both_ of us.”  Gently pulling one of her hands free, she reached into the basket and withdrew a small basket of blackberries.  “I don’t see how that can bode well.”

Fenris’ silence was thoughtful as he plucked a blackberry from the basket and considered it a moment before pressing it against Amelle’s lips.  She took the berry, shivering as his thumb brushed her bottom lip.  The end-of-season fruit burst into sweetness upon her tongue as she bit down.

“Perhaps it is not for you to know,” he told her, fingers lingering just under her chin.

Amelle’s answering smile was crooked as she swallowed.  “Maker.  You’re beginning to sound like Sebastian.”

Fenris smiled one of her favorite smiles, small and perfect and private. It was one of the expressions she was certain he only ever wore for her, and it thrilled her.

And even that thrill was nothing to the sweet warmth that pooled in her belly when his fingers tilted her chin ever so gently, allowing him to bring his lips down to hers. Her eyes fluttered closed as she reached up and cupped one cheek in her hand, deepening the kiss.

As far as distractions went, she had to admit this was a good one.

#

Even though Amelle had allowed Tasia free rein, she still felt drab and underdressed and like stray pieces of grass might be trapped in her hair, waiting for the most inopportune moment to make themselves known. She folded her hands in front of her to keep from fidgeting, but even this was enough to make Cullen glance at her slantwise and raise his eyebrows.

“Are you certain you’re well?” he asked. “You look… feverish.”

“I’m fine. I’m a little—aren’t you _nervous_?”

He blinked, tilting his head. “Not particularly.”

“I’m a _mage_ , Cullen. An apostate mage. Who has been summoned by Starkhaven’s _Revered Mother_. Who not only knows who I am, but where to find me. It goes against every bloody instinct I— _how_ aren’t you nervous?”

“Your sister did not seem to think the Revered Mother wished you—us—any ill by calling this conference.”

“My sister,” Amelle huffed, tightening her hands in her skirts. Then she cleared her throat. She could see the white walls of the chantry rising above the next turn, and she slowed her steps. Cullen matched his pace to hers, but she didn’t miss the knowing half-smile pulling at his lips. “It’s not funny, Cullen. Maker, between you and Kiara and Fenris all thinking this is some kind of _jest_ , I just don’t _understand._ Apostate. You know, _anathema_. Duty. All those things.”

“Amelle, she’s not intending to have you clapped in irons.”

“But is she intending to have her templars smite me into the next age?”

“I seriously doubt it. She has… dealt with me in good faith. I do not see why she would treat you any differently now.”

Amelle scowled. “But… what if she _knows_?”

“Knows _what_?”

Amelle lowered her voice. She didn’t actually think the Revered Mother had spies listening in, but a lifetime of caution created habits that were hard to break. “That you lied. That you weren’t dealing with _her_ in good faith.”

Cullen paused mid-step, nearly stumbling. And then he did the most improbable thing. He _laughed_. “Amelle. You’re not serious. Oh, Maker, I’m _sorry_. She _does_ know. She… she knew I was lying even as I spoke. She’d already had news from Kirkwall.”

She put out an arm and would have fallen if Cullen hadn’t grabbed it and hauled her upright. He felt stable and secure and _steady_ under her trembling hand, but she could not wrap her mind around his words. She’d been _dreading_ the day the Revered Mother discovered the truth, and now, if what he was saying was… “You… you didn’t think this was something I should _have been told_? Oh, by the way, Amelle, Revered Mother Illona knows I lied to her face but she seems to be okay with it?”

The mirth disappeared at once. “I wasn’t aware you didn’t know. Forgive me, Amelle. She—before Jessamine’s trial the Revered Mother came to speak with me. She wanted me to know that she knew, and that she… it seems strange to put it into these words, but she… approved. As much as she was able to do.”

“Which is, I suppose, why we’re neither of us, I don’t know, _imprisoned_ according to Chantry law?” 

“Amelle…”

She shook her head, caught somewhere between angry and confused. “What in the _Maker’s name_ does she want to see us for, then?”

Cullen looked taken aback. “I-I am not certain.”

“Don’t you have the _first idea_ how bloody _worried I’ve been_?”

He blinked at her and said, clearly astonished, “About me?”

“Of _course_ about you, you sodding great _idiot_! How in the Void do I know what the Chantry does with… with wayward templar former acting Knight-Commanders? I’ve been waiting for the axe to fall since the moment you took responsibility for me.”

“ _You_ were worried,” Cullen said again, “about _me_?”

“I also called you an idiot, and I meant that, too.”  She glared up at him, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I thought I was going to have to follow you back to _Kirkwall_ —”

Cullen’s stare upgraded to a gape.  “Maker’s blood, Amelle!  Why in Andraste’s name would you ever think that was a good idea?”

“I never said I thought it was a _good_ idea,” she corrected him.  “In fact, I’m fairly certain it was one of my worst in recent memory.”  Her glare subsided with a sigh.  “But I wasn’t about to let you go it alone.”

The way Cullen was looking at her made Amelle begin to wonder if a third eye or a second head had exploded into being somewhere on her person.  Finally, he said, “Amelle,” and she could hear all he’d loaded into those two familiar syllables.

“You’re my _friend,_ Cullen.  I wasn’t going to leave you to your fate, duty be damned.  Don’t you understand?  I had _no idea_ what was going to happen to you!”

For a moment, Cullen looked poised to argue with her, but a something appeared to occur to him and he let out a deep sigh tinged with wryness.  “I do understand.  All too well, as it happens.”

The conversation between them felt so long ago, and all Amelle could remember of it was the wild fear making her chest too tight and the smell of singed fabric.  Then she looked up at him said with a small shrug, “What friend would do anything less?”

“But to plan on returning to Kirkwall with me?  Under those conditions?  That’s beyond friendship.  That’s lunacy.”

“And I suppose you would have smited me to the Void to stop me?”

“You know, I’m fairly certain it’s _smote._ ”

She tilted her chin up.  “I’m being serious here.”

At her tone, Cullen bowed his head and shook it, letting out a deep breath as he did.  “I am sorry.  Some things I would dare not presume someone would do for me, particularly considering such a risk.”

“Well,” Amelle replied, frowning at and then plucking off a lone grey cat hair from her sleeve.  “I never said it was a flawless plan.  I rather imagined we might work out the bumps on the trip back.”

“Perhaps we’ll postpone our travel plans until we find out what it is the Revered Mother wants from us?”

Amelle’s gaze slid to the chantry again, tall, white and imposing, and she could not help but think of the Starkhaven Circle that its mages had burned to the ground.  Happy mages didn’t burn down buildings.  Or explode them.

“Amelle.”  Cullen’s voice broke into her thoughts before they could fully form into memories.  But the quality of his voice suggested he wasn’t entirely ignorant of the direction her thoughts were taking and she wondered how badly her expression had betrayed her.  He said nothing else, holding out his arm.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he said quietly.  

“And if it’s not?” she asked, tucking her arm in his.

“If it’s not, I will smite Lady Caddell again, just for you, consequences be damned. You will have that small satisfaction at least.”

A giggle escaped before she could swallow it down, he smiled, and—just for a moment—she let herself believe Kiara and Fenris and Cullen were all right to assume that everything would turn out well in the end.

#

The Starkhaven chantry wasn’t as grand as Kirkwall’s, perhaps, but it was no less beautiful for all it was built on a smaller scale. Amelle was actually somewhat relieved to see altogether less looming statuary, and the twin statues of Andraste—only slightly larger than life—flanking the doors held their hands open in welcome, rather than closed around blades.

She tried to hold on to the memory of those peaceful faces as Cullen pushed open the doors and led her within, but it was not easy. Even with Cullen at her side, the door swinging shut behind them resounded with a finality she couldn’t bring herself to ignore. _Kiara says there is nothing to fear._

The chantry felt far, far from her sister’s reach.

Almost at once, a young lay sister approached. “Ser,” she greeted. “And, uh—”

Cullen rescued the girl, though Amelle had to admit she was curious exactly how the girl would have decided to refer to her. “The Revered Mother sent for us?”

The girl blinked, pressing her palms reflexively against her thighs and smoothing her robes. “Aye, of course. She is in the kitchen. If you will follow me.”

Even Amelle had to admit the kitchen seemed an odd place for anyone—even a Revered Mother—to be handing out proclamations of doom and imprisonment, and she felt her heart begin to slow for the first time since Kiara first said, “The Revered Mother would like to speak with you.”

The lay sister left them at the doorway, but not without giving Amelle yet another strange, strained, surreptitious glance. Amelle tried to look non-threatening. She wasn’t certain how well she succeeded, but the girl bowed her head slightly and did not linger. Or immediately call a battalion of templars. Amelle considered this a triumph.

No kitchen in charge of feeding as many mouths as a chantry kitchen—or palace kitchen, for that matter—was ever completely empty, but evidently this was the lull between lunch service and preparation for dinner, because they found the Revered Mother quite alone at one of the large tables, wearing an apron over a simple dress, hair tied back in a scarf, painstakingly decorating a cake with delicate curlicues of icing and tiny, intricate sugar-flowers.

“Ahh,” she said without looking up, “I’ve lost track of the time.”

If her words were ever so slightly disingenuous, her smile, when she raised her face to greet them, was not. A smudge of leaf-green icing marred one cheekbone. “Once a baker’s daughter, always a baker’s daughter,” she said. “I like decorating better than baking, though. The focus and precision clears the mind.”

“And you have something to say that requires a clear mind, Your Reverence?” Amelle asked, hating the way her voice quavered on the final syllable.

If the Revered Mother noticed, she brought no attention to it. Instead, she merely reached down and tweaked the placement of one of the sugar-flowers before wiping her hands on her apron. “I believe I may have an idea regarding our little… predicament.”

Amelle blinked. “We have a predicament?”

“Of course we do,” she replied, lifting the piping bag and adding a few more leaves to her creation. “You wish to remain… as you are. Ser Cullen finds himself somewhat displaced within the Order that has been his home all his life. And I have no desire to alienate either the best healer I’ve had the privilege of meeting, or her about-to-be-very-powerful sister by adhering to rules that may be… somewhat outdated.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Revered Mother, but I have never been given to believe there was anything _resembling_ wiggle room in those rules you’re alluding to.”

Illona lifted her eyes from her work to look briefly at both Amelle and Cullen.  They were still arm in arm and the Revered Mother’s eyes appeared to linger just a moment on that before returning to the icing.  Amelle exchanged a look with Cullen and as nonchalantly as she knew how, she pulled her arm from his and clasped her hands loosely in front of her.

“It isn’t _wiggle room_ , precisely,” she replied.  “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say it’s a variation on the interpretation of those rules.”

Amelle narrowed her eyes and glanced at Cullen; he looked wary and bewildered, but not alarmed, which she took as a good sign.  “Isn’t that just a fancy way of saying _wiggle room_?”

The Revered Mother arched both eyebrows as she straightened and looked directly at Amelle.  She didn’t glare, but Amelle found herself resisting the urge to fidget all the same.  Finally, the other woman smiled faintly and murmured, “All appearances to the contrary, you’re quite like your sister.  I see it now.”

Cullen let out a soft cough.  “With respect, Your Reverence, there never seemed to be very much room for interpretation in Chantry law.”

“Interesting you should mention that, Ser Cullen,” said the Revered Mother as she traded the piping bag for sugar-flowers and turned her attention back to the cake.  Her next words were delivered lightly, “For you seem to have a different interpretation of those rules as well.”

Amelle felt Cullen tense slightly and she reached for him, resting her hand against his forearm.  Too late, Amelle realized the Revered Mother had seen it.

“It is a curious rapport you two have,” Illona said.  “I wonder if you would mind terribly telling me how it came to be?”

Neither of them answered right away, and Amelle realized she had no idea how something so improbable had occurred.  “Your Reverence, if you’re asking how I avoided the Kirkwall Circle—”

“I am not,” she corrected, never looking up.  Amelle realized — or thought she realized — the other woman appeared to be giving them opportunity to speak without feeling scrutinized or, worse, judged.

“In the aftermath of the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry,” Cullen began, “I discovered Amelle healing the wounded.”  He glanced at her and she almost smiled, remembering how stunned he’d been when he caught her that day in the Blooming Rose.  “Some of my fellows would have apprehended her then.  But…”

“But you would have been doing more of a disservice to the wounded than a service to Andraste?” the Revered Mother asked.  Cullen nodded.

“When her sister left for Starkhaven, she asked me if I might look in on her.”

That made the Revered Mother stop and look up, the icing and flowers entirely forgotten.  “You were acting Knight-Commander, and the Champion of Kirkwall asked you to keep an eye on her sister in her absence?”

He shrugged.  “The climate was not favorable toward mages, and Amelle was working to help those still recovering.  She had, in the interim, appropriated an abandoned clinic.  And then, with no mages in Kirkwall and too few healers for the work that needed to be done, her workload soon… increased.”

“Aye, I did hear about that.”  The Revered Mother looked again at Amelle and this time she _did_ fidget.  “Kirkwall is in your collective debt.”

“I suppose…” Amelle began, looking again at Cullen before turning her attention back to the Revered Mother.  “I suppose any rapport we have now grew from working together and, through that, learning to trust each other.”

“And you trust this templar,” the Revered Mother said, pinning Amelle with a sharp, hazel gaze.

Amelle didn’t hesitate.  “With my life.”

The Revered Mother sighed and added, “I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I must ask: you are not _involved_ , are you?”

Amelle felt her cheeks burn hot, and a glance at Cullen revealed a similar affliction, but her voice remained even when she replied, “No, Your Reverence.”

“And you have no intention—”

“None whatsoever,” Cullen interrupted.

Illona nodded thoughtfully. “That is a relief, I admit. I was not looking forward to jumping through those hoops if it was necessary.” Then she rose to her feet and crossed the room, setting a kettle to boil. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded toward the table. “Sit, please. This is too complicated a conversation to have with you two staring down at me like terrified children fearing chastisement. And it is _certainly_ too complicated a conversation to have without tea.”

Amelle couldn’t help the smile pulling at her lips. For all their attempts at stoicism, the Revered Mother had read the right of it at once. She and Cullen sat next to each other, not speaking as they watched Illona bustle around the kitchen, fetching the accoutrements for tea. Cullen offered to help, but Illona only waved him off, climbing a stepladder to fetch plates. 

Amelle gasped when, without hesitation, Illona cut into the cake. The Revered Mother laughed. “Its beauty doesn’t make it any less edible,” she said. “Or prevent its going stale. Better to eat it now.”

When tea had been poured and cake cut, Illona curled her hands around her teacup and asked pointedly, “Have you been tempted by demonkind before, Amelle?”

“I have.”

“You are a spirit healer. You know this makes you even more susceptible to all creatures of the Fade? The malevolent as well as the benevolent?”

“I do,” Amelle replied evenly. 

Illona turned her gaze on Cullen and said, “I am familiar with your history, too, ser. If any templar in the Free Marches is more acquainted with possession—and the dangers posed by mages who are possessed—I do not know them.”

“Amelle has never—”

“You mistake me, Cullen. I only meant that your experiences make you particularly suited to this… little experiment of mine.”

Amelle coughed lightly, ostensibly to clear her throat but more to control her frustration with the Revered Mother’s obscure references. “Perhaps you might enlighten us, Your Reverence?”

Illona chuckled. “Very like your sister, aye. I propose Ser Cullen serve as your… personal templar. Not unlike what he has been doing since this curious friendship began.”

“That sounds—” Amelle began.

Cullen cut her off, “Like no one in Orlais would _possibly_ agree.”

The Revered Mother’s brows lifted slightly. “Has the prince told you of Starkhaven’s Circle?”

Amelle blinked. “Starkhaven’s Circle burned years ago. We had to… deal with some remnants.”

“Evidently those were not the only survivors. Some remained here. Hiding in plain sight.” For a moment, Illona glanced skyward, and Amelle thought the expression on her face was regret. “So well hidden, it happens, that I only know of them now because they came forward of their own volition. I have met with their First Enchanter. She seems a very reasonable woman. When things are more settled—after the wedding and coronation, perhaps—she wishes their presence to be made known once more.”

“She… forgive me, she wants to reinstate a Circle in Starkhaven?” Cullen asked. “She wishes to involve the Chantry?”

Illona inclined her head. “In the early days, I believe the Chantry and the mages worked together for their mutual benefit. We forget now, but templar skills were developed to protect as much as to guard. Magic is unruly, and dangerous in the hands of the untrained. That is merely a fact. All the wishing in the world will not change it.”

“So you take children away from their parents and never let them visit?” Amelle asked, with a hint of bitterness she couldn’t quite contain. 

“A tradition I would not see continued here,” the Revered Mother insisted. “Children must learn, and they must be kept safe while they train and have so little control over their own powers. Surely you see this. Did you never stumble? If you’d had no mage father to guide you, would you not have made irreparable mistakes? Accidental destruction—accidental deaths—must be prevented. But I see no reason to deny a parent the right to visit their child. It is unnecessarily cruel.” Illona held her hands wide in a placating gesture. “I will be the first to admit I believe Orlais has made mistakes. Grievous ones. They cannot be undone overnight, but I would like to see Starkhaven make the attempt to see things done properly.”

“Even if proper goes against tradition?” Cullen asked.

Illona frowned. “Tradition is an ugly word that can—and often does—paint over a multitude of sins by making them acceptable.”

Amelle pushed a piece of cake around her plate with her fork, but was unable to raise it to her lips. “You’re saying all the right things, Your Reverence, but…”

“You do not entirely trust me.” The Revered Mother shrugged, took a bite of her cake, and chewed slowly. When she’d swallowed, she said, “I would not expect you to. We hardly know one another. I am in earnest, whether you believe me or not. Harm has been done. First Enchanter Nadiah is willing to deal with me in good faith and I wish to return the favor.”

“Are you asking me to… Your Reverence, forgive me, but I do not wish to be tied to a Circle. Not even one attempting to put right old wrongs.”

“I am not asking you to fix yourself to this new Starkhaven Circle permanently,” Illona said. “But then, I also admit I hope this Circle will become a haven instead of a prison; a place where mages might choose to live once their training is finished. A school for children who need teaching. A place where research might lead to new uses for magic, new cures for old diseases. After all the atrocities committed against mages in the name of faith, I cannot believe it will be a simple or easy path, but I admit, the trust I see between the two of you gives me hope. If we are ever to have a stable, peaceful Starkhaven again, trust must be projected. I know it. Our new prince knows it.”

“My sister’s been vocal in support of that kind of balance for years,” Amelle said, thinking of the constant conflict between Meredith and Orsino and wondering for a moment how different things might have been if trust and respect had abided between them instead of backbiting and power struggles.  She glanced at Cullen, unsurprised to discover he was wearing a particularly troubled frown.  She imagined his thoughts had taken a very similar turn.

“And now I rather hope you two might serve as the best example of mage and templar working to a common purpose.”

Tilting her head a little, Amelle asked cautiously, “Are we to be… symbols, then?”

Illona shook her head.  “If I thought the respect between you was anything less than genuine, I would not be suggesting it at all.  While it is my _hope_ you may act as a good example, my primary concern is securing a competent — and more than that, _trustworthy_ — royal healer. If you should agree to perhaps share some of your knowledge with the mages in First Enchanter Nadiah’s care, it would, as they say, be icing on the cake.” She saluted Amelle with a forkful of said cake.

“You would be putting a great deal of personal trust in a mage, which certainly conveys a… strong message,” Amelle said. “I suspect that is where Cullen comes in?  Place a mage in a sensitive position, assign a templar to keep an eye on her, and the longer she goes without succumbing to a demon and becoming an abomination bent on the destruction of all of Starkhaven, the more people start to let go of some of their fear.”  At Illona’s somewhat surprised look, Amelle allowed herself a grin.  “I am not ignorant of the complexities of what I am and what I represent, Your Reverence.”

Blowing out a sigh tinged with frustration, Cullen leaned his forearms against the table.  “All of which does not erase the fact that Orlais will never agree with this.”

“What is best for Orlais may not be what is best for Starkhaven,” Illona replied, sipping her tea.  “Amelle has the right of it.”  Picking up her fork, she cut off another small piece of cake and brought it to her lips.  

Amelle took her cue and followed suit, pleasantly surprised at the buttery sweetness that dissolved upon her tongue.  Cullen, though, only frowned more deeply, more worriedly, and tapped the side of his fork against his plate with restless agitation.

“Tell me, Cullen,” Illona said, breaking the silence without any indication that it was anything other than a natural lull in the conversation  “Would you hesitate to deal with the situation if Amelle ever became… compromised?”

“He wouldn’t,” Amelle answered quietly, even though the question hadn’t been directed at her.  Cullen shot her a sharp look, which she met soberly.

_We learn duty because friendship… friendship makes you freeze. Friendship makes you doubt._

“He wouldn’t hesitate,” she said again, more firmly this time, challenging the look Cullen was giving her with a stubborn one of her own.  “He wouldn’t freeze.  And he wouldn’t doubt.  I know he wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t want him to.”

“What if I’m the one who becomes compromised?” he asked softly. “Amelle… you know better than anyone—”

“I know,” she agreed. Illona’s expression was curious, but she did not ask the question she so obviously wanted to ask, and Amelle took that to mean it was not required of her to explain. “But things have been… better, haven’t they? Since we left Kirkwall? I mean, all the madness with Jessamine aside.”

His frown turned inward, and his brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said with some surprise. “In fact, even _with_ the madness with Jessamine, I have not—”

“Smote anyone in your sleep?”

He didn’t quite smile, but he did at last take a bite of his cake.

Amelle sipped at her tea and said, “If you’ll permit _me_ an impertinence, Your Reverence, does this make me a prisoner? To you? To Starkhaven?”

Instead of offense, the Revered Mother’s face registered only introspection. “I have turned this question over myself,” she said at last. “I would hope not. As free as you’d be to leave Starkhaven, I fear you would not be as free to leave Ser Cullen. As long as he is with you, you are no apostate. Run from him, and you will be once again running from the Chantry.”

“And Cullen would report to you?”

“Indeed. I would rather not have too long a chain of command on something as delicate as this. Too many opportunities for things to go awry, the more people one has to speak through to get a message across.”

“And if the Divine forbids it?” Cullen asked. “If she demands you turn Amelle in? If she demands you have me stripped of my rank? You must know it would be within her power to do so.”

Illona’s eyes narrowed, and she stabbed her fork very precisely and deliberately into her slice of cake, hesitating just a moment before bringing the utensil to her lips. With eerie calm, she replied, “Then the Divine will, perhaps, be making enemies she would not wish to make.”

In her head, Amelle heard the echo of her sister’s voice saying _“She may wear a Revered Mother’s vestments, but she’s a politician, too,”_ and she realized Illona did not only mean the _obvious_ enemies the Divine might find in the prince and princess of Starkhaven.

Then, in a less dire tone, and with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, Illona added, “But I believe I can make a case for this. The Maker Himself only knows what the long-term repercussions of Kirkwall will be, but for now? The Divine will see a great deal of paperwork from me, bringing a fallen Circle voluntarily back under the Chantry’s influence. A casual mention of a mage and templar assigned to unspecified duties abroad may go unnoticed.” On Cullen’s concerned look, she added, “I will not lie to her if she asks, Ser Cullen. Do not trouble yourself overmuch on that score.”

Amelle pushed a bite of cake around her plate with the tines of her fork before saying, “I have to admit you… propose an elegant solution, Your Reverence.”

Illona arched an eyebrow as she cut herself another slice of cake. “I am rather proud of it.”

Which was no small part of why it unnerved Amelle, just a little, but if it allowed her to… make choices not based in fear, and if it allowed Cullen to keep his position without facing repercussions for his aid to her…

“Very well,” Amelle said. “I suppose we have a deal.”


	99. Chapter 99

Amelle was in far more of a rush leaving the meeting with Illona than she had been to arrive.  Granted, that had a great deal to do with having good news to deliver, as opposed to the dread she’d felt during the far, _far_ too-long walk to the chantry, during which Amelle had imagined countless worst-case scenarios, and they’d all hung above her head like a guillotine blade suspended by a fraying rope.

Or they _had_.  And now… well, if she were to take Illona at her word, then Amelle—insofar as Starkhaven was concerned—was… free?  Freer than she had been, at the very least.  There were strings and conditions, yes, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to worry about _hiding._   She didn’t have to worry about _templars._   She could remain in Starkhaven if she wished, without the lingering, hovering fear that she might wind up locked away forever.  It was a fear she’d held deep inside her for far too long, and to be rid of it now left Amelle positively giddy with possibility.  No, she didn’t quite _trust_ Illona, not completely, but she trusted that Illona wanted to keep Kiara and Sebastian as allies.  She also trusted that Illona saw the benefit of not having a crazed psychopath acting as the royal healer.

Her future was spread out before her now in a way she’d never imagined—never _dared_ imagine before.

She had to find her sister.  She had to find _Fenris._  

“Maker’s breath, Amelle,” Cullen teased, his light armor jangling as he kept pace with her through Starkhaven’s market square, “in much of a hurry?”

“What, can’t keep up?” she asked, tossing a grin up at him.

“May I remind you, part of the arrangement was that you had to _stay with me._ ”

She let out a _hmph,_ but didn’t slow her steps at all.  The palace’s spires and parapets, visible no matter where you looked in Starkhaven, were getting slowly closer—too slowly. “Then I suggest you walk faster.” She certainly wasn’t going to slow down, not with good news to share.

As it turned out, Amelle didn’t have to wait much longer to share it.  She and Cullen parted ways—he wished to find Sebastian and give him an update on Illona’s proposal (and, Amelle suspected, confer with another who was well-versed in the ways of the Chantry, probably to make certain none of this would blow up in their faces after the fact).  Amelle, however, continued on in search of Fenris.  Kiara was either still hiding from her wedding planners or had managed to get herself trapped neck-deep in wedding planning; Kiara also probably _already knew_ anything Amelle could have told her.

Turning the corner, she saw Fenris halfway down the corridor, approaching the door to their chambers.  Even from such a distance, she could tell he was flushed and sweat-damp; he must have returned to the practice yard after their picnic.  Something, she realized abruptly, he probably wouldn’t have done if he’d been entirely sanguine about her meeting with Illona.

“Fenris!” she called.  He turned with a jerk and Amelle, smiling broadly, broke into a run, fisting her hands in her skirts and hitching them up as she pelted toward him.  He caught her up in his arms, his expression wavering somewhere between surprise, curiosity, and wariness.  All of that melted away, though, the moment Amelle flung her arms around him, wrapping them tightly about his neck.

“Amelle?  What is—”

“We can stay,” she told him, breathless and beaming.  _“_ Safely.  _We can stay._ ”

Fenris’ eyes widened and he drew in a short, surprised breath as arms tightened around her.  “That… was the purpose of your meeting with the Revered Mother?”

Amelle nodded rapidly.  “There… there’ll be conditions, but—but _acceptable_ ones.  But I won’t—I absolutely _will not_ be… be a prisoner here.  No being arrested and clapped in irons and sent away Maker only knows where—”

“That would not have happened,” he said in a low tone, but Amelle knew what he was really saying was, _I would not have allowed that to happen._

She let out a long, shuddering breath, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his.  Her heart still pounded, but it was dizzying relief that rushed through Amelle as the words _we can stay_ circled round and round in her head.  She hadn’t realized until _now_ how very worried she had been regarding the question of whether to stay or go.  She hadn’t wanted to complicate matters for Kiara or Sebastian, that much was true, but neither had she wanted to leave her sister.  Not really.  She’d missed Kiara terribly those days in Kirkwall.  Perhaps they didn’t need to be in _quite_ such close proximity any longer, but that didn’t mean they had to live with the Waking Sea between them.  

Everything that had been so complicated before had now turned so unbelievably _simple_.

“We can _stay,_ ” she breathed, tears prickling at her eyes even as she pressed a kiss against Fenris’ mouth.

The kiss was unfettered by worry and flooded with cool relief, and as Amelle’s eyes slid shut, as Fenris’ hand traveled up the curve of her spine to settle at the nape of her neck, she _felt_ it, felt that burden of fear and uncertainty finally lift.  So many shadows and unknowable things were now thrown into light, relieving Amelle of a weight she hadn’t even fully realized was upon her.  For the first time in longer than she could remember, Amelle felt as if she had a _future_ before her.

_If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side._

Correction.  _They_ had a future.

Oh, Amelle was sure whatever lay before them wasn’t going to be without its bumps.  She even accepted the possibility they may have to run again, someday; what had been put into motion when Anders toppled the chantry would have repercussions, even if nobody knew exactly what those repercussions would be just yet.  Nothing was forever, no matter how much it appeared like it _could_ be, but it still was more of a future than they’d had yesterday, or the day before that.  More than Amelle had ever thought would be within her grasp.

Fenris’ thumb rubbed a slow pattern against her neck, scattering her thoughts into gooseflesh; instead of breaking the kiss with a contented sigh, however, Amelle pressed harder into it, parting her lips and chuckling deep in her throat when Fenris started ever so slightly.  He pulled back far enough that his lips brushed hers as he breathed her name in a soft question, brows drawn together in an _entirely different_ sort of question.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.  _Kiss me like we have a future.  Because, Maker help me, I think we_ do.

His response lasted barely more than a second, but was comprised of so many nuances Amelle could scarcely catch them all.  His hands tightened on her, his lips parted with a sudden inhale, and then there was nothing but Fenris in front of her, all lean warmth, and the door to their bedchamber pressing unyieldingly against her spine.  She reached down, groping blindly for the door handle, and when it turned, their combined pressure sent the door swinging open.  It was Fenris’ reflexes alone that kept them both from spilling to the floor.  They stumbled a few steps, but then Fenris shifted his weight, catching Amelle and pulling her flush against him.

“Close the—“

He closed the door with a kick.

“Good man,” she murmured, dipping her head to brush a kiss against his neck.  “You went back to the training field,” she observed softly, brushing fingers across his damp brow.

“I did.”

“Worried?”

“I have the utmost faith in Hawke’s judgment—Sebastian’s as well.  However, the Revered Mother’s motives are still largely unknown.  I was… concerned.”  

“You and me both,” replied Amelle, a tiny breath of helpless laughter escaping her.  “But… Kiara was right—don’t tell her I said that—Revered Mother Illona presented… a solution.  An _experiment_ , she called it.”  At Fenris’ arched brow, she explained in as few words as possible Illona’s proposal.

When she was finished, Fenris gave a slow nod. “And it is your wish to remain in Starkhaven.”

“I… don’t want to be separated from my sister again,” she answered quietly.  “Not like we were.  So…” Amelle trained off, gently worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, “as long as you don’t mind staying…”

“Have I not told you before,” he replied, his voice dropping as he leant so close Amelle _felt_ the breath of his words against her lips, “my home is wherever you are, Amelle Hawke.”

“You have,” she murmured, fingertips stroking the side of his neck, up along the line of his jaw.

“Then Starkhaven will be our home, however long you wish it.”

 _Home._   Her breath caught at the word, at the _thought_.  “It’s only home,” she said, pressing kiss after slow kiss against his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, “if you’re there too.”

Fenris’ hand rested against her hip as he lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck.  “I remain by your side.”  Amelle gave a shudder, both at the words themselves and the sensation of his lips brushing the sensitive skin, which sent another wave of goosebumps chasing down her spine.  His mouth traveled to her collarbone, where he brushed another kiss before dragging the tip of his tongue against the line of her clavicle.  A bolt of heat, sudden and dizzying, pulsed through Amelle, pooling deep in her belly; her resultant gasp was sharp and ragged, strange and foreign to her own ears.  

They balanced on a precipice just then; ironically, it was the fog of _want_ that brought everything else into sharp focus—Fenris’ hands against the smooth fabric of her dress, his mouth dragging a path up to her shoulder, her own hands clutching at him, and the pressure of her teeth pressing down against her bottom lip.  There’d been so very many reasons to stop before, but now, with _possibilities_ sprawling out before them, Amelle felt none of the old fears and worries that had haunted her before.  No, where there had once been fear, there was now _hope._   And that in itself was terrifying, but an entirely different kind of terror.

One little push.  That was all it would take.

“Don’t stop, Fenris.  Please, don’t stop.”  The words came out on a breath, barely audible at all, even over the soft sounds of lips against skin.  

Fenris stilled suddenly, lips pressed against the sensitive curve of her neck.  He looked up at her, eyes so very intensely _green_ through the fall of his pale hair.  “Amelle?”

“Please.”

Then he nodded, though not without a little shudder of his own, and the heat of his mouth began traveling down to the neckline of her gown, to the gentle swell of her breasts.  Amelle stared, not wanting to miss a thing, her eyes enormous as the tip of Fenris’ tongue glided along the line of her bodice, the sensation shooting straight through her.  All at once, Amelle’s skin was too hot and too tight; she felt _everything—_ every layer of clothing, every inch of lacing down her corset, the stockings upon her legs, the shoes upon her feet.  Never mind the corsetry—her _skin_ didn’t feel like it fit anymore.

She wanted to touch him—more than where she was gripping his shoulders for dear life right now, anyway—and, swallowing hard, Amelle pried her fingers away and let her hands drift across his chest, toying at the toggle clasps on his jerkin.  Warmth radiated through the leather, sending another sharp pulse of want through Amelle’s blood as she imagined how Fenris’ bare skin would feel beneath her hands.  Anticipation turned slightly jittery after she pulled the first toggle free.  Amelle swallowed hard.  She’d seen Fenris without his shirt before—countless times, in fact; he even _slept_ shirtless—but she couldn’t call to mind _any_ of those instances.  At all.  

Fenris’ fingers were warm beneath her chin as he tilted her face up to meet her eyes.  “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“A little nervous,” she admitted with a tiny shrug before closing her eyes with a grimace.  “Which feels absolutely _ridiculous_ , considering we’ve been _sleeping in the same bed._ ”

Dark brows furrowed together.  “If… you do not—“

“Oh, I want to,” she said quickly.  “I really—I do.  I just…”  Amelle’s cheeks flared hot as she slid her eyes to the side.  “I want to… slowly.”

He stroked his thumb across her chin.  “Then we will go as slowly as you wish,” he murmured against her lips, just before kissing them.  Then, capturing both her hands in his, Fenris bowed his head and pressed a kiss against either palm.  “At your leisure,” he said, guiding her fingers to the next clasp.

Amelle stared at the skin she’d already revealed, a tan V where the leather hung open.  Pale, twining lines of lyrium stretched down his throat, dancing along his skin in graceful lines before disappearing again beneath his clothes.   She took a breath, but found it too shallow and inhaled again, more deeply, then worked another toggle through its loop.  Then another.

 _Maker, but he’s a beautiful man,_ came the sudden, strange thought.  She’d never thought of Fenris as _beautiful_ before.  Handsome, certainly.  But as she parted the now-open jerkin, her fingertips trembling—and glowing with magic she couldn’t hope to suppress; oh, she couldn’t even _pretend_ otherwise—as they glided across his chest, she drank in the lean muscle, the tanned skin, the white lines etched into his flesh.  Amelle’s breath caught as a fierce swell of emotion surged through her breast.  Even the thick lines of scar tissue, old and older, looked as if they _belonged_ on him.  

Slowly pushing the leather back until it bunched past his shoulders and fell to the floor, Amelle ran her palm up Fenris’ abdomen, smiling faintly at the way the muscles bunched and jumped under her touch.  She looked up at him through her lashes to spy a badly suppressed smile.

“Ticklish?” she asked softly.

“Perhaps,” came his just as soft reply.

“Is it the magic?” 

“It is _you_.”

Her breath gone, Amelle closed the scant inches between them, taking Fenris’ face in her hands and kissing him—slowly and softly at first, but urgency ate away at her trepidation and she gave a low, mewling moan as she parted her lips and knotted her hands in that deceptively soft hair, acutely aware of the way her body arched and pressed against his, of his arms tight around her, his hands hot against her back, searing her through the material of her gown.  She tore her mouth from Fenris’, gratified at his soft moan as she did, and began pressing kiss after slow kiss along his jaw, down his neck, to his collarbone, the earthy scent of him wrapping itself around her as the tang of salt met her lips and tongue.  

 _I am yours,_ he’d told her.  And she was his.  

Amelle glanced up through her fringe, breath hitching when her eyes found his; Fenris was watching her so very intently, as if there were nothing else in the room, nothing else in the whole _world._ She brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek, then ran her thumb along his lower lip.  The tip of Fenris’ tongue darted out, catching the pad of her thumb and a bolt of heat shot through her, down to her toes.

“Maker’s breath, I love you,” she managed, the words only as loud as they needed to be.

Fenris blinked, then tipped his head forward—for a wild moment, the whole room tilted as panic swelled through her at the idea she’d… somehow misjudged, misstepped, miss—

“And I you,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, then a path down her neck.  Amelle closed her eyes a delightful shiver rose down her back, down her arms, down her legs.  “Until the Void itself takes me.”

She gasped at the sheer gentleness of it, the way he found every sensitive spot—the skin behind her ear, the junction of her neck, that shiver-inducing place at the nape of her neck.  And all of them he visited… slowly.

“Fenris?” she breathed.

His teeth caught her earlobe briefly.  “Anything.”

“Help me.”  The words came out edged in a whimper; there was too much sensation, and everywhere his hands touched, every brush of his lips, tongue, or teeth only caused the blood to pound harder in her veins, heat rushing beneath her skin, down to her belly, between her thighs.  Her breasts ached in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with corsetry.  Every second that passed left her increasingly aware of every bloody inch of skin on her body.  

“Help you?” he murmured, chuckling.  “How?”

“Buttons,” she gasped, one hand going futilely behind her, fingers groping at the air.  “Down the back.  Help me with the buttons, Fenris.  _Please._ ”

“As you wish,” he replied in that same low tone, still laced with humor.  “Though I do recall you requested we go…”  His hands were warm, so incredibly warm on her shoulders as he turned her around, his fingers gliding down from her shoulders along the back of the dress, coming to settle in the middle _right_ where the blighted too-small buttons began.

“…Go?” she prompted breathlessly.

Fenris worked one tiny button free.  “Slowly.”

 _Sweet merciful Maker, he’s going to kill me this way._ “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it about the—” Another button came free.  Well, that was two down, and there were only, what, about a _million more_ to go?  “You don’t have to—to go slowly with the buttons, Fenris.  You—”

“I disagree.”  Another button.

 _I am going to immolate the whole wing of the palace if he keeps this up._   “Fenris,” she ground out through her teeth, “I don’t _care_ about the dress.  The buttons can bloody well _hang_.”

“I distinctly recall you said—”

_“Fenris.”_

With a chuckle, he bowed his head, pressing a kiss to her back as his hair drifted ticklishly across her skin.  “As my lady wishes it.”  His fingers traveled down her back more quickly, though for all his evident calm, there came the occasional _plink_ of a button skittering to the floor.  All right, so perhaps he wasn’t _that_ calm.  Amelle spared a silent apology to Tasia, to be followed up with a proper one once she figured out a reasonable explanation for the missing buttons beyond _Fenris did it_ , which, while the truth, was not the sort of truth Amelle was prepared to tell _Tasia._

But now— _finally—_ the dress hung loose, gaping at the bodice.  It was one of her more modest gowns, appropriate for meeting with Starkhaven’s Revered Mother, but now it was anything _but_ modest, sliding downward.  She shook the sleeves free and let the material pool on the floor, then turned to face Fenris.

It was at that point she decided she would gladly face Tasia’s wrath a million times over.  Amelle had teased him with descriptions of the impossible underclothes before, and now she was beginning to wonder if maybe Fenris hadn’t taken her entirely seriously.  He ran one hand along her side, deft fingers finding a line of boning and following it upward until they met flesh.  Her breath caught as he ran the backs of those fingers along the exaggerated swell of one breast; she didn’t realize until several seconds later that his brows had drawn together in a frown.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured, quietly shocked at how very husky her voice had become.

“Nothing.  I—”  Fenris stopped short, then placed a hand on either side of her waist, following the path of the exquisitely-embroidered corset’s boning.  “Forgive me.  You are…”

“Yes?”

“While it is very…” he hesitated, uncertain. “Pretty?  It appears…”  He trailed off, his frown never budging.

“Uncomfortable?”  His nod brought a laugh bubbling past her lips.  “Maker’s breath, Fenris, your capacity for understatement remains unmatched.  Yes.  You’re right.  It is.”

“And yet you wear this… every day?”  The unspoken _why would you do that?_ lurked all around his words.

“Mmm.  Well, it’s not Starkhaven fashions I’m staying for, let’s be honest.”

Fenris’ hands found her back and followed the path of the corset’s laces, then he stepped closer, gently steering Amelle backwards, toward the bed.  As she opened her mouth to ask just what it was he thought he was doing, he slid in behind her and sat, then placed both hands on her waist and pulled her closer until the backs of her legs came in soft collision with the side of the bed.  A gentle tug, and her petticoats fell in to the floor in a quiet shush of fabric.

“Fenr—oh.  _Oh._ ”

He was untying the laces.  Loosening the corset.  And he was taking far less time about it than he had with the buttons.  Amelle tipped her head back and sucked in a breath so full it was nearly dizzying.  Then the corset fell and it felt so good to be able to _breathe_ that Amelle forgot for a moment she was—aside from her stockings and a fluttery piece of Orlesian silk too scant to be referred to as smallclothes—almost completely naked.

Then Fenris dragged the callused tips of his fingers along the indentations in her skin, and she forgot to care about that, too.  Amelle closed her eyes with a soft groan, drinking in the sensation of Fenris’ fingers trailing across her skin.  Her own fingertips tingled with magic and when she put her hands over Fenris’ he inhaled a short gasp and pulled her close, winding his arms around her, palms flat and warm against her stomach.  Her tongue flicking out to moisten too-dry lips, Amelle turned in the circle of his arms, reaching up belatedly to cross her arms over her bare breasts.

“We—we’re going slowly,” she reminded him, a hint of defiance in her tone as she lifted her chin imperiously.

“As slowly as you wish it,” Fenris replied, looking only fondly amused as he moved further back on the bed, leaning indolently against the pillows.  That fondness—to say nothing of the amused portion of things—melted away into something else entirely as he looked at her, however.  His throat moved as he swallowed hard, his eyes darkening with want.

It wasn’t until she was sat on the bed that she slowly lowered her arm, hands clasped loosely in her lap, eyes focused intently on her hands, which were still, yes, glowing softly.  At least it was healing energy and not, say, _fire._   There was that.  She took a breath and tried to push her mana down, but it was pulsing as erratically through her as her heartbeat.

Fenris said her name and she looked up, her cheeks suddenly warm.  Whatever he saw there, he crept closer, resting his fingers beneath her chin and pressing a soft, leisurely kiss against her lips.  

“As slowly as you want,” he murmured, between kisses.

“I’ve— you know I’ve never…”

“I do.”

She swallowed hard, managing the words in an apologetic whisper.  “I’m probably going to be really bad at it.”

Fenris shot her a look—one of his more eloquent ones.  Unfortunately, it was eloquent in the direction of, _That may have been the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth._ “Do you think that is why I am here with you like this now?” he asked, now looking intently at the arrow scar at her shoulder, slowly running his thumb over the star-shaped mark.  “To… judge your performance?”

Blinking hard, she jerked back a fraction.  _“No.”_

“Good.”  He looked up to meet her eyes, and this look was eloquent too, but in an entirely different direction that made her stomach flip and heat flood through her veins anew.  “Then cease concerning yourself with things that do not matter.”

“But—”  Suddenly his finger was pressed against her lips, silencing her.

“It does not matter.”

He was right.  None of the rest of it mattered.  Nerves were normal, _natural_ even. She wanted this, wanted _him,_ and nervousness sure as the Void wasn’t going to make her turn away _now._ Amelle parted her lips, letting the tip of her tongue dart out, flicking against the pad of his finger.  Fenris closed his eyes, his moan barely audible, but more than enough to make her shudder.  

Amelle crept closer to Fenris and knelt between his legs, bracing her hands against his chest—was it her imagination, or did the markings beneath her hand jump and flare at her touch?—and leaning close, kissing him slowly and thoroughly.  Then Fenris was sitting up, wrapping both arms around her until their bodies were flush against each other, and _Maker_ it was nothing like anything she’d imagined.  Bare skin pressed against bare skin, soft breasts against hard muscle; Amelle gasped, pressing more insistently against him, when Fenris’ hands found her waist and he turned them both.  Suddenly the soft mattress and pillows were against her back, and Fenris was above.

Never had she felt so like a rabbit caught by a wolf.  And she didn’t mind in the least.

#

She was beautiful.

Other thoughts, prurient and reverent alike, rushed through his head, battling for dominance as they two moved together, as Amelle’s lips traveled across his skin, as her hands sent tremors of arcane energy outward, waking the lyrium in his skin and augmenting his own reaction to her touch. But Fenris always circled back to Amelle’s wide green eyes and tousled dark hair; her pale skin, now with a pink flush upon it; her lips, now swollen with so many kisses.  

Amelle Hawke was indeed beautiful.  And kind. Clever. Stubborn.  And in love with him.

That above all else was hardest to believe.

And now she lay here before him like this, waiting and trusting and wanting him.

Fenris dipped his head, lips brushing the pulse in her neck.  Amelle’s arms twined around him, fingers trailing down his spine, carding into his hair, while he reveled in her soft curves as she arched her back and exhaled a soft groan.

“Slowly,” she reminded him.  He allowed himself a soft chuckle before closing his teeth gently upon her earlobe.

“Slowly,” he echoed, dragging the tip of his tongue along the shell of her ear.  Amelle shifted again—this time it was closer to a writhe, her breathing ragged as she dragged one leg upward, letting it slide against his.  As Fenris reached down to stroke her calf, his fingertips snagged on something silken; when he sat back he realized she still wore her shoes and ivory stockings, and took little time divesting her of both. 

“You’re easily distracted,” Amelle murmured, wiggling her bare toes.

“Not in the least,” Fenris replied just as softly, before running his thumb along the sole of her foot, following the curve of her instep.  She let out a little breathless laugh, and though her foot twitched, she did not pull it away.  “On the contrary, I am incredibly thorough,” he said, just before capturing that foot in one hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of her ankle.  Amelle’s laughter turned to a gasp and Fenris noted with deep satisfaction as a deeper flush crept upward, beginning at her breasts and coming to rest at her cheeks.  He kissed another spot, a few inches above the ankle, and Amelle’s eyes slowly widened, her throat moving as she swallowed.  From there, his fingers came to rest at the sensitive area just behind her knee, slowly stroking circles against her skin as he kissed the inside of her knee. It was at that point she began to… squirm.

“Fenris…” she breathed, “what in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?”

He chuckled, bowing his head and pressing another kiss scant inches above her knee, just along the inside of her thigh.  “Going slowly.”

“You’re going to make me _combust_.”

Another kiss, higher than the last.  The perfumed baths she favored since arriving in Starkhaven left the whisper of lavender on her skin, but beneath was something earthier, something intrinsically _her_.  He kissed the inside of her thigh again, slower this time.  “Do not tell me I have more faith in your control than you do.”

“I don’t—that’s not what I—”  When he licked a path from one kiss to the next, Amelle pressed her head back into the pillows with a desperate, keening groan.  “Fire, Fenris. Sparks.  _Flames._ ”

The path of his ministrations moved outward, to her hip.  But still slowly and ever upward.  “You will do no such thing,” he said against her, delighting in Amelle’s shiver as his lips brushed her skin with every word.  Her reactions were fueling his own—every one of Amelle’s gasps made Fenris’ own breath grow labored; her moans made his pulse pound like thunder in his ears; her skin against his ignited his blood—and his insistence on a… _leisurely_ pace was as much for Amelle as it was for himself.

“I might,” she countered, breathing harder now.  “You have _no idea_ what I could do.  I might—”

Amelle’s words were lost in a sharp gasp as Fenris licked a long, slow line up the underside of one breast before capturing the taut nipple in his mouth.  She went rigid beneath Fenris before suddenly _reacting—_ arms coming up to wrap around him, pulling him closer, fingers clutching, hips lifting and _pressing_.  She arched, trembling, beneath him, her fingers, vibrating with raw, healing energy as they wound their way into his hair, nails scraping  his scalp, her mouth forming his name over and over again, with reverence he’d never heard fall from anyone’s lips before.  With every pass of his tongue over the pebbled flesh, she gasped and squirmed, half-formed exhortations dying in her throat.  Magic rippled across his skin, calling out to him, pulling, pulsing, twining into his blood, threads of light making his markings prickle—but not in pain.  

There had always been pain, before.  There was none now—no pain, nor the indelible memory of it.  

When Fenris pulled away—slowly, for he’d not forgotten that portion of his promise—Amelle watched him with huge, dark eyes, the pupils having nearly consumed all but the thinnest circle of green.  He licked once more at her nipple—she closed her eyes and bit her lip, a tiny, strangled sound forming in her throat—and then swept his tongue along the swell of her other breast.  She tensed beneath him in anticipation; the mad pounding of her heart beat against his lips as he pressed a kiss against her breast.  With the tip of his tongue, he traced a path around the dusky nipple, his other hand sliding leisurely up Amelle’s hip to her waist, and onward to the underside of the breast he’d only just abandoned.  Closing his mouth over her nipple, he sucked _hard,_ even as he gently stroked inch after inch of soft skin, noting the way Amelle gasped and cried out, the way she shuddered, the way she parted her legs and lifted her hips in silent entreaty.  

Perhaps it was time he obliged.

Still mindful of Amelle’s every reaction, every response to his touch, he dragged light, teasing fingertips down her body, leisurely following every curve as he traveled lower and lower.  Her skin prickled in gooseflesh as she shifted and squirmed and sighed his name, and then his fingers swept between her thighs, pressing against the warmth of that scrap of silk covering her. 

“Fenris,” she breathed.  “Sweet Maker, what are you…”

 Fenris lightly—so very lightly—rubbed against the silk.  Back and forth.

_Slowly._

“Don’t stop,” she begged him, her broken, quavering voice never climbing above a whisper.  “Please.  _Please,_ don’t stop.”

_Never._

Back and forth.  Slower and slower.  The silk was warm with the heat of her body, and damp with her impatience.  His own impatience was making itself known.  He wanted—oh, how he _wanted—_

Hooking both thumbs in her smallclothes, Fenris moved aside long enough to drag them down Amelle’s legs—even then, taking the time to touch her, to _watch_ her as he did so.  All remnants of her earlier shyness had all but vanished.  Amelle radiated heat and desire, slick and flushed and _ready._   She shivered—from head to foot she shivered, and it was a movement that was altogether distracting—and opened dark green eyes, drunk with arousal and—yes; yes, he did dare think it— _love_ , blinking slowly at the scrap of fabric he held, as if she could not quite comprehend how it had managed to get itself off her body.  Then she looked at him and blinked again.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she mumbled thickly.

“In a moment,” he said, stretching out on his side, their bodies so close, so entwined it was hard to tell whether Fenris lay on top of Amelle, or beside her.  He reached down, fingers brushing dark curls before grazing Amelle’s bare skin, touching and teasing her, drinking in every gasp, every moan, as he pressed his fingers deftly and gently further into her slick folds, stroking deeper, groaning at the heat that clutched at him, pulsing like a heartbeat.  He went slowly, relishing Amelle’s reactions, letting the sensations spiral higher and higher until— _until_ , _yes, there,_ he thought as her body tightened around him.  His fingertips sought out that spot, as sensitive, as _aching_ as the rest of her.

Fenris watched Amelle’s face with avid concentration; their room was golden with midday sunlight, and none of what they did would be lost to shadows and candlelight.  Her head lolled to the side and she looked up at him, bringing one hand to cup his cheek, her thumb sliding across his lips.

It was at that point Fenris slowly—so very, very slowly—withdrew from her.  Where Amelle had appeared drunk on arousal moments before, she now looked entirely alert.  And dismayed.

“Fenris,” she panted, “what are you—”

Never pulling his eyes from hers, Fenris brought his fingers to his lips, licking them slowly, _tasting_ her and savoring it, watching as Amelle’s beautiful lips parted in near silence, but for the curse she breathed.  Before she could gather any of her scattered aplomb, he placed a hand on either side of her waist and rolled, shifting them until he sank back against soft linens and dented pillows and Amelle knelt above, straddling him.  When she arched an eyebrow at him in silent question, he only mirrored her expression and guided her hands to the laces on his leggings.  Her fingers drifted down from his waist, and only his sharp intake of breath stopped her questing fingertips.

“You did say you thought I was wearing too much clothing,” he said, fighting the sudden dryness in his throat.  “Perhaps you might wish to remedy that.”

The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, but that was the only evidence of her uncertainty.  Working slowly—too, too slowly, in Fenris’ opinion—Amelle loosened the lacings, fingers brushing him through leather, faint eddies of magic sinking in, until she pulled leggings and smallclothes free all at once, tossing it all without ceremony onto the floor.

Amelle still knelt, straddling him, teeth sinking gently into her lush bottom lip as she reached out, and when her fingertips grazed his skin, his breath stuttered and every single nerve flared to life as too many sensations rushed through.  He had not thought—foolish, but he _had not thought_ he could be affected by her any more than he already _was._

He hissed a curse in Arcanum, growling out another when Amelle chuckled.

“Language,” she purred, stroking, teasing, touching, _learning—_ and getting her most perfect revenge in the process.  For she did it all _slowly._

But then there was no more teasing and very little talking at all.  She was beautiful above him as they came together—uncertain, but only for a moment.  

“Fenris…” she murmured.

“You must only move,” he urged her quietly, “however you wish.”

She slid against him, eyes widening then closing as she breathed in and out again on a sigh.  Fenris’ hands rested on her hips, thumbs rubbing circles against her skin as she moved slowly, _experimentally_.  She nodded, unvoiced questions still lingering in her eyes.  Then she closed those eyes, rolling her hips once, and then again, and slowly they began moving as one, the soft hiss of fabric beneath them punctuated only by their own gasped breaths and whispered oaths.  When, finally, the moment came when that long-building tension _snapped_. Amelle cried out, her familiar voice rough and ragged as they moved together like one until passion subsided into pleasant shudders, and she collapsed against his chest, her head lolling to the side and resting upon his shoulder, her hair tousled and face flushed.  Content.  Sated.

She had never been more beautiful.  

Fenris tightened his arms around Amelle, willing his own heartbeat under control, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“Maybe… not _quite_ so slow next time,” she murmured, fingertips trailing lazily down the markings at his neck.

“Perhaps.”

She grinned up at him.  “So there _will_ be a next time.  Good to know.”

Fenris lifted an eyebrow at her.  He scarcely had the energy to do more than that at the moment.  “Yes, I believe it is safe to say there will be a next time.  Though perhaps,” he added, working his way under the covers and pulling Amelle close, “not right away.”

#

There was nothing at all to be concerned about.  

Nothing _at all._

Amelle was just looking for her sister.  Nothing at all wrong about that.  Nothing unusual.  Nothing conspicuous in the least.  Kiara was probably even _expecting_ Amelle to come by after her appointment with Illona.

Though, Amelle realized with a sudden, fierce blush, Kiara had probably expected Amelle back rather _sooner_ than several hours later.

What if she already knew?

 _Maker’s balls, she probably already_ does _know,_ came Amelle’s sudden, unpleasant thought, her stomach dropping somewhere to the vicinity of her toes as she approached the door to her sister’s suite.  There was, of course, the possibility Kiara might be persuaded to believe Amelle was only getting back now, but—no, no that wasn’t any good either.  Cullen would’ve been by to see her too, probably.  Amelle knocked, far too lightly to be heard.

“Come in.”  Kiara’s voice filtered softly through the door and she cursed under her breath as her stomach, still down by her toes, started to do the Remigold.  

Swallowing hard and steeling herself, Amelle pushed open the door to Kiara’s rooms.  Her sister was within, tucked upon a divan, a cup of tea in her hands—the sitting room still looked like some manner of wedding demon had been recently slain—looking… disturbingly _pleased._

“So?” Kiara prompted, smiling as she set the teacup down on a nearby table, too ornately carved to look as if it had any business holding teacups.  

“…So?” echoed Amelle, weakly. 

Kiara’s smile didn’t budge.  “It was a good plan, wasn’t it?”

“You… planned that?”  

“Well.  I planned part of it.  A big part.  Sebastian helped.”

Amelle began seriously worrying about the state and location of her stomach.  “ _Sebastian_ helped?” she croaked.  Sebastian?  Helped?  _How?_   And did she really want to know?

Kiara smiled—and, Maker, it was a benign smile.  It didn’t seem possible the world’s most devious, evil sister could have a smile like that.  “Of course he did.”

Crossing her arms protectively over her chest—though that did exactly _nothing_ to stop Amelle’s skin from feeling as if it were about to catch fire—Amelle replied, “Maker’s _balls,_ you could’ve avoided dragging _him_ into this too.”

“Mely?  What’s wrong?” Kiara asked, taking a few steps forward, preparatory to clasping Amelle’s hands.  “Did it… not go… well?”

Amelle’s blush burned hotter.  “I don’t want to talk about it, Kiri.”

“What happened?”

_“What?”_

Kiara’s brow arched, nearly meeting her hairline as it did.  “What happened?” she repeated more slowly.  “What did she say?”

Amelle blinked, feeling suddenly lost in her own conversation.  “What… did who say?”

Her sister looked at her as if she were daft.  As if there were no human being on the Maker’s green earth who could _possibly_ be dafter than her sister.  “Illona,” she said slowly.  “Revered Mother?  Who were you talking about?”

“Nobody,” blurted Amelle, her face positively _burning_ now.  “Nothing.”

Kiara cocked an eyebrow.  It was a troubling eyebrow.  A worrisome one, even.  That eyebrow boded no good. It never _had._ “Amelle…”

“Nothing!  Everything went _fine_ with Illona.  Nothing else.  Everything’s fine!”  Maybe Kiara was onto something insofar as Amelle’s daftness was concerned.

“Then you… approve of Illona’s proposal.”

“Oh, complete approval in this corner.”  She needed to get out of the room before Kiara ferreted out the truth.  Because she would.  Because that’s what Kiara Hawke _did._

“And you’ll stay?”

Amelle slowly backed her way to the door.  “Yup.  Staying.  In Starkhaven.  New royal healer, at your service.”

Grey eyes narrowed and Amelle groped blindly for the doorknob.  “For somebody staying, you look in an awful hurry to leave.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  The door clicked open, mercifully.  “I’m just… leaving you to your tea.  And your privacy.  Very important for a princess to get her quiet time, right?”

But Kiara didn’t answer.  She’d directed her troubling eyebrow and those narrowed grey eyes in the direction of Amelle’s dress.  “Weren’t you wearing a different gown earlier?  And… Mely, is your… is your hair _wet_?  Have you had a bath?”

Sometimes Amelle Hawke truly hated the fabled eagle eyes of the rogue.  She had a feeling she wasn’t going to hear the end of it this time.  The doorknob slipped out of her grasp then clicked shut.

“Maybe… maybe just a little one,” she sighed.


	100. Chapter 100

Two days before the wedding, Kiara, having stolen half an hour in the late afternoon to shoot arrows at targets she might _possibly_ have spent the entire time imagining festooned in bunting and ribbon and dresses with more skirt than was either necessary or sensible, walked into her suite to find she’d been given the best wedding gift of all.

The room was empty of anything remotely wedding-related. No planners. No giggling ladies whose names she could never keep straight. No swathes of fabric or bouquets of flowers to choose or floors littered with pins from the endless dress fittings. Just Tasia, who looked up from her tidying long enough to say, “Nothing that needs doing this late in the process ought to require the input of the bride.”

Kiara pretended the sudden stinging in her eyes was due to the sweat left over from the practice yard, but the little half-smile turning up the corner of Tasia’s mouth said her maid knew very well what was going on. As always.

“Tasia,” she began, “I can’t tha—”

“And,” Tasia interrupted, “I’ve taken the liberty of having a bath drawn up; it should be ready at any moment. Shall I bring in a cup of tea? A glass of wine?”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Kiara murmured with genuine gratitude. “You are—”

“Only doing my job, my lady,” Tasia replied, crossing the room, first to relieve Kiara of her bow and quiver, and then to rapidly divest her of her archery gown. She held out a dressing gown and as Kiara slipped her arms through, Tasia chuckled and added, “And _because_ it’s my job, I know you’ll ask for tea when what you really want is wine, so I’ll be in with a glass in a moment, my lady. A large one.”

Having tugged the sash tight, Kiara reached out and enveloped Tasia in a hug. Her maid squeaked—it was always something of a triumph to succeed in startling her—before tentatively lifting her arms to return the gesture. “I mean it,” Kiara said, stepping back. “Preservation of rank be damned, Tasia. I’d never have survived all this without you.”

Businesslike, Tasia brushed her hands down the front of her skirt and arched an eyebrow, but Kiara didn’t miss the faint, pleased smile or the color in her cheeks. “Now you’re just being maudlin, my lady. And your bath is getting cold.”

#

The bath was not, of course, cold. Kiara sank deeper into the hot water, sipping the slightly-chilled wine that was, as Tasia had anticipated, in every way superior to the more respectable cup of tea she might otherwise have been drinking. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The familiar scent of rose and cedar soothed her frazzled nerves even as the heat of the water worked its magic on her archery-sore muscles.

If the room had been any less silent, she might not have heard the slight creak. Attempted relaxation forgotten, Kiara sat bolt upright, cursing her lack of weapon and whirling toward the sound just in time to see Isabela pulling herself over the ledge of the window and into the bathing chamber.

“You’re back!” Kiara cried with unfettered delight, sinking back into the water.

“And you’re drinking without me,” Isabela replied, sauntering across the room. Kiara held out her glass, and Isabela, grinning, took a great swig of wine before handing it back again.  “Ooh.  Not bad.”

“You’re lucky.  I nearly asked for tea.”  

Isabela pulled a face, rolling her eyes as she dragged a chair across the room and dropped down upon it, kicking her booted feet up to rest on the tub’s ledge.  “You Fereldans and your bloody _tea._ ”

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made sure to ask for something stronger.  Or at least two glasses.”  Kiara took a drink from her glass.  “Speaking of which, you do realize you needn’t come through the _window_?”

Isabela’s expression, already annoyed, went positively stormy.  “I _tried_ to come through the door like a supposedly civilized person.  But that little blond _psychopath_ of yours wouldn’t let me through!”

Kiara tilted her head as she regarded Isabela over the tub’s rim.  “Little blond psychopath?” she echoed, not even making a token effort to conceal her grin.  “My, that’s a change of tune from, what was it?”  With a smirk, Kiara dipped her voice down to something like Isabela’s husky register.  “How do you feel about _ships,_ Tasia?”  She tipped her head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the high-ceilinged room.  “Maker, you weren’t even _trying_ to be subtle.”

With a huff, Isabela crossed her arms over her chest and tipped the chair back on two legs. “That was _before_ she tried to assume something as _insignificant_ as a locked, guarded door might dissuade me.”

“It was nothing personal,” Kiara soothed, taking another sip from her glass.  “Things’ve been positively mad around here.”

This time it was Isabela’s turn to laugh.  Loudly.  “Do me a favor, Hawke.  Think about what you just said.  Then think about the last six months.  Now try saying that again.”

Kiara looked at her glass and tried very hard not to do exactly what Isabela told her.  And the pirate, too obnoxiously capable of reading Kiara’s expressions, snorted.  “Thought so.  Why don’t you ring up Buttercup and ask for a whole bottle then?  One glass seems awfully stingy.”  She rocked further back on the chair’s two legs.  “Ask for a second glass, while you’re at it.  Normally the bottle would do, but, climbing through windows aside, I can certainly _drink_ like a civilized person.  For you.”

“The point was to help me relax,” came Kiara’s mild retort.

“A task better suited to a bottle than a glass.”

The look Kiara shot Isabela was a wry one.  “I don’t want to pass out and drown in the tub two days before my _wedding._ ”

Isabela gave her a quick wink, then leered.  “Oh, you wouldn’t drown with _me_ around, sweet thing.”

Kiara didn’t miss the moment Isabela’s leer slid sideways into something like concern, however, and, teasing and wine forgotten, she asked, “Do you bring bad news, then? Has… has something happened in Kirkwall?”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Always jumping to the worst possible conclusion.”

Kiara snorted and, once again mimicking Isabela’s voice said, “Think about what you just said. Then think about the last six months. Now try saying that again.”

Making a face, Isabela reached for Kiara’s swiftly-emptying glass once again, but this time her fingers lingered, their touch oddly gentle. “You’re looking thin, Hawke, and tired. Are you… you know I’ve a swift ship in the harbor and your maid’s forced me to puzzle out an escape route. We could be on our way to somewhere tropical on the evening tide.”

“And never get a chance to wear the dress I’ve had fitted approximately a million times?”

Isabela didn’t smile. Setting down her glass, Kiara reached for Isabela’s hand and squeezed it. After a moment, Isabela’s warm, calloused fingers returned the pressure. “I’ve never been happier, Bela. I swear on the Maker and Andraste and everything holy.”

The last of Isabela’s concern vanished behind a smirk. A genuine one. “Leave off with the invisible deities then, and swear on the true artifacts of holiness: a sharp blade, good winds, and a cask of rum.”

Kiara snickered, freeing her hand to push the damp hair back from her brow. “If you’re not here with news of trouble, would you care to explain what was _so very important_ it required breaking in?”

Leaning back, Isabela folded her hands over her belly and dragged an appraising look down Kiara’s damp figure. “Why, kitten, clearly I came for the view.”

“Don’t you ‘kitten’ me, Isabela.” Kiara swatted at Isabela’s ankles, as they were the nearest body part, and nearly succeeded in completely knocking the pirate off-balance.

“Oh, fine. Spoilsport. I’ve some presents for you, you ungrateful sod. If Her Highness would care to join.”

“I don’t know,” Kiara said, already reaching for a towel. “Are you going to let me put some clothes on, first?”

Isabela gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. “If you insist.”

“Are you going to _turn your_ _back_ so I can put some clothes on first?”

“Absolutely _not._   Don’t tell me married life is going to make a prude of you, Hawke,” Isabela said, kicking her feet down and levering herself upright in one enviably fluid motion.  She turned on her heel and sauntered out of the bathing chamber, leaving Kiara to hastily towel herself dry, wrapping said towel about herself as she followed Isabela.

She found the pirate standing at one of Kiara’s massive wardrobes, both doors flung wide open, hands braced on her hips.  Kiara sidled around Isabela, and reached for one of the hanging gowns, when Isabela’s hand clapped around her wrist.

“No, kitten.  Not that one.”

“You’ve got an opinion about my clothes now?”  She asked, arching an eyebrow the pirate’s way.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Unless you’ve got a skulking gown hanging somewhere between your archery gown and your taking-tea-with-bitchy-noblewomen gown—”

“I do not take tea with the bitchy noblewomen, thank you.”

“Then I think you’d be better off with your leathers.  Keep it simple and give yourself room to move. Without eighteen feet of skirts in your way.”

“So I’m going to _need_ room to move,” Kiara said, making no move for her leathers, but instead keeping her arms crossed firmly over her towel-wrapped chest.

“You’re getting no more hints from me,” Isabela retorted, and before Kiara could point out that Isabela hadn’t exactly given her any hints to begin with, the other woman began rifling through the wardrobe.  “Wear one of those ridiculous confections if you want, but I’m nearly certain you’ll probably regret it.”

“You aren’t exactly filling me with confidence here, Isabela.”

“Would it kill you to trust me _just once_?”

She snorted, then gently pushed Isabela aside and pulled open the drawer holding the contraband clothing. “Do you honestly want me to answer that?” she asked, dressing herself as swiftly as she knew how.

“You really do wound me, you know.  Did you miss the part where I told you I’ve a _gift_ for you?”

“And have you missed the past, oh, _seven_ years? During which I’ve learned to be wary of pirates bearing gifts?”

Isabela’s arm slipped around Kiara’s shoulders pulling her in for a quick embrace. “I’ve taught you so well. Right then, come along. Unless,” Isabela murmured in a low, teasing voice, tugging on one of Kiara’s damp locks, “you need to have someone fluff with your hair and paint your cheeks and pretty you up—”

Kiara elbowed Isabela sharply in the ribs and then danced away on light feet, laughing. She was gratified to get exactly one full second of the pirate’s shock before retaliation came in kind, and Isabela executed a swift move that landed Kiara flat on her arse.

“Maybe you’ve learned to be wary of pirates and gifts,” Isabela mocked, offering Kiara a hand up, “but you still can’t duel worth a damn, sweet thing.”

Kiara grinned, buckling the last buckle on her belt and tugging up her sagging right boot. “I’m an _archer_. We don’t duel.”

“Said the archer to the Arishok. And the madwoman with a sword made of lyrium. Oh, and the crazed Starkhaven healer armed with poisoned knives.” Isabela rifled through Kiara’s closet again until she found a particularly voluminous cloak. She shook it out, tilted her head, and then swept it around Kiara’s shoulders, tying it snugly, like a mother outfitting her child for a chilly trek outdoors. “I suppose proper lessons ought to be your _real_ wedding gift. I won’t always be here, you know. Finery like this makes me itchy.”

“Ha.” Kiara scoffed. “You’ll note I managed to survive all those battles relatively unscathed. And Maker knows you never shut up about pretty hats. Just _think_ of all the pretty hats a Starkhaven princess might provide, Bela. Just think of them. They could have feathers. Big, colorful feathers.”

She couldn’t stop the little twist of regret in her stomach when she realized visiting with Isabela would no longer be as simple as strolling down to The Hanged Man and (more often than not) rolling her out of bed. 

“Don’t you give me those sad eyes, Hawke,” Isabela chided. “When I _do_ feel the need to partake of fine wine and coddling, I’ll come and overstay my welcome until you’ll wish I’d never shown up at all.”

Kiara sighed and followed as Isabela headed for the door. “It won’t be the same.”

“The same is boring,” Isabela said. Then she threw a grin over her shoulder. “I have a _ship_ again. Just imagine what treats I can bring you. Antivan—”

“If you say brandy, I’ll punch you.”

“Torn trousers, then? Pouches of pebbles? Moth-eaten scarves?”

“Isabela.”

“Sweet thing, you were the one who insisted on lugging your weight in junk from one end of Kirkwall to the other. I’m only the one mocking you for it.”

“And you do like to mock.”

“I enjoy a good mock almost as much as I enjoy a good c—”

“ _Isabela._ ”

“Cask of rum,” Isabela finished smoothly.  “What did _you_ think I was going to say?  You and that dirty mind of yours.”  She clucked her tongue, then winked.  “Now, come along, you _terrible_ influence.”

“Where to?”

“To collect kitten, naturally,” Isabela said, opening the chamber door with a flourish, revealing a startled Ser Kinnon on the other side.  “The other one.”

“Have you ever thought about, you know, possibly _branching out_ with the nicknames?” Kiara asked, following the pirate.  “It does get a bit confusing when everyone’s either _kitten_ or _sweet thing._ ”

“You weren’t confused,” Isabela pointed out reasonably.  “You knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“My… lady?” Kinnon blurted, gaping incomprehensibly at Isabela.  “My lady, _how_ in the Maker’s name—”

“Oh, Lucky, Lucky, _Lucky,”_ purred Isabela, sauntering over and draping a familiar arm around his shoulders, providing—Kiara was sure—a most _excellent_ view down her bodice.  “Don’t tell me you’re _surprised._ ”

Kinnon blinked, but somehow managed to arch a sardonic eyebrow, all the while keeping his eyes _above_ Isabela’s neckline _._   “What, surprised to find you coming out of a room I didn’t see you enter while I’ve been guarding it the last hour?”

“Nope,” drawled Kiara, “surprised she got in using the window.”

The knight sighed.  “Tasia’s not going to be—”

“Happy,” Kiara supplied sympathetically.  “I know.  But,” here, Kiara went to Kinnon’s other side, and swung her arm around his shoulders too, “I trust you’ll figure out what to tell her.”

Kinnon’s expression went suddenly wary, dark eyes sliding over instantly to Kiara.  “ _Tell_ her?  Tell _Tasia_?  But my lady—”

“No tagalongs on this errand, sweet thing,” said Isabela, drawing away—though not before playfully mussing Kinnon’s dark curls—and turning to Kiara.  “Shall we?  The sooner we collect Amelle, the sooner you get your _presents._ ”  The pirate loaded a positively indecent amount of… well, _indecency_ in the word, and though Kiara tried to resist Isabela’s obvious ploys to pique her curiosity, she found her curiosity piqued all the same.

And then Isabela promptly started off the wrong direction down the hallway and Kiara forgot, however temporarily, about her own inquisitiveness.

“Uh,” Kiara began, clearing her throat, “Isabela?”

The pirate turned on one heel, cocking a hip and planting one fist irritatedly upon it. “Hawke, honestly. It’s _one_ evening, everyone present will have an assortment of weapons at their disposal, and—”

“And you’re going the wrong way.”

Isabela blinked without saying anything. Twice. Which was, Kiara decided, some kind of Isabela-discomfiture record. Then a hint of a very pleased smile—the kind of very pleased smile Amelle was going to _hate_ —began to play about the corners of Isabela’s full lips. Kiara allowed herself a brief smirk of her own before heading down the hallway in the opposite direction.

“Strange,” Isabela murmured, glancing about as if she’d never seen this _particular_ hallway before. “Usually my sense of direction is impeccable, and I could have _sworn_ your sister’s room was down the other way.”

“She moved,” Kiara said, taking a left.

“Oh?”

“Wanted a room with a better view.”

Isabela uttered a long, low whistle. A very lascivious-sounding whistle. The kind of whistle Amelle was really, _really_ going to hate. “You don’t _say_.”

To her credit, Kiara didn’t snicker. She didn’t even crow, although she wanted to, and no one would’ve been more pleased to hear the ‘how Kiara Hawke interfered with her sister’s love life and everything turned out for the best’ story. Instead, she only shrugged and said airily, “No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Beside her, Isabela fairly vibrated with anticipation, her usual gait just a little too bouncy to be considered a proper pirate’s swagger. “Funny,” she said, when they’d rounded another corner and entered a familiar hallway, “My unerring sense of direction’s telling me interesting things about _this_ route, too.”

“You don’t _say_ ,” Kiara echoed, mimicking Isabela’s earlier tone with eerie accuracy. 

Before Kiara could knock, Isabela bumped her out of the way with a swift hip-check and said, “Oh, no, let me.”

The door, however, was locked.

Kiara, leaning now against the wall, arms crossed over her chest in absolutely feigned nonchalance, said, “Sure you don’t want to go through the window?”

Isabela, already reaching for her lock-picks, flashed Kiara an irrepressible grin. “Don’t tempt me.”

Thirty seconds later, Isabela, ear pressed to the wood, lock-picks still in hand, fell unceremoniously forward as the door opened from within to reveal a very irate, very armed elf who looked liable to burst into lyrium-bright, heart-crushing light at any moment.  He stared at Isabela, sprawled inelegantly on the floor, and then looked up very, _very_ slowly, to meet Kiara’s eyes, his expression one of utterly deadpan long-suffering.

“Hawke,” was all he said.

“Completely not my idea,” Kiara interjected, hands up, as if with a gesture alone she could absolve herself of any and all guilt.  “ _I_ was going to knock. Politely.”

“And _why_ would you _knock_?” Isabela retorted, pushing herself to her feet with far more grace than she’d fallen.  “When you _knock,_ you lose all chance of finding out what was going on _inside._   Honestly, Hawke, sometimes you’re such an amateur I can barely believe I’ve kept your company all these years.”

Fenris kept his utterly impassive gaze on Isabela and, Kiara noted, made absolutely no effort to move out of her way.  “And yet you’ve managed to persevere.”

“That’s me,” Isabela said brightly as she deftly stepped around Fenris and into the bedchamber. “Determination personified.”

“Not the words I would have chosen,” he murmured.

Kiara followed them in, closing the door behind her.  “We’re just looking for my sister, Fenris.  Isabela evidently has gifts she’s brought back from Kirkwall, and Mely’s presence is needed.”

The door to the bathing chamber opened with a soft click, revealing a damp-haired Amelle, swathed in a silken robe.  “Fenris, who’s at the—”  But the words died on her lips as she took in Isabela and, more importantly, Isabela’s grin.  “Oh, Maker’s sodding _balls,_ Isabela, what _is_ it with you catching me in the bloody _bath_?”

Kiara turned to regard the pirate, taking no pains to hide her own amusement.  The urge to preen, to say nothing of the _gloating_ , was already near impossible to ignore.  “Is this turning into a habit of yours?”

“Open admiration of a nice set of tits is hardly a new thing for me, as well you know,” Isabela replied. Over her shoulder, Amelle turned suddenly and intensely red as she pulled her robe a little tighter around her body.  

A muscle in Fenris’ jaw jumped, but otherwise his expression remained inscrutable. “Isabela has come bearing gifts.”

“Gifts,” Amelle echoed skeptically, narrowing her eyes.  “That isn’t some sort of insane code for ‘completely mad scheme you got yourself into and now can’t get yourself out of without assistance,’ because I’m fairly certain we’ve heard that song before.”

“Keep it up, kitten, and we’ll leave you behind.”  Then the pirate sent Fenris an openly speculative gaze.  “You know, on second thought it’s _definitely_ worse punishment if we make you come,” she paused, then winked before adding, “with us.”

“Sometimes, sister,” Amelle said, whisking past them both on her way to the wardrobe, “I marvel at the maturity and sophistication of your various and sundry companions.”

“And _sometimes_ ,” Isabela said, mimicking Amelle’s tone to near perfection, “I marvel at the fact it took you this long to get la—“

Amelle lifted one hand threateningly.  Mana glowed brightly around her fingertips.

“—Late.” Isabela smirked. “My, my, look at the time. We’re _definitely_ running late. Throw on some clothes, kitten. Unless you and your charmingly broody elf have business you’d like to attend to? I could just… wait. In the corner. Unobtrusively. Taking notes.”

The mana took on the shape of flames. Definite flames. Dancing, jumping, decidedly _burning_ flames.

Kiara stepped between Amelle and Isabela, pleading with a look. “Please don’t kill my pirate, Mely.”

Isabela huffed an annoyed sigh. “Do none of you understand the meaning of the word _presents_?”

“Please don’t kill my pirate until she gives me presents,” Kiara amended.

“You know there’ll be no end of presents two days from now,” Amelle said, but the light around her fingers flickered before dying away completely. “You could probably make do without these ones.”

“But she’s so proud of herself.”

“I’m standing right here,” Isabela complained. Loudly.

Kiara ignored her. “Surely you’re a _little_ curious?”

Amelle gave a delicate little sniff. “They’re _your_ presents.”

“Envy doesn’t become you, kitten,” Isabela mused. “And I never said they were _only_ presents for your sister. I did rather _insist_ we bring you along, after all. Could be I’ve a little something tucked away for you, too.” She looked a little like she was going to tease Fenris, but his cool gaze froze her in her tracks and instead of punching him on the arm or whatever it was she’d intended, she only flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, it’s _obvious_ to anyone with eyes that you’re getting the sweeter end of the deal at the moment. You’re positively rosy, Amelle, and I don’t think it’s entirely to do with having come…” She paused for effect, just long enough to earn another glare and a menacing handwave from Amelle. “From a warm bath, I mean. Come from a warm bath. Whereas Hawke looks as though she hasn’t come… from a warm bath in quite some time.”

“I do not even want to pretend I know what you’re talking about,” Amelle muttered. “And I am _not_ getting dressed with you… hovering.”

Isabela sighed. “Spoilsports the both of you. Hawke and I will wait in the hall. Do try to _come_ along quickly. It will be so _very hard_ waiting without you.”

Amelle scowled. “You’re not funny.”

“On the contrary,” Isabela declared, “I think Fenris’ lips just quivered. On anyone else that’s practically a guffaw.”

“I think it might actually mean he’s about to kill you and is just wondering where to hide the body,” Kiara said. “And if you don’t stop it with the bad, thinly-veiled sex jokes, I just may help him.”

Isabela swung an arm around Kiara’s shoulders and pulled her in for a quick hug. “Why, sweet thing, that’s only because you’re not _getting any._ ”

#

Rum was good.

Rum was _so good._

Rum was _the best._

_Nothing in all of Thedas was as good as rum._

Except Isabela was also the best, and her boat—ship—was the best, and all the presents she’d brought from Kirkwall—Aveline and Merrill and Orana and _even Cupcake_ —were the _best_. Mely was laughing and Merrill couldn’t stop talking and every five seconds Killer, uh, Cupcake, uh, maybe it was time to decide on _one name_ , snuffled over and covered Kiara’s hands in disgusting mabari kisses and she had never been this happy in her _entire life._


	101. Chapter 101

Sebastian knew he ought to have been sleeping. Truly, of all the nights to lose sleep, this had to be one of the worst possible. He would do no one any favors if he nodded off over dinner—or worse, during his vows. But sleep would not come. The past few days had been a blur of arriving dignitaries and endless meetings with the Eyes and the guard, who told him the palace was safe and everything that could be done for protection _had_ been, but he couldn’t help worrying. His first weeks as Starkhaven’s prince had been anything but peaceful, and he didn’t want to invite disaster by being less than vigilant now. Unfortunately, constant vigilance—even knowing a great deal of that vigilance rested on capable shoulders not his own—translated into constant insomnia. So Sebastian poured himself a healthy finger or two of Starkhaven’s finest—too much of _that_ would be just as detrimental as any lack of sleep—and settled himself by the fire with a pile of correspondence deemed important enough for him to read, but not so vital it required his immediate attention.

After several letters, he found himself smiling. Corwin had pressed the bundle on him earlier, and now he suspected the Steward had, in fact, been attempting to impress upon his prince a unique brand of soporific. Words swam before Sebastian’s eyes, accounts and requests and reports of very thin rumors, each duller than the next. Every time he blinked, it took a moment longer for his eyes to open again, and he thought he would have fallen asleep in his chair by the hearth if not for the sound of a knock at his window.

Sebastian jumped, instantly awake and mouth open to call for his guards, until he realized it was very unlikely a potential assassin would have done the courtesy of knocking. He knew only one other person who might think climbing walls and knocking on windows late into the night was acceptable behavior. Well. Perhaps two, but he suspected his visitor was not Isabela. So he rose, crossed the room, and pushed back the curtains to reveal his betrothed, jammed onto the narrow window ledge, raising her arm to knock a second time.

“You keep your window bolted shut?” she asked without preamble, the moment he flung said bolt and opened the panel of glass wide enough for her to slip through.

“You _don’t_?” he replied, trying to keep his voice light, even as anxiety twisted his stomach into knots. She wasn’t wearing her bow or her armor, and he knew the late dinner would have kept her from her habitual jaunt out into the city given how early the morrow’s events were set to begin, but he could not fathom why she would come to him via _scaling a wall_ when the hallways were available. Unless… unless she had something troubling to say, and she wanted to be certain she had no audience. His hands went cold at the thought, and he was forced to clench them into fists to keep her from seeing them tremble.

She sent him a tremulous smile—and oh, he could see the strain—and huffed an uncomfortable little laugh. Then, without another word, she crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a more-than-healthy finger or _four_ of whiskey. He did not miss how _her_ hands trembled.

“Kiara,” he began, hating the uncertainty in the word.

She wrinkled her nose and downed the entire glass of whiskey in a single gulp, coughing at the burn and slamming the crystal down so hard he thought it might shatter at the onslaught. It did not. “I can’t do this,” she said. Simply. Firmly. _Inarguably._

Sebastian felt the world drop away from him. For a moment, he felt certain he would fall himself, as he was too numb even to reach out for something to hold him up. 

Whatever she saw on his face was enough to widen her eyes and bring a violent flush to her cheeks. “Oh, _Maker_ , love. That’s _not_ what I meant. Not at all. Not even the slightest bit. Oh, my bloody mouth, always getting me into trouble!” She crossed the room in several swift strides, reaching up to take his face between her palms. Her hands were cold from the night air. Or perhaps it was only he was too warm. “Sebastian. _Never_. I promise.”

He swallowed hard, but his heart was still racing and the embarrassing prickle of unshed tears burned his eyes.

She raised herself onto her toes and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to his lips. She tasted of smoky alcohol and sweet autumn air and _her_ , but still he could not wrestle his fear into submission. “Tomorrow is a… a formality, my heart,” she whispered, still close enough he could feel the softness of her lips against his, could taste the tenor of her words on the tip of his tongue. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

As if these words were the key necessary to break his paralysis, he swept his arms around her, pulling her tight to his breast and burying his face in her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured against him. “I should have thought how it would—” Stopping abruptly, she squeezed him back just as tightly before adding, “I can’t breathe, Sebastian.”

Very reluctantly he loosened his grip, but did not release her from the circle of his arms. She had enough space to tilt her chin up, and though her gaze was still strained, her lips were smiling. He shook his head and managed to say, “Why? You could have used the _door_.”

She lowered her head again, but not before he saw the brightness of a fresh blush overspread her cheeks. “It’s late,” she mumbled, pressing her forehead to his chest. “I… I didn’t want half the palace to know I was here.”

“We’re getting married tomorrow. The gossip could hardly destroy your reputation.”

She snorted, and because it was almost a laugh, he found himself smiling and breathing again. “ _Hardly_ is not the same as _not at all_. It’s just… I…”

When several moments passed and she did not continue, Sebastian lowered his arms and stepped backward until he could see her. She didn’t raise her head, and he couldn’t make sense of her posture. She looked… nervous. And embarrassed. Neither an emotion she wore often. “Is there something wrong, Kiara? Is something the matter?”

She sighed, twisting her hands together and scuffing one foot against the lush carpet. “Yes. And no. It’s… it seems…”

Again she drifted into silence.

“My love,” he urged gently, resting his hands on her shoulders, “you are aware you’re not actually _finishing_ your sentences?”

She nodded. And then shook her head. And then kicked the floor again.

“And you swear you’re not here to tell me you’ve hired Isabela to take you to Rivain on the morning tide? I know you had fun with her the other evening, but…”

A brief smile flickered across her lips. “Funny you should mention Isabela, but no.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “ _Why_ is it funny I should mention Isabela?”

“I… she…” Kiara sighed again, deeply. “This was… sort of her idea.”

He blinked at her, his hands reflexively clenching. “Sweet Andraste, Kiara Hawke. If you’ve ever spoken more frightening words than those, I have no idea what they were.”

This finally, brought her face up, and she smiled. Not her usual grin, or the smirk he loved so well, but a smile nonetheless. And given how… strangely she was behaving, he was glad even for a small sign of mirth.

“Pray tell,” he added gently, “how could you breaking into my chambers via the window be in any way our pirate friend’s doing?”

Kiara took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking wistfully back toward the whiskey.

“Shall we make a deal?” he asked. “If you manage to finish an entire sentence, I will let you have more of that.”

If he’d thought his little bargain would startle a laugh out of her, he was disappointed. Instead she only nodded, and chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Okay,” she said at length. “The thing is, I went to ask Isabela some… advice. And after she… laughed at me, a lot, she… advised me.”

He arched an incredulous eyebrow. “And now you’ve succeeded in uttering even _more_ frightening words, a feat I did not feel was possible. What advice did you require from Isabela of all people? Surely you don’t fear Aileene Caddell will challenge you to a _duel_ tomorrow?”

Kiara rolled her eyes at him, even as she wrapped her arms tightly, almost protectively, around herself. “Maker, you’re a bloody idiot, Sebastian Vael. What _else_ is Isabela… _known_ for… being… good at? And just to be clear? I… I _don’t_ mean dueling or piracy or cheating at cards.”

His cheeks burned hot, and sadly the heat had nothing whatsoever to do with his proximity to the fire. “You… Kiara, you’re not…”

This, _this_ made her laugh. “Now who can’t finish their sentences?”

He gaped at her, utterly speechless, and she winced, burying her face in her hands. “I know, I know,” she mumbled. “ _Isabela_. But…” Here she peered through her fingers, and he could see the amusement in her eyes. “I… who else was I supposed to _ask_?”

“ _Me_ , perhaps?” he choked out. “Are you—what the— _Maker’s breath_ , Kiara! _Isabela?_ ”

She closed the gaps between her fingers, once again hiding her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ask you. I wanted… pointers. You know. From… from another woman. Oh, Maker.”

Closing his eyes, Sebastian shook his head. He was forced to bite the insides of his lips to keep from laughing in a way that would doubtless do little to reassure his anxious betrothed.

“Dare I— _dare I_ —ask what… pointers she gave?”

Kiara uttered a brief, despairing moan. “Oh, I don’t _know_. A lot of things about ships and rudders and… laughing. So much laughing. And then she offered to _show_ me, and—”

Sebastian lifted his chin and prayed for strength. “Presumably you didn’t take her up on _that_ offer?”

Kiara swatted at his shoulder, and he allowed himself a brief laugh when her fist connected. “Of course I didn’t. It’s just… she told me I was an idiot for not—I won’t tell you what she said, because it was distressingly blasphemous—for not… taking care of things _sooner_ and then she told me to just… get it over with. So that’s why I’m here. To get this over with.”  

“So let me get this straight, love. You snuck out of your room, traversed the palace in the dark, and scaled my wall because you… want to ‘get this over with’? On _Isabela’s_ advice?”

“When you say it like that… it doesn’t sound… that’s not what I _meant_.”

He smiled. “What _do_ you mean, then?”

“I’m… scared. N-not of you. Of… being a disappointment. Of-of not being—I don’t want to spend our wedding day _worrying_ about… this. I just want it to be—Maker’s bloody balls, Sebastian, just… _please_ don’t make me say it out loud. I already wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole.”

Perhaps the floor wasn’t obliging, but he did swallow his smile. He didn’t want her to think he was smiling _at_ her, when truly, if she were standing a little closer she’d have been able to feel all the proof of his desire for her.

“Very well,” he said, serious. “Our… abstinence wasn’t intended to make you _more_ nervous, love.”

“I know that. It’s just one thing led to another and now it seems like such a… a vast _undertaking_ , and I want to be… I want to be thinking about _us_ tomorrow. I don’t want to be wracked with—”

He kissed her. If her startled squeak was any indication, she hadn’t been expecting it. When he pulled away, her lips were pink and her cheeks were flushed—though not from embarrassment, he thought. Her smile seemed less strained. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“Aye,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “And no. You’re being you.”

She chuckled. “I’m not sure how I should take that.”

“As the compliment it is?”

This time instead of swinging at him, she reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. It was innocently done, but her fingertips were gentle and he shivered under the touch. Smiling, she repeated the gesture before resting her hand at the nape of his neck. “You know what you’re doing. I don’t,” she admitted. “And I hate that.”

“It was long ago, love,” he soothed, and she laughed, shaking her head. “I daresay I’m out of practice.”

Shaking her head, she laughed again, but didn’t remove the hand from his neck. Her fingertips traced lazy circles against his skin. “I don’t hate that you know what you’re doing. I hate that I don’t. Idiot.”

Without pulling away from her hand, he bent his head until he could kiss her again. She responded instantly, lips soft and pliant beneath his, but he could feel the tremor in her, the thoughts swirling just beneath the surface. 

“Ahh,” he sighed against her mouth. “This won’t do.”

Her brow furrowed and he felt her lower lip tremble. “Am I—?”

Crooking his finger, he rapped her lightly on the forehead with his knuckle. “You’re thinking too much, is what you’re doing. And you’re worrying about something you have no business worrying about.”

“But I—”

He silenced her by lowering the same finger and pressing it to her open lips. On a breath of laughter, she smiled and kissed his fingertip. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This is not at all romantic, is it?”

His lips twitched in a smirk. “My love, whatever could you mean? You break into my rooms—”

“You let me in,” she protested, trailing her fingers from the base of his neck down the loose collar of his linen shirt. His skin tingled everywhere she touched, and he thought if _just for a moment_ she could feel what _he_ was feeling at the mere touch of her fingers on his collarbone, she would have no cause whatsoever to doubt herself.

He leaned his head, touching his cheek to the back of her hand, still smirking. “Technicalities. You come _calling_ at my window in the middle of the night, wound tighter than a spring, desperately nervous and very nearly _unhappy_ , on the eve of our wedding. Ever so romantic, Kiara.”

Her expression turned pained. “You are making fun of me.”

“Just a little.” Sliding the same finger from her lips to her chin, he tilted her face up, pressing light kisses to first temple, then cheekbone, then the corner of her troubled mouth. “Stay with me, love.”

She blinked, started. “What?”

Chuckling, he ran his hand back through _her_ hair, reveling in the way she shuddered just as he had done. Winding a strand of coppery silk around his fingers, he tugged very slightly. “My own one, as flattering as it is to have you burst into my chambers in order to tell me you want to ‘get this over with’ I’m afraid you shall have to meet me in the middle. This is not The Blooming Rose, after all. Stay with me. We’ll see what happens from there, shall we?”

Her cheeks flushed so hot he could feel the heat of them even from an inch away. “But—won’t they—the _gossip_ and… and Tasia will—”

“Tasia’s a clever girl. I have no doubt she’ll figure it out.” He bent his head until his lips were nearly brushing her ear. “And for all your protestations, you had no qualms about moving your own sister into her lover’s room in full sight of the entire court. Stay with me.”

Arms snaking around his neck, she pressed her face into his neck. He felt some of the tension slip from her as he returned the embrace. Finally, she nodded and whispered, “I’ll… I’ll stay.” 

His breath caught, and for a moment he couldn’t fathom even the possibility of being happier than he was in that moment. The joy was a pressure in his chest, very nearly painful. Then, in a swift motion, he captured her, hooking one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, sweeping her up into his arms. She yelped, arms tightening around his neck. Crossing the room, he sat in his chair by the fire, next to his nearly untouched glass of whiskey, and settled her in his lap. “Now,” he said lightly, loosening the laces of her tunic very slowly, but only until he could slide the fabric down, baring one shoulder, “ _shall_ I show you what all kissing being under good regulation actually means?”

Her giggle became a moan as he lowered his mouth to her shoulder, pressing delicate kisses along the pale flesh until he reached her collarbone. Tilting her head back, she bared her neck, and he sucked gently at a spot he already knew was sensitive. She squirmed in his lap, all delightful, delighted noises and hooded eyes. He groaned, a heady mixture of pleasure and desire, and redoubled his efforts. Then those huge pale eyes widened sharply and she said, “Maker’s balls, Sebastian Vael, if you _mark_ me, I will _never_ hear the end of it. Don’t you _dare_.”

Smirking into the side of her neck, he pressed a much more chaste kiss atop the mark he feared she’d been too late to prevent.

#

With his princely bearing and faultless knowledge of the Chant, it was, at times, easy to forget Sebastian was a rogue. Oh, his choice of weapon might throw him into the class, but no one— _no one_ —ever looked at him and thought, “There’s a man who’s going to pick my pocket and stab me in the back for good measure.” Stories of his misspent youth aside, if he was a rogue, it was a noble one. So noble it had never occurred to Kiara to ask _him_ to pick locks or disarm traps, but she was being forced to question her reluctance now. He was probably better at it than she’d ever given him credit for.

Sebastian Vael had _very_ nimble fingers.

At the moment, those fingers were doing everything _except what she wanted them to be doing._ They traced patterns along the flesh of her shoulder, her neck, her hands—the only skin left bare by her tunic. When she reached down to rid herself of the garment, Sebastian chuckled, gently swatting her away. She pouted at him, but he was implacable, catching her wrists and pressing her hands tightly between them after brushing kisses to her knuckles.

“Sebastian,” she pleaded, in a tone dangerously close to a whine.

“Mmm?” he murmured into the side of her neck, kissing a trail from ear to collarbone while his blighted fingers slipped beneath the hem of her tunic to draw feather-light whorls against the sensitive skin at her lower back. For a moment she was so lost to the sensation she made no reply save pressing closer, her hands flat against his chest, and she felt his smug smile against her shoulder.

“Bed,” she commanded.

This time the laugh was no mere chuckle. It emerged full-bodied and rich and, combined with the maddening patterns his fingers were drawing, made her feel distinctly and uncomfortably overdressed.

She wanted to make him laugh that way again. She wanted to make him laugh that way _all the time_.

She also wanted to not be sitting on his lap in a chair, with so very many layers of clothing between them.

“As you wish, my lady.” Before she could move he rose, his arms very firmly around her, and carried her across the room to the vast bed. When he settled her there, she had a moment to be surprised his bed was somehow even _more_ comfortable than her own before he sat and reached for the buttons at the throat of his shirt.

“No,” she whispered, pushing herself onto one elbow and reaching for him with her other hand. He let his arms drop, and she circled her fingers around his wrist, tugging him to lay beside her. He submitted easily enough, but as soon as he turned the full weight of his gaze on her, she felt the tremor of familiar fear once again. She bit her lip. It wasn’t about him, and it wasn’t about _this_ ; the fear was borne of something far more intangible and far more difficult to name. Old things. Selflessness. Safety and running and hiding. The years she’d spent surreptitiously watching him, so certain her wishes could only ever be wishes, that any dreams she had could never come to fruition, that any feelings could never be acted upon. 

The belief that to love something meant it would be taken away.

As if reading these thoughts, his expression turned soft—not pitying, thank the Maker not pitying, but somehow patient—and he reached up to card his fingers through her hair. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his hand, trying to focus on the feel of him. Him. This. Now. His fingertips against her scalp, his palm against her cheekbone, soothing.

She didn’t want to remember the hurried, adolescent fumbling of her previous experience, and yet she couldn’t _help_ it. She was so woefully underprepared. Thinking back, she wasn’t certain she’d ever even seen Jaran entirely naked. He’d certainly never spent half an hour kissing her lips and neck and shoulders, gentle fingertips tracing patterns on her skin without insistence, and without once drifting toward breasts or hips or thighs. They’d always been afraid of getting caught, and so had always come together with a mix of youthful desire and desperation, but nothing very close to intimacy. It had left her entirely unprepared for _this_. Just being so close to Sebastian, having his eyes on her, made her feel naked. Naked and nervous. His sureness only highlighted her blighted anxiety.

She couldn’t hide from him. He wouldn’t let her.

Kiara didn’t realize how furrowed her brow had become until Sebastian kissed her there and she felt the tension beneath his lips. Her throat was tight with tears, and she fisted her hands in the sheets, forcing herself to inhale deeply and smooth out the crease between her eyes.

He didn’t say anything, and she was glad of it. His hand kept moving through her hair, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her forehead. One by one, she uncurled her fingers, until once again her hands lay flat. Then, after another moment and another breath, she pushed herself to sitting. He followed suit, eyes still watching her carefully. Swallowing the last vestiges of her nervousness, Kiara reached out and began slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers trembled, making the polished buttons hard to grasp, but he held himself perfectly, carefully still, and little by little the shirt opened.

She had seen him shirtless before, of course. She’d changed his bandages countless times in the weeks his wound had bothered him. She was already familiar with the way his broad shoulders tapered to his waist, the way the red-brown hair dusted his chest, the lean curves and lines of his muscles—fuller now than they’d been then; Starkhaven had repaired so much of the damage done by his long convalescence. But this was the first time she was allowed to look without adopting the distance of a healer, and somehow it was entirely, _entirely_ different. By the time she reached the last of the buttons, the shaking in her hands was desire and not nerves, and when she pushed the fabric from his shoulders, she allowed her palms to linger, she allowed her fingers to echo his, tracing imaginary sigils and swirls lightly across his clavicle. When her wandering hands reached his chest, he groaned, gazing at her with hooded eyes.

Very slowly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the scar at his breast. She felt him shudder, and his hands jerked—almost involuntarily, she thought—to her waist. Smiling against him, she kissed him again before flicking her tongue out to taste the warmth of his skin. “Maker, Kiara,” he whispered, his voice rough, his accent heavy. Her lips followed the line of his scar, and his hands tightened when she reached the end and scraped her teeth lightly, so very lightly, across his nipple. She soothed the gentle bite with the flat of her tongue, and again he groaned, low and needy, his fingers catching in the fabric of her tunic, pulling her close enough she could feel how desperately he wanted her.

 _Fabric_.

He leaned forward until his lips were nearly touching her ear, growling, “You are wearing too many clothes.”

Grinning, she curled her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers into the hair at his nape. “What are you going to do about that, Your Highness?” she retorted, tugging his hair just enough to bare his neck, and she nuzzled the chiseled line of his jaw. When he chuckled, she retaliated by capturing his earlobe, pulling the soft flesh between her lips.

The sound he made might have contained words—curses or prayers—but they weren’t in any way recognizable. And it certainly wasn’t a laugh.

“Vixen.”

She giggled. “It’s the hair. I can’t help it.”

His eyes met hers, and just for an instant she was frozen by the intensity of the emotion she saw there. Which was, evidently, his plan all along. His _roguish_ plan. Because one moment she was gazing rather helplessly into his eyes, and the next she was once again flat on her back, with her tunic pulled up over her head, and just as swiftly flung to the floor. She blushed, and then splayed her hands protectively over her belly. Sebastian’s gaze followed the motion, and she saw his expression darken, turn sad.

“The Arishok?” he asked, running his fingers over a scar much longer and much, much uglier than the one at his breast.

“And Amelle,” she said, flattening her palm over the faint ripples of very old burn-scars. “When we were young. It was an accident. Papa—Papa did what he could.”

She had long since grown used to her scars—she hardly noticed them anymore—but with him looking down at her it was almost as if they were new again, and she turned her face away, her cheeks hot.

“Kiara,” he said softly, reaching down to touch her face. After a moment, he used the caress to turn her countenance back to his.

“I know they’re—”

“No,” he interrupted. “They’re _you_. And you are perfect.”

She rolled her eyes, but he only shook his head. “If you could see what I see, love, you’d understand.” He was straddling her now, but sitting back on his heels, careful to keep the full weight of his body off her legs. He was _looking_ at her again, his blue, blue eyes missing nothing. Capturing one of her hands, he raised it to his lips, kissing each fingertip before turning it over and pressing his mouth to the center of her palm. “You are beautiful.” Higher then, to the pulse at her wrist, and then to the inside of her elbow. She shuddered. “Strong.” Bending at the waist, he continued his path by lowering his mouth to the slight dip where her shoulder and collarbone met. “Brave.” His tongue lapped at the hollow of her throat, before once again turning to the familiar territory of her neck and jaw. She heard him laugh slightly before he repeated her trick with the earlobe, and she moaned as every bloody nerve in her body started singing at the heat and _presence_ of him. “ _Perfect_.”

She caressed his waist, his ribs, dragging her blunt fingernails down his back until she could pull at his hips. “Sebastian,” she whispered. “Take these off.”

The noise he made hinted at assent, but he didn’t immediately oblige her. Bringing his hand to her cheek once again, he tilted her face so he could kiss her deeply, pulling yet another whimper from her parted lips. His tongue was as nimble as his fingers, and the fingers were working nearly as hard, cleverly unlacing her breastband. She gasped when the scrap of fabric followed her tunic, and her bare, over-sensitized skin brushed against his warmth and the soft hair of his chest.

His hands swept down her sides, coming to rest at her hips, even as his lips began as slow a southern journey as the northern had been, teasing, teasing, and never quite going where she wished. Her breastbone. The swell but not the peak. She jumped when his tongue found her navel. All the while, his fingers worked at the laces of her breeches. She wiggled her hips. Groaning at her movement, he stilled momentarily. Smiling, pleased with herself, Kiara arched her back and wriggled her hips again, slowly.

Two could play his game, after all.

Then, when he was distracted, she executed a rather beautiful move—one she’d learned as a counter to being pinned in hand-to-hand combat, but strangely just as effective in the current scenario—flipping their positions so she was the one straddling _his_ legs, and hers the hands reaching for the laces of _his_ breeches. He didn’t fight her. He laughed again, the sweet, rough laugh she was learning very swiftly to love best of all, and his hands reached up to cup her breasts, his thumbs finally, _finally_ grazing her nipples. His hands were sure against her, strong and certain, their tan dark against her milky skin. She whimpered, pressing her hips against his in a futile attempt at relief, and was gratified to feel him involuntarily press back, echoing her moan.

Once she loosened the laces at last, she hooked her thumbs beneath the waistband and tugged. He raised his hips to help, but didn’t cease his attentions to her breasts. She stopped a moment to admire the freed length of him, and this time it was _his_ turn to blush, but he did not attempt to cover himself. His breeches followed her tunic and breastband, and after a moment she managed to rid herself of the last of her own clothing as well. Then she pressed a kiss to each of his hipbones. He twitched, and she smiled.

“Enough teasing,” she whispered, using her own deft hands to guide him _precisely_ where she wanted him to be.

She moved slowly at first, so slowly, luxuriating at the feel of him. He let her set the pace, keeping one hand on her waist, but allowing the other to slip between them, almost teasing but _not,_ because no teasing had ever, _ever_ felt so good, and she found she had to move faster, deeper, _more_ until—oh, _Maker_ , the entire world was only _this_ feeling and _this_ moment: Sebastian’s flushed, handsome face, his hands, his body; her racing heart, her fingers clutching his shoulders, her hair falling to veil both their faces. He moaned her name over and over, reverent and pleading, and she replied in kind, whispering endearments, whispering promises, whispering, whispering, as the world coalesced into _this this this_ : the trembling in her limbs and his nimble, nimble fingers and then she threw her head back and shouted as everything came apart, came apart and was put back together even more beautiful than it had been before.

He flipped _her,_ then, and rested on his forearms, his forehead pressed to hers, holding himself within her, but motionless as she returned to herself. When he began to move again, the feeling— _Maker’s breath_ , the _feeling_ —was almost too intense, too much, but she met him stroke for stroke, giving her hips an experimental little twist that made them both gasp.

She felt when he began to lose himself, his pace quickening, his breath turning turning ragged. She wrapped her arms around his back, hooking a leg over his hip and arching her back for better leverage. 

It was just enough to pull him over the precipice, her name torn from his throat on a hoarse cry.

She clutched him more tightly as he shuddered in her arms, pressing kisses to his chest, his collarbone, his shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, once he’d found his voice again, though it was still rough and breathless. “I love you. I love you.”

Her eyes prickled with tears, but these were not ones of fear. Tilting her head, she captured his lips and put as much feeling as she could manage into the gesture. Meeting his eyes, not caring if he saw the dampness in hers, she said, “I love you.”

He pulled her tight to his chest, his hand cradling the back of her skull with such exquisite tenderness the prickle became fully-formed tears. She didn’t attempt to stop them. So close, she could feel his heart racing, mirroring her own, and they lay entwined until those heartbeats once again slowed, returned to normal. Finally, pressing a kiss to her brow, he roused himself enough to roll onto his back, pillowing his head on one bent arm.

Maker, but she loved his smile. Even when it tread dangerously close to the territory of the smirk. And even when that smirk was just a hair shy of smug.

“You did that on purpose,” Kiara said, poking him in the ribs.

One eyebrow arched. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Laughing, she propped herself up on one elbow, the better to glare down at him. “You can’t fool me, Sebastian Vael. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing.”

His smile was _definitely_ smug. _Insufferably._ “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

She poked him again, harder, and this time he jerked, and his smugness faded into a mock scowl. She said, “You goaded me. By _teasing_. You… you tricked me into being… I don’t know. _Wanton._ ”

“Did I?” Both eyebrows rose now, and he blinked guilelessly. “That sounds unfair of me. Are you certain?”

She giggled, pressing herself close to his side, hooking one bare leg over his and flinging an arm around his waist. With her cheek pillowed on his chest, she murmured, “Sebastian?”

“Aye, love?”

“Will you marry me?”

He chuckled. “Does tomorrow work for you?”

“I have no other pressing engagements.”

“I’ll see if we can’t throw something together, then.” His laugh was interrupted by a yawn. “We’d best get some sleep, though, if we’re to have such a busy day.”

It felt different, of course, wearing one of Sebastian’s over-sized shirts as a nightgown, sharing a bed, having him curled up against her back with one arm snug around her waist. Different, but… but wonderful _._ Different, but perfect. Kiara spared a momentary thought for how startled Tasia would be to find an empty bed in the morning, but then Sebastian pressed a sleepy kiss to the nape of her neck, whispered, “Good night, love,” and Kiara’s eyes drifted shut, her worries forgotten.

Bloody Isabela. She’d been right all along.

Smiling her own smug, satisfied smile, Kiara slept.


	102. Chapter 102

Sebastian woke slowly, and smiled as the first thing he saw was the back of Kiara’s head, the fine red hair stirred by the passage of his breath. His arm encircled her waist, and the deep, even tenor of her breathing told him she still slept. Content for the moment to enjoy the novelty, he lay still and inhaled the rose and cedar and Kiara scent of her. Maker, he even found her delicate little snores endearing. The light from the window told him it was certainly beyond the hour someone ought to have woken him—them—but he found he didn’t care. Let the dignitaries wait. Kiara Hawke was safe and warm in his arms, and if he could buy her a few moments more of untroubled sleep, he’d do so gladly, Tasia’s wrath be damned.

Of course, his intentions were somewhat derailed when he inhaled a bit of Kiara’s hair and sneezed. She jerked in his arms, and before he could whisper her name or roll away or apologize, her violent elbow drove the air from his lungs and only his own swift reflexes rolled him out of the path of the incoming reverse head-butt and kept him from having to suffer through his own wedding with two black eyes and a broken nose. Or worse. Kiara was still blinking sleep from her eyes when her instinct to fight evidently calmed enough for her to realize just who she was defending herself against.

Every exposed bit of skin blushed instantly the color of her hair, and her hands shot up to cover her startled mouth. “Maker’s balls,” she gasped, the words muffled by her palms. “Maker’s _balls_ , Sebastian. I’m so, so, _so_ sorry. I’m not used to—oh… oh, _balls._ ”

He sent her a lopsided little smile and ran the backs of his fingers along her heated cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I suppose it will be separate beds after all,” he murmured. Kiara moaned behind her hands, and he didn’t think he was imagining an even brighter hue to her cheeks. “Perhaps we might consider adjoining rooms? Though if you think it’s safer, we can always move you to the east wing. Oh, or perhaps a room at the top of one of the towers? Hardly liable to kill anyone in your sleep up there.”

Her brow furrowed in a glower and he chuckled.

“You are _not_ amusing,” she said. “Just so you know.”

“From the woman who just viciously attacked the prince of Starkhaven in his own bed! My own one, I am _certain_ that’s treason. Perhaps we’d best consider the dungeon, then? And pray for the prince’s mercy?”

Dropping her hands from her face, she reached out and sent a swift punch to his shoulder. He rolled away from it, laughing. “Again, even! I’ll have to call for the guards.”

“Oh, you’ll be long gone before they get here,” Kiara menaced, sitting up and running a hand through her tousled hair. The curves of her breasts shifted beneath the tunic she wore— _his_ tunic _—_ and before she could think about either attacking him again or rising from the bed, Sebastian caught her about the waist and pulled her close. She feinted a punch and used her momentum to flip him onto his back. He didn’t protest, except to lean up and beg a kiss. When she obliged, he clasped her tight, running one hand along her side until it caught the edge of her shirt. She shivered beneath his touch when his fingers found bare skin and began traveling upward.

Before his hand could reach its intended destination, however, she stopped and pulled back, her eyes wide. “Maker, Sebastian! What _time_ is it?”

He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose before reluctantly replying, “A few hours past dawn. Not yet mid-morning. I think.”

Her jaw dropped and she sputtered a few nonsense syllables before pushing him away two-handed. He thought about pulling her back again but the wildness about her eyes stopped him. “Not yet _mid_ -morning? Sebastian! Tasia’s going to _kill_ me!”

He smirked. “Just as well you’ve been practicing your hand-to-hand combat this morning, then. I think you may be able to take her.”

“And I think you’ve never seen her truly determined.” Still, Kiara spared him a brilliant smile and paused long enough to bestow another of her long, slow kisses to his parted lips. “If I don’t make it later, you’ll know she’s killed me. Check the third wardrobe. She hardly ever uses that one. Excellent place to hide a body.”

He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he watched her scramble from the bed. It wasn’t easy; the mattress was soft and the tangled sheets attempted very determinedly to hold her. He and those sheets were of one mind. She was halfway to the door when he cleared his throat and said, “My dearest. Not that you don’t look _fetching_ in your current attire, but you might consider pants? I imagine there’s quite a crowd assembled out there. What with there being some kind of event happening today.”

She froze, reached for a book—he supposed he had to be glad it was nothing breakable—and threw it at him. It went completely wide, bouncing off the headboard with a crack. “Not your best aim, my love,” he said, rising from the bed and hunting down her misplaced trousers. She pulled them on quickly, and while she was half-dressed and helpless, he swung her up into his arms. “Are you certain you don’t want help?”

“I don’t have time for help,” she muttered. “I don’t have time for—”

He kissed her quickly and dropped his brow to hers. “Remember what I told you, dearest. The single most valuable advantage of being Prince—or Princess—is possessing the right to a fashionably late entrance.”

“Mmm,” she said as his lips followed the curve of her jaw. “You make a solid argument.” Arching a brow, she nudged him with her hip. “Not the only solid thing in the room, I see. Or feel, rather.”

His own blush was much fainter than hers, but present nonetheless. “And you have been spending too much time with Isabela.”

Kiara giggled, squirming against him. “Too much? Or not enough? Because trust me, we only barely _touched_ on the breadth of her advice last night…”

And in that moment, Sebastian found he didn’t much care _how late_ pushed the bounds of _fashionably._

Maker. It wasn’t like they were going to do the ceremony _without_ them, was it?

#

It really was a lovely ceiling.  

Amelle had had ample time to admire it, from the way it looked in pre-dawn dimness, all the way to… well, now, an hour most decidedly _post_ -dawn.

It wasn’t that she was troubled, current sleeplessness notwithstanding.  And it hadn’t been a _wholly_ sleepless night.  Well.  There’d been some sleeplessness at the start, but it was of a rather pleasant sort that had facilitated quite a bit of excellent sleep.  But then Amelle’s eyes had popped open at some ungodly _dark_ hour, and as Spero slept on, curled contently against her chest, one thought had churned round and round in her head:

Her sister was getting _married._

There was something so incredibly surreal in that simple thought. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t giggled and whispered and had play-pretend weddings out in the field behind the tiny house in Lothering.  They’d swathed themselves in bedsheets pilfered from the laundry-line, and under the power of imagination they became the most beautiful gowns imaginable. The wildflower bouquets they’d picked became fragrant roses, and the little sapling by the pond became the groom (Carver had never been bored or desperate enough for entertainment to join in this particular game of theirs).  Kiara and Amelle had taken turns being the chantry sister presiding over the event, and even now Amelle could still remember the scent of wildflowers and the way the pond had sparkled with sunlight, to say nothing of the scolding they got _every time_ Mother caught them abusing her linens so.

They’d been so _young._   Young enough to think anything was possible, young enough to believe _everyone_ got married sooner or later.  Then they got older and things changed.  And changed.  And changed some more.

And now her sister was getting married.  For as thrilled as Amelle was by the whole development—nobody deserved happiness like Kiara—it scarcely seemed possible.  _Still._

Further beneath the current of disbelief Amelle was experiencing, there was something else, something still and deep, with a price beyond the rarest gems: Kiara, whether she knew it or not, was… well, perhaps not rebuilding her family, for that implied those they’d lost could ever be replaced. But she was building another, a family with ties beyond friendship. Amelle already cared for Sebastian like a brother, and now he… _would_ be her brother.  No, there would never be another Carver, and even so many years later loss and grief twisted  beneath her breast when she thought of him, but this would be something… new.  Something different but still _family._

For too long now, the only family they’d had had been each other.  That was going to change. Was changing.  Would continue to change.

Next to her, Fenris shifted in his sleep, settling on his side as he let out a sigh.  Running her thumb over Spero’s little spine—nowhere near as bony now as it had been—Amelle turned her head and watched as the slowly creeping sunlight found gaps in the draperies, pouring down in slender shafts of pale light, catching his hair, the markings along his arm.  Amelle ran one finger along Fenris’ forearm; his fingers twitched.  Spero picked her way across Amelle’s chest and with determined little steps clambered onto Fenris’ pillow, butting her head against his forehead, purring all the while.

_And while we’re on the subject of things that scarcely seemed possible…_

Sleepy green eyes opened, glaring displeasure at nothing in particular until spying the kitten now sitting primly on the pillow, tail wrapped around her body.  Fenris blinked at the kitten.  She mewed her reply.

“I think she’s saying ‘Papa, wake up,’” Amelle murmured, sliding a hand out to cover his.

“And I think she must take after you if she makes a habit of waking so early,” he grumbled, his voice low and gravelly with sleep.

“Maybe she just knows you hate it when the maids come in with breakfast while you’re still sleeping.”  Amelle propped herself up on one elbow. “And they’ll be in early this morning.”

Spero mewed again, and as if on cue, a knock sounded at the bedchamber door mere seconds before it swung open and a maid bustled in carrying a breakfast tray, followed by another pair of maids drawing Amelle’s bath, and still another carrying what was easily the grandest gown Amelle Hawke had ever worn in the whole of her life.  

Any lingering hope of peace left with the room’s shadows as the first maid opened the drapes, letting the morning sunlight in.  And as Amelle sat propped against pillows, maids scurrying about the room, she watched Fenris take Spero into his hands, running his thumb over her head until the kitten’s eyes closed in sleepy contentment.  

She watched, and she thought about family, changes, and impossible things.

#

Normally Fenris could count on the palace servants allowing them to break their fast alone, but this morning they were afforded no such luxury.  Maids, all of them chattering excitedly about decorations and preparations and the various visiting dignitaries and guests, hurried about the room while Amelle and Fenris had their tea and ate their meal.  Amelle, at the very least, seemed to be taking it in stride, shooting Fenris conspiratorially amused looks in between sneaking Spero tiny pieces of bacon and letting the kitten lick marmalade from her fingertips.  The fact she was eating pleased him enough that he could overlook the noise and bustle at such an hour. Her coloring was as it had ever been, and the hollowness had finally left her cheeks. Amelle looked… as she ought to have looked.  At the moment she looked bed-tousled and undeniably content.

With the understanding it would take him considerably _less_ time to prepare, he watched in silence as Amelle was hurried off to the bathing chamber—on her way in, she snagged a piece of toast slathered with honey and shot Fenris a grin before the door closed behind her.

Perhaps it was not the done thing, remaining in the chamber as he was, but Fenris had scarce little experience with such nuances of etiquette. He did not wish to leave and so he remained in the little sitting area, drinking his tea and entertaining Spero while Amelle splashed distractingly in the bath.  While she did so, a maid prepared the gown she was to wear, smoothing out skirts and muttering softly to herself as she lay out layer after layer of clothing on the freshly made bed.  His own ensemble required no assistance and Fenris was already entirely aware of just how much Amelle envied him that.

She came out of the bathing chamber in a fraction of the time Amelle normally took for bathing. Damp and rosy-cheeked, she submitted herself to a whirlwind of preparation: her face painted and her short hair adorned with a number of glittering pins before being helped into a gown of burnished gold and ivory silk, gold silk slippers upon her feet.

He’d never seen such a transformation. 

For all Amelle looked as if she were _tolerating_ the fuss and finery, Fenris saw her badly suppressed smile behind the long-suffering looks.  And as one of the bevy of maids fastened a necklace around the slender column of Amelle’s neck, Fenris’ thoughts began to churn and a snatch of conversation had in the shade of the palace gardens played over and over in his head.

 _“Well. I_ did _ask what your intentions were. Sort of. At least I insinuated I would like to know what your intentions are.”_

Once the final touches were in place, Amelle twirled for Fenris, the vast, full skirt flaring out slightly as she spun.  

“Well?  What do you think?”

Had there not been three other women in the room, watching his reaction with eagle-sharp eyes, he would have spoken frankly.  But his words were not for onlookers.

“As lovely as ever,” he said, holding her gaze—he _hoped_ —meaningfully as he spoke.

Amelle flushed beneath the expertly applied paint and dipped in a curtsey.  “As compliments go, I’ll take it.”  And then she swept close and brushed a kiss against his cheek before murmuring, “I’ll see you later.  I have to go keep my sister from going crazy.”

#

It took no small amount of finagling, and the use of all her best roguish sneaking skills, but somehow Kiara managed to extricate herself from Sebastian’s very beguiling distractions and make her way back to her own room. Mostly undetected, even, though she gave a servant a fright when she darted into one of the not-so-secret passages she probably wasn’t meant to know about. She figured one startled servant was better than getting herself shot while traversing rooftops, or—worse—running the risk of meeting Aileene Caddell while unbathed, bed-tousled and decidedly underdressed.

Her relief at having made it back was short-lived. Tasia stood on the other side of the servants’ door in Kiara’s chambers, arms crossed over her chest and glaring. Kiara winced and fumbled for apologies. If anything, the glare grew only more heated, and Kiara had no doubt that if Tasia’d had Amelle’s talents, a smoking crater would’ve been all that remained of her.

She’d never have owned to it even under pain of death, but her tardiness was almost worth it to see Tasia so at a loss for words. As if sensing the turn of Kiara’s thoughts, Tasia glowered even more darkly, unfolded her arms, pointed toward the bathing chamber and commanded with as much force as Kiara’d ever used on a battlefield, “Go. Hours! _Hours_ behind!”

“Sorry, Tasia. I—I _really_ am. I—was detained.”

A little of the ire faded, and Kiara let herself pretend she spied a hint of a smile a the corner of Tasia’s mouth. “I imagine you were, my lady. And doubtless you’ll be delighted to know most of the ladies meant to… _help_ have had to retire to their own preparations.”

Kiara, already halfway to the door, stumbled mid-step. “Really? So I won’t have an entourage of gawking spectators?”

“Indeed,” Tasia said, and now Kiara was _certain_ she was smiling. Faintly, yes, and a bit self-deprecatingly, but it was most definitely a smile. “Why, it’s almost as though someone planned for you to be… detained, as you say, just to make certain you’d have the most privacy on this of all possible days.”

Kiara blinked at her. “You don’t mean—”

The glower well and truly gone, Tasia now wore an expression of complete and utter guilelessness. “My lady. Please. Your bath is getting cold.”

As it happened, her bath was also already occupied. Or at least the room was. Isabela sat in a chair at the tub’s side drinking lazily from a flask—and _why_ , in Andraste’s name, were there _always_ chairs in her bathing chamber? If ever a room existed where extraneous people did _not_ need to be sitting about watching, surely this was it—while Merrill sniffed her way through the dozens of vials of soaps and oils and scents lined up along the shelf at the water’s edge. Isabela’s eyes caught Kiara’s as she entered, and a slow grin overspread her lips.

“Oh, it’s about bloody _time_ ,” Isabela declared grandly, her already loud voice carrying in the enclosed and very acoustic bathing chamber.

“You are running a little late,” Merrill added, lifting a clear bottle filled with golden liquid and swirling it around. “Though I don’t see why you sound so relieved, Isabela. We’ve only been waiting a few minutes.”

Isabela’s grin slid into a smirk and Kiara answered with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, yes,” she said. “Very funny. Isabela knows best. Kiara Hawke has accepted her wise counsel and Isabela may now gloat accordingly.”

Leaning back in her chair, Isabela took another swig from her flask. “And it’s only taken you more than half a decade to realize it. Better than most, really.”

After dozens of evenings spent huddled around tiny fires and communally bathing in whatever freshwater happened to be nearby, modesty had rather gone out the window ages ago. Still, Kiara blushed a little as she shucked her already-askew clothing. Isabela crowed, and when Merrill asked what all the fuss was about, the pirate pointed out the various and sundry marks Sebastian had been careless enough to leave on her person.

“Oh,” Merrill supplied helpfully, “you’ve another on the back of your neck. You probably can’t see that one.”

“I hope you lot are happy when I curl up and die from embarrassment,” Kiara groused, sliding herself into the still-steaming water of her bath.

“You know, I don’t think a person can actually _die_ of embarrassment, Hawke. You have gone awfully pink, though. Is the water too hot? I could probably make it a little cooler, if you like.” Self-consciousness shifted across Merrill’s features. “I’ve been practicing. The way… the way Amelle does things. So you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t have to worry about the things you used to worry about.”

Merrill scuffed her toes against the marble floor, and Kiara found herself smiling—genuinely smiling—at the change in her. All this time. All that suffering. And here she was, _trying_. Here they both were, for that matter. “The water’s fine,” Kiara insisted. “Isabela’s giving me a hard time. As she does.”

“Oh, is she innuendoing again?”

“Is innuendoing a word?” Isabela asked no one in particular.

“I think innuendoing is a word,” Merrill said brightly. “Hawke, do you want this bottle or the little blue one? The blue’s got a touch of embrium in it.”

Kiara raised her eyebrows in silent question.

“The scent’s an aphrodisiac.” Merrill shrugged as if this were the most common of all common knowledge, and Isabela chuckled into her rum. “Though with all those marks, perhaps you don’t need any help. Best stick to the other, then. It does smell more like you.”

Kiara slid deeper into the water, muttering, “Dying. Embarrassment.”

“Why, exactly, are you dying of embarrassment?” this came from Aveline, who took that opportune moment to  poke her head into the room. 

“Maybe because I can’t have five minutes alone in the bath without having an audience of thousands?” Kiara griped, though she laughed as she said it. “Andraste’s arse, you lot have no sense of privacy, do you?”

Aveline snorted. “Little late on that score, Hawke. Maker knows your protests lost all credibility after that one time you ran stark naked through the camp—”

“Only because _someone_ stole my clothes at the pond!” Kiara insisted, jerking an accusatory thumb at Isabela. “I’m not… I’m not some kind of _exhibitionist_!”

“More’s the pity,” Isabela added. “I’d pay good coin—”

Kiara dunked herself completely under the water to prevent hearing whatever horrible innuendoing Isabela was about to embark on, and when she emerged again, she lifted an arm and pointed them toward the exit. “All of you out! Maker’s _balls_. You’re impossible.”

Aveline chuckled. “And you love us for it. Tasia says she’s coming to drag you out by your hair in five minutes, by the by. Her words. I think they may be literal.”

Isabela leapt to her feet rather too gracefully for someone who’d already been drinking for Maker knew how long, and she waved a hand as she reached Aveline at the door. “Means I’ve got five minutes to tell everyone about all the love marks, Hawke. Even the one on—”

Isabela ducked through the door just as the little bottle of embrium-the-aphrodisiac-laced bath oil shattered against it.

# 

Despite the early hour, the palace hallways were ten times as busy as Amelle had ever seen them.  Countless guests and dignitaries were staying within the palace walls, each of them with their own troupe of servants and guards, and recent events not being quite as far behind them as anyone might have wished, such an influx of strangers meant a doubling of Starkhaven guard.

It was a _very_ crowded walk to Kiara’s chambers.  Which meant it took longer than it ought to have done. Which gave Amelle far, _far_ too much time to _think_ during the walk.

By the time she reached Kiara’s door and Ser Kinnon standing dutifully outside it, she was fighting back tears.  Maker only knew what form Tasia’s wrath might take if Amelle showed up with her face smudged and tear-streaked.  All she had to do was… _not_ think about Kiara.  At all.  On her wedding day.  Radiating with happiness the likes of which Amelle had once feared Kiara would never _get…_

“By the bloody _Void,_ ” she muttered, looking up at the ceiling so the tears wouldn’t fall.

“My lady?” Kinnon asked, armor jangling as he took a concerned step forward.

“I’m fine, Kinnon. I swear it.”  Amelle took a few deep breaths until the salty sting of tears subsided. She looked from the ceiling to her sister’s guard and said, self-deprecatingly, “Maker’s _balls,_ I’m going to be a mess today. Happy tears are still tears, after all.”

Kinnon’s answering expression was fondly amused. “Let Tasia know. I’d bet a glass of Starkhaven’s finest she’s got a hidden stash of handkerchiefs.”

Amelle grinned at him. “The ones she’s forever pressing upon Kiara to carry?” 

But Kinnon only snorted a laugh and shook his head. “Maker, no,”he said, before adding in an undertone, _“Nobody_ weeps like Tasia at weddings.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Amelle said, pushing open the door.

Inside, somebody had cleared away the remains of the wedding demon. It was utterly and entirely _gone_ —not even the faintest whisper of the court ladies’ perfume remained. For that matter, even the court ladies were absent. In their place were Aveline, Merrill, and Isabela, the latter lying indolently on Kiara’s divan, taking a long drink from a flask, while Merrill and Aveline helped Tasia smooth out and generally fuss and fret over Kiara’s gown. Orana stood near Kiara’s vanity, gently setting a quantity of cosmetics and hair pins in order.

Isabela who noticed her entrance. She even bestirred herself to sit up for it. “Oh, look, kitten finally made it to the party.”

Swallowing her tears and pushing forward a smile, Amelle looked around. “I take it disposing of prissy court ladies was your doing, Isabela? And if so, dare I ask where you hid the bodies? Or will that make me an accessory to the crime?”

“Can’t take credit for this one, much as I’d like to—it was entirely Buttercup’s brainchild.” Tasia’s back was to Isabela, but Amelle saw the small, secretly-pleased smile curve at her mouth. 

Just then the bathing chamber door opened and Kiara’s voice drifted out on eddies of cedar and rose scent. “Bodies get hidden in the third wardrobe, Mely,” she said, stepping out of the little room, fresh from her bath and swathed in a dressing gown, looking, despite her state of damp dishabille, beautiful and radiant and _happy_ and every inch the bride. “More room in there for—” But upon spying her sister, Kiara’s words cut off abruptly, without so much as a jerk or a start. It took barely more than a clock’s single tick, no more than half a heartbeat, for Kiara to see directly past Amelle’s smile and straight through to her eyes, which, to Amelle’s endless annoyance, had started to sting with tears. Again. “Oh no,” Kiara said, the warning only half in jest. “No. _Absolutely not._ If you start, I will, and I am not showing up to my own wedding with my nose as red as my hair and swollen eyes to match. No. Someone find her a glass of that sparkly Orlesian wine and tell her a joke. Something dirty, preferably.”

And because Kiara always knew exactly the thing to say, Amelle blinked and laughed, and for a moment the tears were held at bay. As Tasia slipped past, she pressed a handkerchief into Amelle’s hands and patted her lightly on the forearm. Cupcake, neck adorned with a vast bow of golden silk, padded over from his spot by the fire and nosed at Amelle’s hand until she relented and scratched behind his ears. Tasia fixed him with a mock-glower. “No hair on the clothes, you.” Cupcake opened his mouth in a panting mabari grin. “No drool, either.”

“No, seriously,” Kiara said to the room at large, “I really do want some of that sparkly Orlesian wine. And not just for Amelle.”

“Really, Hawke,” Aveline chided. “A tipsy bride will go over about as well as a tear-stained one.”

“It’s for my _nerves_.” Kiara grinned. “A woman has nerves on her wedding day, Aveline. Or don’t you remember when you—”

“Enough of that,” Aveline muttered, flushing nearly as bright as her hair. “Sounds to me like a woman is full of shit on her wedding day.”

Kiara sighed a beleaguered sigh. “Well if no one’s going to find me sparkly Orlesian wine, I suppose we’d better get this… dress thing over with.”

“ _This_ _dress thing_.” Amelle snorted, brushing her hands down the front of her own insanely opulent gown. “Kiara Hawke, if you expect me to believe you aren’t salivating over that confection, you must think me blind indeed.”

“She’s got a point, Hawke,” Isabela added. “Your expression goes positively _lustful_ every time you look at it. Unless, of course, you’re merely having flashbacks to—”

“Hey,” Kiara interrupted. Amelle caught the hint of a blush at her sister’s cheeks before she turned away. “You’re on the short road to banishment from Starkhaven forever, Bela.”

Merrill, now fussing with Orana over a bunch of flowers, glanced up, wide-eyed. “Creators! You wouldn’t really, Hawke!”

Kiara laughed. “And be denied public teasing at every turn? Of course not. Besides, Isabela’s promised to keep me in aged Antivan brandy now that I won’t be cracking open every barrel and wooden crate in Kirkwall. And how can I turn down a steady supply of aged Antivan brandy?”

“How indeed,” Amelle mused. “Maker, are you really meant to wear all those petticoats?”

“Hair first,” Tasia insisted.

Isabela’s grin broadened, dangerously close to evil. “Oh, I think the hair will be easier than you think.”

Tasia, momentarily startled, blinked at her. “What do you—”

“Uh,” Kiara interjected, “I think what Isabela means is that I’m, um, wearing my hair down.”

“You are _not._ ” Tasia turned on Isabela. “The current style—”

“Take it up with your lusty prince,” Isabela said, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not the one who left kisses all up and down Hawke’s pretty white throat.”

“He does like my hair when it’s down,” Kiara admitted, sheepishly. “He, uh, might’ve done it on purpose. Come to think of it.”

“You know, Kiri,” Amelle said, “you may be able to avoid the red eyes and nose, but I’m afraid that blush may be permanent.”

Kiara wrapped an arm around Amelle’s shoulders, but Amelle batted her away. “You’re as bad as the dog. You’re damp. No dripping on my dress.”

Her sister made a mock of gathering up her damp hair as if to wring it out, and Amelle danced backward, nearly tripping over the quantity of unfamiliar skirts. Luckily, Tasia swept to the rescue, pulling Kiara—gently, perhaps, but definitely _pulling_ —to the vanity. Orana hovered on the other side, doubtless feeling out of place. Before Amelle could call her over to invent some duty for her, Kiara turned her head and sent a beaming smile her way. “Orana, mightn’t you help with the hair? If you don’t mind?”

Tasia blinked, but otherwise unfazed merely reached for the cosmetics. Amelle saw Kiara mouth the words _thank you,_ and Tasia merely nodded, holding Kiara’s chin steady as she dusted powder across her cheeks.

Orana and Tasia were still hard at work when a servant appeared a few minutes later bearing a fat bottle containing—as Kiara had wished—sparkly Orlesian wine. Glasses were poured and divvied up; Amelle accepted hers carefully, as afraid of spilling on herself as breaking the delicate crystal goblet. Isabela regarded her glass with an expression almost bordering on thoughtful, and with an oddly practiced ease, she sipped and closed her eyes to savor. When her eyes opened again and caught Amelle staring, her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Some things you never forget,” Isabela said. “And damn if Princess doesn’t get the good stuff. Suppose I’ll have to be nice to him now.”

“But you were always nice to Sebastian,” Merrill piped up, her cheeks just a little pink and her eyes most definitely shining. Her glass of sparkly wine was, Amelle noted, already almost empty. “You always had such interesting conversations. And he was always nice to me.” A brief shadow passed over the elf’s face, and Amelle suspected she was remembering times other companions—Kiara included—had not been quite so nice.

Kiara, evidently picking up the same, said quietly, “Sebastian’s willingness to examine points of view different than his own is one of his great strengths, Merrill. I can only hope to emulate it. And apologize for not trying harder earlier. You deserved better than you got. From me. From… others.”

Amelle, sitting at Merrill’s side, saw tears pool in the elf’s eyes. “I—thank you, Hawke. I know I made mistakes, but—”

Kiara laughed, earning a stern look from Tasia who was working some kind of magic with rouge. “No, Merrill. Just accept my apology. You really needn’t give me one of your own. You’ve already proven yourself many times over. I just… never acknowledged it.”

“This wine’s not meant to make you maudlin,” Isabela griped. “You lot are drinking it wrong.”

This pronouncement had the intended effect: everyone laughed. Kiara returned to being primped, and Amelle turned to Merrill and asked her about the clinic. Even now, a pang of loss attended the memory of her clean-swept floor and windowboxes full of healing plants, and the sense of accomplishment she’d felt upon building something useful. Sebastian had already hinted that she might do something similar here—and in a more pleasant location than deep within chokedamp-filled tunnels—but the clinic in Kirkwall still held pride of place in her heart. It did her some good, however, to hear how cheerfully Merrill spoke of the work she was doing; she mightn’t have had training in healing magic, but her extensive experience with herbalism and potions was certainly serving her well. “Aveline comes sometimes,” Merrill added. Amelle raised an eyebrow in the guard-captain’s direction.

“Field medicine’s not so different. I can set a bone and wrap a bandage well enough.”

Isabela looked as though she were searching for a way to make this comment dirty, but Aveline only rolled her eyes and drank down the rest of her wine.

It was good to know that life went on. Friends helped each other, teased each other. Drank and laughed and supported each other. Amelle sipped her wine and pretended the sting in her eyes was merely from the bubbles.

The rest of the morning was spent in much the same way—reliving old triumphs and telling old stories and companionable ribbing all around. Laughter flowed as easily as the storytelling and the Orlesian wine. Kiara griped about devilish underwear as Tasia, with expert hands, pulled tight the laces of her corset and then helped her into the various thousands of layers of gown.

Isabela let out a low whistle. “Andraste’s bouncy tits, Hawke, you do clean up.”

Kiara smiled faintly, but Amelle could see—clear as anything—her sister’s sudden nerves, as though dress and hair and cosmetics had somehow combined to make the whole thing terribly _real_. And it was all a far, far cry from bedsheets stolen from the laundry line; this certainly wasn’t their old games of play-pretend. Kiara’s dress was so deceptively simple Amelle knew it must’ve taken dozens of seamstresses countless hours to construct. Made of gold-trimmed ivory silk so fine it seemed to carry its own glow, Kiara looked a little like she wore a dress woven of sunrise-kissed clouds. Nary a ruffle or bow in sight. Touches of golden lace and embroidery edged the bodice, highlighting the creamy skin and the cascade of a glimmering diamond and gold necklace above it. Amelle began to wonder if having Kiara’s hair down wasn’t, in fact, in Tasia’s plan all along—current style be damned—because the long, loosely curled locks fell in perfect counterpoint to the ivory, held back from Kiara’s face with jeweled combs. The veil hadn’t yet been lowered over Kiara’s face, but hung, cobweb-soft, down her back.

And yet her sister looked a little like she wanted to fist her twitching hands in the impossibly full skirts and _run_.

Amelle sent a meaningful look Tasia’s way, and the maid inclined her head ever-so-slightly before clapping her hands.

Kiara’s nerves really _were_ shot, Amelle realized, when the sound made her sister jump half a foot. 

“It’s almost time, my lady,” Tasia said, soothing without sounding the least bit condescending. “But perhaps you might appreciate a moment alone with Lady Amelle?”

Kiara blinked like a sleepwalker abruptly woken and nodded too slowly. “Yes… yes, that would be… thank you, Tasia. Just a moment. Would be… lovely. Yes.”

The room cleared out in a swish of skirts and backwards glances that ranged from Merrill’s tearfully happy wave to Aveline’s crooked grin to Isabela’s look of fond resignation as she shook her head at the sisters, carrying the bottle in her arms on the way out.  

“Come on, kitten,” she said, slinging an arm around Merrill’s narrow shoulders. “Let’s see if we can find Fuzzy and share this lovely bottle with him.”

“But… isn’t the bottle empty already?”

“I said we’d share the _bottle_ with him,” Isabela replied archly, her voice bouncing gently off the walls even as it grew fainter with every step they took.  “I never said it’d have anything _in_ it…”

Tasia was the last to go, hesitating by the door, looking briefly between the sisters.  The blonde woman’s expression conveyed at least a thousand sentiments—too many to put into words in such a short span of time.  She looked wistful enough that Amelle wondered if _she_ had a sister, or if Kinnon had the right of it all along and Tasia simply got weepy at weddings.  But pressed in between the wistfulness and something that looked a great deal like _pride,_ Amelle caught the warning in Tasia’s eyes, the tilt of her eyebrow _._  

Sending Tasia what she _hoped_ was a reassuring smile, Amelle said, “No crying,” she said.  “Healer’s honor.”

A short, surprised laugh burst past Kiara’s lips.  “We wouldn’t dare undo all your hard work.”

“I’ll take that as a comfort, considering _some_ of the things you’ve dared to do, my lady,” Tasia answered pertly.  Then she closed the door.

The room, which had only moments ago been full to bursting with friends and laughter and _wine_ , was suddenly, almost impossiblysilent, though still so very full—anticipation, hope, happiness _._ All these things and more radiated from her sister, filling every corner like the dawn creeping over the horizon.

“You’re beautiful,” Amelle said honestly, clasping Kiara’s hands in hers and squeezing.  “Prettier even than Mama’s sheets.”

Kiara laughed again, despite herself, and looked down at the length of her dress, shaking her head in wonder.  “I can’t decide whether that feels like it was a million years ago, or just last week.”

“Somewhere in between, maybe.  Just _after_ the beginning of time and before—”

This time it was Kiara’s turn to squeeze fingers, blurting, “I’m getting married, Mely.”

A wry retort hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Amelle swallowed it back.  “I know,” she said simply and softly, unable to fully banish the hint of a tear in her voice.  And she knew, she _knew_ better than to think Kiara was nervous about _Sebastian._ No, that much Amelle was certain of; definitely no shortage of love and loyalty on either side.

Still, things were changing.  Things were changing and now her sister was standing in front of her looking nervous and, Maker, if that wasn’t a change Amelle didn’t know what was.  

“My big sister,” Amelle breathed, reaching up to gently finger one of the red curls resting against Kiara’s shoulder.  “I’m so… _proud_ of you.”

“Proud?” she scoffed. “The only impressive thing I’ve done so far is hold my breath to get into the blighted corset for this thing.”

“You know what I mean,” Amelle chided, taking a step back, but never relinquishing her grip on her sister’s hands.

And then Kiara said what neither of them had dared to until then.  “I wish they could be here.”

“Me too,” Amelle murmured, swallowing back the sudden tightness in her throat.  “Mother would’ve been over the moon about this dress,” she said, brushing a careful hand down the pale skirts.

“Carver would’ve terrorized Sebastian in the name of _honor_ or something,” Kiara added with a fond chuckle.  “And Papa…”

“Take your pick,” Amelle said. “He’d have been wreaking terror upon your betrothed right along with Carver, and when he wasn’t doing that, he’d have been planning _distractions_ should you decide at the last minute this wasn’t what you wanted, and failing all that, he’d…”

“He’d’ve had his hands full keeping Mother from dissolving into a weepy mess.”

Amelle leaned forward, brushing a feather-light kiss across her sister’s cheek.  “They’re here,” she whispered.  “I don’t think any of them would have missed this for the world.”

Kiara smiled an ever-so-faintly watery smile—nothing to harm Tasia’s paint job—and embraced Amelle tightly enough to make her squeak. “You’re here, Mely. You’re here. And Maker, they’d be proud of _both_ of us.” Then she stepped backward, brushing invisible wrinkles from her cascade of skirts, and the small smile was replaced with a brilliant one. “Now. I think we have somewhere to be.”

“Oh, can’t we make Tasia wait just a little longer?” Amelle wheedled.

“And have her stuff us both into the third wardrobe?” Kiara returned. “I think we’ve pushed the limit of her patience already.”

“Maybe _you_ have, but I—”

Kiara snorted—a sound very at odds with her regal appearance—and said, “If you think she didn’t notice you pulling those excess pins from your hair, you’ve got another thing coming, sister dear. She’s going to jump you as soon as the door opens.”

Amelle frowned, sighing a deep sigh that transformed into a giggle part way through. Then she pulled a handful of jeweled hairpins from under a pillow. Kiara helped her tuck them back into her hair. Amelle saved one and added it to Kiara’s hair. “You ready, Kiri?”

Kiara grinned, lifting her skirts gracefully and giving them an experimental little swish. “Never more ready for anything.”


	103. Chapter 103

Standing at deceptive ease in the hallway, Fenris heard the sisters laughing from behind the still-closed door. They were already running a little late, but Fenris was not going to be the one to begrudge them their moment of happiness together; there’d been all too few of them in past months. Beside him, Ser Kinnon smiled a fond smile, but reddened slightly and lifted his shoulders when he noticed Fenris’ querying eyes on him. 

“It’s just—for a long time there was no laughter here,” Kinnon explained, eyes still scanning the hallway to either side of the door. The guard was, Fenris noted with some satisfaction, entirely focused on the task at hand even as he conversed. As it should be, on a day as important as this one. Fenris, conventionally unarmed, nevertheless flexed his hands at his sides and let a flash of lyrium brighten his tattoos for an instant.

“Hawke brings laughter with her,” Fenris admitted. 

Kinnon’s grin was swift. “There are worse things to bring.”

Here, however, Fenris did not share the knight’s mirth. He felt the faint crease of a frown in his brow. “Those may also follow on her heels. They have before. Vigilance does not end because this day’s events are joyful ones.” He shook off the grimness and, if not quite a smile, managed to smooth the worry from his face. Hawke would see it, and even if she did not, Amelle was frustratingly fluent in the language of his expressions. Thinking of her brought a slight smile, a bare curve of his lips, just in time for the door to open.

Hawke emerged first, Amelle carefully carrying an armful of her sister’s multitudinous skirts. Fenris spared a moment to think what a nightmare movement would be in such an outfit, and then banished that thought as well before either of the Hawkes could spy it. On this day, Hawke did not have to move with her usual swiftness; a hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her with no other agenda than keeping her safe. 

Fenris supposed he was meant to think the raiment lovely, and certainly the cascades of fine silk and lace and gauzy-thin veil were indeed beautiful, but dresses could not compare to the loveliness of the ladies inhabiting them. Hawke, still glancing back at Amelle, laughing about the ridiculousness of her gown—it did not, evidently, want to fit through the doorway—shone as Fenris had never seen her shine before. Amelle was scarcely less brilliant, and a little more of his uneasiness faded in the light of the smile she flashed his way the moment she noticed him. He thought her eyes a little over-bright, but her joy-flushed cheeks betrayed no sign of tears.

Fenris thought, perhaps, Kinnon had the right of it. Even with Hawke’s penchant for bringing laughter wherever she went, that sound had been in short supply since Kirkwall, and Anders, and Meredith. It was a potent thing, to see the Hawke sisters so unfettered. His lips twisted wryly when the image that came to mind was one of sleek birds shaking out their wings, preparing to take to the skies after long captivity.

And perhaps he’d best leave poetry to those with the talent.

Hawke, seeing her sister’s grin, turned and gifted him with another. “Come to steal my sister away, have you?” she asked brightly. 

“Indeed not,” Fenris remarked. “On this occasion, Ser Kinnon has that honor.”

Hawke’s brows lifted, her expression rendered almost comic in its confusion. “Bu… uh, sorry? Why? Where are  _you_  off to?”

A thread of mirroring dismay chilled him, and he wondered if he oughtn’t have spoken to Hawke of this change in plans beforehand. Both Sebastian and Amelle had thought it a good idea, but Hawke’s surprise unsettled him. “You have no… surviving male kin,” he began, turning out his palms in mild supplication. “I thought to… lend you my arm. As you have so often lent yours to me.”

Hawke blinked. Once. Twice. And then she burst into tears.

Fenris glanced at Amelle, Amelle stared back, wide-eyed. Kinnon looked between the pair of them, mouth sightly agape. From around the corner, where she’d evidently been waiting for just such a mortifying occasion, Tasia came running. She, at least, had little trouble moving in her cumbersome outfit. She had the most curious ability to be swift without sending her own dressed hair into disarray. “My lady, no!” she cried. “Don’t you _dare_!”

As abruptly as they’d started, Hawke’s tears shifted to a giddy giggle. “Oh, Maker, Tasia.” Her tone, nevertheless, held genuine relief, and the entire crowd of them stepped back so Hawke’s maid could make certain no irreparable damage had been done. When all was deemed satisfactory, the petite woman turned and jabbed a finger into Fenris’ chest hard enough to make him rock back on his heels. He was caught so off-guard it didn’t occur to him to resist or retaliate. Or shift his balance to absorb the blow. So he rocked. And Tasia glared with grim gratification, her upheld finger prepared to strike anew.

“Don’t do that again,” Tasia hissed, pale eyes flashing. “We haven’t time to do this all over.”

Hawke stepped close and settled a gentle hand on Tasia’s shoulder. “He’ll be good, I promise, Tasia.”

Tasia’s glower said he’d better be, or he’d regret it. And he, startlingly, believed it. When Tasia stepped away, Hawke tilted her head and fixed Fenris with a penetrating gaze. He wondered what she saw. The worry? He hoped not. The friendship?

As suddenly as she’d wept, she swept him into an embrace. Tasia muttered something dire about wrinkling her gown. Fenris didn’t stiffen or bristle or sigh with long-suffering, the way he’d so often done before when confronted with Hawke’s sudden displays of affection. This time, he returned the gesture, patting her shoulder awkwardly. She laughed again, vaguely watery. Bringing her lips close to his ear, she whispered, “You’re kin to me. And the honor is entirely mine, old friend.” Stepping back, she fixed him with a decidedly impish look. “You know what? We should move on.”

Behind them, Amelle snorted a laugh. Kinnon and Tasia shared a confused look. 

Lifting his arm, he offered his elbow the way he’d so often seen Sebastian do. Hawke slipped her hand into the crook, and bumped her shoulder companionably against his. She winked at him, and with lightness in her tone that belied the message said, “Fair warning, though, I can’t move in this thing to save my life. So, if anyone jumps out at us on the way…”

Somehow this, the knowledge that she was as perceptive and watchful and clever as she ever was, even dressed in unfamiliar finery and on her way to a ceremony that would, in so many ways, make her yet more of a target to those with grudges against her, was enough to settle Fenris’ uneasiness at last, and he smiled. Like the Hawke sisters and their joy, for once unfettered and unbound. “Whatever you need, I am ready to assist.”

Some things, after all, never changed.

#

The day could not have been more perfect for a wedding if Hawke herself had petitioned the Maker to craft it so.

Then again, Cullen thought, a fondly amused smile curving at his lips, given even a fraction of what he knew Hawke to be capable of, such a meeting was not so terribly difficult to imagine.  The air was crisp and autumn-kissed; the sun blazed above in a sky dotted with clouds, warming the onlookers against a gentle wind that, had it been any less kind, might have turned the day chilly. If he’d not seen this same courtyard in its usual state as practice yard, he’d never have believed it was the same. Where practice dummies usually stood, real people mingled. Flowers and bunting and ribbon in ivory and gold and all the shades of autumn decorated a space usually filled with sweating soldiers. Instead of grunts of effort, happy laughter filled the air. The very center of the space remained curiously empty, kept so by a ring of ribbon-draped posts punctuated by knights in their shining-armor best. Cullen wondered, absently, what it was for.

Hard as it might have been for him to imagine once, he stood with the rest of Hawke’s people.  Now, though, after so much uncertainty, after so much struggle to prove himself (not least of all to himself), he felt as if he finally  _belonged_  with them.  Even Guard-Captain Aveline was not  _quite_  as coolly reserved as she had been those days in Kirkwall.  Indeed, her greeting had been… wryly sheepish, and Cullen wondered how much of her change in demeanor had to do with her illness and recovery.  She looked well enough now, he was pleased to find, though she made no secret how unpleasantly stiff she found her own finery.  Even Guardsman Donnic looked, Cullen thought, rather surprised to see his wife in a dress.

For that matter, all of Hawke’s people were dressed in their best—Merrill was swathed in a floaty green affair and had deigned to wear slippers, while Isabela’s gown managed to cover more skin than did her usual attire, and yet remained hovering just on the cusp of indecency.  Which had likely been the whole _point_.  Varric, Guardsman Donnic, and Cullen himself sported tunics far more richly constructed than anything he’d ever worn in the whole of his life.  He’d  _wanted_  to wear his armor—Maker only knew how Isabela managed it, but she’d brought his suit of heavy plate back with her from Kirkwall—but Hawke had nipped that suggestion in the bud, saying  _it’s my wedding, and you’re there as a guest and a friend, Cullen,_ not _a templar._

Making such a distinction was still… new to him.

A ripple went through the crowd already assembled in the vast courtyard; long benches had been reserved for close friends and honored guests on all sides of the protected inner circle, and Cullen had first thought it odd that so few seats had been put out.  Now, though, the courtyard continued to fill and fill and  _fill_ , not just with lords and ladies of the court, but common folk in their chantry best who looked about with wide-eyes and slack jaws, as if disbelieving their luck.  Cullen allowed himself a smirk, if not an outright chuckle when he spied Lady Caddell get jostled to one side by a pair of boisterous, excited young girls—one rising on tiptoes and the other hopping on one foot in hopes of catching a glimpse of the new princess.  Their mother—ahh, and yes, it was the Starkhaven Circle’s lady First Enchanter, Nadiah, though no air of magic currently clung to her to tickle his senses—had to herd them back to her, and as Lady Caddell opened her mouth to hiss something doubtlessly cruel and belittling to the children, she caught Cullen’s inquisitive gaze.  Suddenly her mouth snapped shut, a flush of helpless indignation mottling a path up her neck, nostrils flaring as the girls pelted back to their mother.

He tried not to feel too pleased, but mostly failed. It was, after all, very big of him not to smite her outright, after all the things she’d said and done. Maker’s breath, she was lucky to have obtained an inviation at  _all_ , as far as he was concerned. Instead, he merely inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy and was  _most certainly_  pleased when she responded by losing herself very rapidly in the crowd of commoners she’d been so quick to disdain a moment earlier.

A few moments later, Varric bustled in and accepted the seat Isabela had saved for him, between her and Cullen. At first glance, the dwarf appeared to be wearing his same clothing, but a closer look proved the fabric was even finer, and the gold embroidery on his coat more lush. He hooked his thumbs in his belt as he sat and looked immensely proud of himself.

It was, Cullen thought, quite unnerving.

Isabela was not as easily unsettled, evidently. She nudged Varric hard enough with one elbow to send him bumping into Cullen’s side. “What,” she asked incisively, “has you looking so smug?”

“You wound me with your accusations, Rivaini. I’m merely… enjoying the day. A fine day to be enjoyed, don’t you think? Sun in the sky, birds in the trees—hey, even a little of that salt water you’re so blighted fond of on the breeze.”

She glowered, obviously unconvinced. Cullen felt momentarily bad about eavesdropping and then decided if they didn’t want to be overheard, they shouldn’t be sitting so close or speaking so loud. A man couldn’t help  _hearing_ , after all. He could hard turn his  _ears_  off.

“ _Insufferably_  smug,” Isabela amended, leaning down to stare Varric in the eyes and giving Cullen a most-distracting view in the meantime. He flushed his embarrassment, glancing toward the other side of the courtyard, and was glad both pirate and dwarf were too much occupied to make fun of him. Merrill was now flitting through the crowd, handing out flowers to all the children she passed. One or two spoke shyly to her, and though he couldn’t hear their words, he could appreciate the way the elf stopped for each one, crouching at their level heedless of her dress and taking time to answer whatever their questions might be. When Merrill ran out of flowers in her basket, she pulled one from her hair, and gave it to a particularly adorable little girl with a head full of bright red curls. The little girl, unabashed, lifted her chubby arms. A moment later Merrill picked her up and settled her on one hip, and then moved away, likely in an attempt to find the little one’s mother.

To his right, Isabela hissed, “You’re  _planning_  something. What are you planning? And why didn’t you  _tell_ me?”

Varric chortled. Cullen wasn’t entirely sure he’d have risked chortling at a woman who both sounded dangerously annoyed and was handily capable with the knives she doubtless still carried concealed in her confection of a dress. “All in good time. Don’t want to spoil the ending. No one likes it when you skip to the last page.”

“I  _always_  skip to the last page.”

Varric’s sigh was melodramatically morose. “You would, Rivaini. You would.”

“Tell me what’s on the last page, Fuzzy.”

“Never.”

“ _Varric_.”

“Patience, precious pirate. Patience.”

Isabela growled, “Patience, my arse. I am going to kill you.”

Cullen looked back just in time to see Varric reach out and capture Isabela’s hand in a brief squeeze. Her dark brows furrowed even further, but she didn’t pull away. Then he said, even more horrifyingly cheerfully, “Kill me and you’ll  _never_  know how it ends.”

“Please, no talk of killing, today of all days,” Aveline groaned, from Isabela’s other side. “This location is a defensive  _nightmare_  with all the windows and open spaces and—Maker’s breath, Varric, why  _do_  you look so unbearably pleased with yourself?”

Isabela, sensing an ally, brightened. “You know, big girl, if we work together I’m sure we could make him talk.”

Varric released Isabela’s hand and held both his up in mute surrender. “Some secrets go to the grave, and since Aveline’s put a ban on killing…”

“This isn’t over,” Isabela groused.

“No,” Varric said, pleased, “in fact, I believe it’s just about to begin.”

As if on cue, movement at the training yard’s East entrance caught Cullen’s eye; when he looked over it was to spy a nearly unrecognizable—if not for the hair, at least—Hawke, standing with Fenris and Amelle, Ser Kinnon hulking just to the side of them and Hawke’s mabari, whose  _actual_  name he was still entirely unsure of, sitting patiently, head cocked as if he knew perfectly well the importance and gravity of the moment. Tasia flitted about Hawke like a particularly determined hummingbird, adjusting the diaphanous skirts and smoothing them out before helping Hawke settle a cobweb-light veil into place over her head—which did nothing at all to diminish Hawke’s smile.

Fenris looked characteristically grave, but in a quietly pleased sort of way, and Cullen wondered how he’d come to learn such distinctions in the elf’s demeanor.  Amelle, on the other hand, wore not an ounce of gravity in her expression—he’d never seen her smile quite so wide, quite so bright as she leaned forward and whispered something in her sister’s ear.  As she withdrew, her expression suddenly and  _decidedly_ impish, Hawke punched her lightly on the arm and Cullen chuckled in spite of himself.

It was nice to know the world hadn’t gone  _so_  mad, hadn’t turned so horrifyingly upside-down, that moments such as this one couldn’t exist.  Indeed, the fact they were here at all like this was… reassuring.

Amelle then stepped away from her sister, smoothing out her own voluminous gown before tucking her arm into Fenris’.  With a final parting nod to Hawke, they walked together into the yard, the mabari trotting along on Amelle’s other side, coming to the bench where Cullen, Varric, and Isabela were sat.  Amelle slid in on Cullen’s other side, and Fenris settled on the end, with Cupcake (given Aveline’s moratorium on violence, perhaps “Killer” would not be the dog’s name today) sitting with amusingly appropriate sedateness; Fenris’ greeting came in the form of a silent nod before he turned his attention, not to the proceedings exactly, but to the placement of the guards stationed at various points around and above the yard.

“You clean up well,” whispered Amelle with a grin.  At this distance he saw the faintest touch of red around her eyes, but there was nothing of sadness in it.  “I’m glad Kiara talked you out of the heavy plate.”

“It feels…  _odd,_ ” he confessed.

“And tell me you aren’t just a little accustomed to  _odd_  by now.”

He had to admit, she had a point.

“Besides,” Amelle went on in a whisper, “this bench under the weight of all that silverite?  You’d have reduced it to splinters for sure.”

Before he could even  _think_  of a rejoinder, a man carrying an obviously old, but lovingly polished fiddle, walked in from the yard’s South gate, making his way easily through the crowd until he stood before them all, just outside the center circle.  It took a moment for Cullen to realize this was the very man who’d stood up in Hawke’s defense the day Jessamine had rained poisoned arrows down on the people of Starkhaven and called it justice.  The man who’d been wounded in the fracas, the man Amelle had healed.  _Joff_ , came the name, a little belatedly. Joff, the plain man in the plain clothes, who’d nearly died standing up against a darkness so very much larger than he. His clothes were not so plain today, having obviously come from the same tailor who’d visited Cullen.

Joff’s throat bobbed with a nervous swallow before he brought the fiddle up, resting his chin upon it and raising his bow to the strings.  What followed was a tune Cullen had not heard in more than a decade, not since he’d been a young, green recruit at Kinloch Hold, before the darkspawn, before Solona Amell’s death, before Loghain Mac Tir’s betrayal and before Uldred’s deceit. The song itself was a Fereldan folk tune, and though he’d long since forgotten the words, the melody pulled a torrent of memories forth, reminding him very forcefully of  _home_.  

He wondered if that was the reason behind choosing such a song to open a ceremony such as this—that Starkhaven would someday be as much home as Ferelden had ever been.

A moment later, the sweet, mournful sound of a tin whistle joined Joff’s fiddle, playing a completely different song that somehow wove in and out of his in harmonious counterpart. It was a tune Cullen did not recognize, but a quick glance around the courtyard showed many a pleased smile on the faces of the Starkhavenites. From the North entrance, a lovely red-headed woman walked, tin whistle at her lips, her dress fine and cut from the same cloth as Joff’s tunic. When she reached the middle, she and Joff faced each other, and the man’s face lit with a smile that rendered him anything but plain. The woman—his wife, Cullen presumed, and if the hair was anything to go by, perhaps the mother of the little one Merrill had earlier rescued—could hardly smile with her lips to her pipe, but her eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed with joy.

Beside him, Amelle heaved a happy little sigh. “I didn’t know about this,” she whispered. “It’s a lovely touch, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps not was the nobility was expecting,” Cullen agreed, tilting his chin in Lady Caddell’s direction. Amelle took one look at the woman’s sour expression and had to put a hand up to muffle her burst of laughter. Fenris shot them both a look, but even his lips were smiling.

Further conversation was stilled by the sudden hush of silence as the music stopped. Now Joff’s wife smiled, before nodding and lifting her instrument once again. This time she started, and a few moments later her husband’s fiddle joined in. Cullen glanced at Hawke. She stood alone now, chin raised proudly, every inch a vision of regal grandeur.

“Ahh,” Amelle murmured. “There he is.”

He followed her gaze and saw Sebastian at the far opposite end of the courtyard. Like Hawke, his finery was beyond compare, gold-embroidered white and finest leather, and a cloak that swirled about his ankles with every move he made. The gold band of his crown glinted in the sunlight, official now, with the coronation and conferment of title having taken place the day before. He wore it with the same casual ease that Cullen wore his templar plate; as if it were merely an extension of him. Perhaps it was, at that. 

The music lifted, shifted, soared, and though they were only two little instruments, the sound of their song filled the entire space. Someone nearby caught their breath. Cullen would’ve  _sworn_  it was Isabela, except he felt certain to call attention to it would end badly for him.

Instead of the ceremony Cullen was expecting, with Sebastian waiting at one end of a long aisle for his bride to come to him, the Prince of Starkhaven and the Champion of Kirkwall instead began, very slow, very stately, to walk toward each other. Neither outstripped the other.

“Oh,” Amelle breathed. “ _Oh._  This… this wasn’t the plan  _at all._ The wedding planner demons must be having a  _fit._ ”

She sounded entirely, entirely pleased. Cullen hazarded a look at the dwarf beside him. Varric looked as pleased as Amelle sounded.

He also, Cullen noted, did not look surprised.

Hawke and Sebastian met at the ring in the center of the yard, precisely at the same moment, and as they reached that point, the guard stepped away, perfectly in unison, perfectly synchronized, and moving unobtrusively in such a way that cleared a path through the onlookers.  The Revered Mother walked through the throng as if it had parted specifically for her—which, Cullen supposed, it had.  By her side was a little blond page he’d frequently spied trailing after Hawke with adoring eyes.  His expression just now was very serious, and his steps careful and determined.  In his hands he carried an ivory pillow.  As the page walked past, Cullen craned his neck to find the pillow was heavily embroidered—a long line of gold alongside a line of red split the pillow on the diagonal; one triangle of the pillow’s surface bore the Amell crest in deep red thread, with the Vael crest—and Cullen knew its image well enough simply from its presence in the palace—stitched in gleaming gold.

Coiled on the pillow was a length of red ribbon. 

Amelle’s breath caught.  From the corner of his eye, he saw her cover her mouth with one hand.  Fresh tears clung to her eyelashes but did not fall.  Fenris bent his head close to Amelle’s but though she waved a dismissive hand and shook her head, she tucked her left arm into his.  Nothing wrong, then.  Perhaps something very  _right_ , instead?

Cullen glanced again at Amelle, whose attention was positively riveted on the page and his pillow.  As he and the Revered Mother reached the center circle, she and the boy turned and she took the length of wide red ribbon up in her hands.  It uncoiled soundlessly, the ends catching the breeze and fluttering with it.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Cullen bent closer to Amelle.  “What are they—”

“Handfasting,” breathed Amelle, briskly dashing her tears away with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.  “Our mother and father were wed this way.  They… they couldn’t have a Chantry ceremony.” She smiled at him in a way that said she didn’t blame him, even though he was indelibly connected to the  _reason_  her parents couldn’t wed in the usual way.

“Old tradition,” Varric supplied helpfully. “Some say it predates the Chantry’s influence. Some say it was designed for those who couldn’t get themselves  _to_  a chantry. Not everyone—”

“Shh,” Isabela hissed. “They’re  _starting._ ”  From Cullen’s right the mabari chimed in with a distinctly reproachful-sounding  _woof_.

Cullen spared a brief chuckle for the pirate’s vehemence, to say nothing of Cupcake’s, and turned again to the tableau before him.

The murmuring in the crowd died instantly the moment Sebastian lifted his chin and parted his lips to speak. Cullen didn’t know if it was the acoustics of the space, or some trick of the delivery, but Sebastian’s voice seemed to carry to all the corners of the courtyard without him having to strain it. “My lady,” he said, “we once spent a memorable afternoon in this very courtyard. As I recall, you threw an archery match to win yourself a kiss.”

Placed, as he was, so near, Cullen heard her faint snort. “You’ve a remarkably selective memory, love,” she replied. Laughter rippled out at the comment, and Sebastian’s eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. “As I recall, you attempted to throw the match  _first_.”

“Rematch?” he murmured.

“That is  _not_  an archery gown,” came Tasia’s voice from the far side of the circle, vaguely strangled.

Hawke laughed, shooting a swift glance back at her maid. Her bright eyes echoed the laugh in her voice, and Cullen felt his own lips curving in response to the grin he could barely make out through the gauzy film of her veil. “And no one’s gambling for kisses and the Starkhaven longbow today, I assure you.”

The crowd tittered.

Sebastian continued, smiling, “It would, perhaps, make for a good tale if I said that afternoon, that wager and that kiss, was when I knew at last I loved you, but the truth is, I have loved you far longer. I think I have loved you since five minutes after you walked out of the Kirkwall Chantry that first time, all those years ago. Since then, I have loved you brave and loved you vulnerable, loved your passion and determination and kindness. For the longest time I believed that love unrequited, but it has never faltered, never ebbed, even though, for too long, it went unspoken.” He took his end of the red ribbon from Revered Mother Illona’s waiting grasp. Lifting Hawke’s hand, he circled the ribbon around her slender wrist three times and tied a shaking knot. 

“Weddings,” he continued, never lifting his gaze from hers—they might have an audience, but Sebastian was not playing to it—“are often about promises. They are about vows and oaths and binding.” He tilted his head and smiled a little wryly. “Vows and I have an uneasy history. As you well know. But it is not a vow to say I will love you all the rest of my days. It is not a promise to say I will do everything within my power to protect you and keep you and see that you laugh every day. It is not an oath to say I am already yours, body and soul, as long as you will have me.” He paused, swallowed, blinked. The faint shimmer of tears shone on his lashes, but when he spoke his voice was still sure and steady. “These are, heart of my heart and light of my life, merely truths, humbly offered.”

To his left, Cullen heard a very faint sniffle, followed by Varric, in a low voice, whispering, “Are you—are you crying, Rivaini? Maker’s hairy asscheeks, you are!”

“I am not,” Isabela hissed back. “I have something in my eye. Or I’m allergic to all these blighted hideous flowers.”

Varric chuckled. “And so it was,” he intoned with the gravity of a writer putting something down for posterity, “the bold and beautiful Rivaini pirate queen was brought to tears not by pain or injury, but by a wedding.”

“And so it was,” Isabela replied in an edgier version of the same tone, “the hairy little dwarf man never made it to that wedding’s reception because the definitely-not-crying Rivaini killed him and hid the body in Hawke’s third wardrobe, never to be found.”

Cullen, standing so close, felt the little spark of magic a moment before Isabela and Varric gasped identical horrified—and silencing—gasps. Amelle’s expression never changed. Except, perhaps, to slide into something even  _more_  butter-wouldn’t-melt innocent.

He decided to let the unauthorized use of magic pass. Just this once.

“Sorry,” he heard Hawke say. Cullen’s heart stuttered— _sorry for what?_ —and he immediately looked up, just in time to see her lift her own veil with her un-bound hand. “I—sorry. I want to  _see_  you for this part. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with the merchandise at this point. Some traditions are good ones. Others, frankly, are just strange.”

Again the crowd laughed. Still Sebastian’s eyes shone. Hawke reached for the other end of the ribbon. Even the Revered Mother was smiling now, Cullen noted, and the little boy at her side was practically bouncing his excitement, all his earlier gravity vanished. Shaking hair and veil back from her face, Hawke lifted her chin. She repeated the winding of the cloth around Sebastian’s wrist. Her hands didn’t shake quite so much as the prince’s, but it still took two tries to fix her knot. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to watch my parents together, laughing and talking and dancing. Sometimes they argued. Often things were unsettled. But through it all, they held tight to one another. I watched them, and I thought, were I to marry one day, I would not settle for any less than what I saw my parents have.” She gripped his hand with both of hers. “I don’t know if I loved you five minutes after I walked out of the Kirkwall Chantry that first time, all those years ago. I can, I am reliably told, be a bit dense when it comes to knowing my own feelings. What I do know is this: there is no one I would rather talk or dance or laugh—or, Maker, even  _argue_  with than you, and so it has been almost from that first moment. You are, and have always been—to put it in a way a certain mutual friend of ours might appreciate—my port in the storm. I wish only to be the same safe haven for you, to support when you need supporting, to push when you need pushing, and always, always to keep you safe and loved and comforted within the circle of my embrace.”

Isabela was certainly no longer the only one sniffling. Cullen swallowed past the thick knot of his own emotion.

The next words, Hawke and Sebastian spoke together, their eyes on each other, alone amidst the vast crowd surrounding and supporting them. “And so we bind ourselves together, hand to hand, heart to heart, life to life, and soul to soul. Freely, gladly, now and for always.” 

Cullen could not have said if Sebastian moved toward Hawke, or if Hawke closed the distance first, but a moment later Sebastian’s unbound hand found Hawke’s unveiled cheek, and Hawke’s free arm closed tightly around Sebastian’s waist. Their kiss seemed to mix sweetness and passion in equal measures. The assembled crowd clapped joyously, and the little page with his now-empty pillow jumped up and down and looked liable to start running in circles at any moment. Hawke and Sebastian pulled away from each other a few seconds later, but it took several more minutes for the crowd to calm. At which point, Revered Mother Illona cleared her throat and began, with somewhat more emotion than Cullen was accustomed to hearing in her voice, to speak the more familiar words of a traditional Chantry marriage. Hawke and Sebastian, still gazing rather moon-eyed at one another, had to be coaxed into giving their formal replies.

When that formality was over with, the couple kissed again, more chastely, and turned to face their people, red-bound hands lifted together in gesture both wave and salute, and their people roared their approval back. Cupcake’s joyous barks were nearly lost in the commotion, but as he bounded forward, mouth open and tongue lolling out, Tasia’s shriek cut through the din like a knife.

_“If you get dog hair on that dress—!”_

And then, as if suddenly remembering himself, the enormous mabari stopped in his tracks and dipped his head a moment, abashed, before recovering his dignity and padding forward, with all the grandeur a dog could possibly muster, to stand by the couple.  Cupcake’s eyes slid towards Tasia for a split second before he discreetly licked Hawke’s hand.

The palace guard that had cleared the way for the Revered Mother’s entrance remained at attention as Hawke and Sebastian walked together, hand in hand, out of the inner circle, and onward through the yard; a reception was planned inside the Great Hall for invited guests, but the celebration was hardly over for the rest of Starkhaven.  Long tables for food and drink had been set up in the early morning hours, the market square decorated with the same ribbons and flowers that festooned the practice yard—indeed, it was to be a day of revelry for all.   _We must start as we mean to go on,_  Hawke had said more than once, and this particular beginning was full to overflowing with inclusion, kindness, and generosity.

Once Hawke and Sebastian had left the courtyard, invited guests went in one direction, while the rest of the attendees and onlookers streamed out the other exits to continue the festivities elsewhere.  Tradition dictated Amelle, by virtue of being the bride’s sister and only blood kin, was to be the first to follow after the wedded couple, but rather than she and Fenris rising and making their way down the guard-flanked path, Amelle grabbed Cullen’s hand and gave a sharp tug, gesturing at him—and at Varric, Isabela, Aveline, Donnic, and Merrill—to join her.

“Amelle—” Cullen hissed.

“Chantry tradition says the bride and groom’s family follows.”  She grinned crookedly—at odds with the tears making her eyes overly bright, for all Cullen knew them to be happy tears.  “So what exactly are you waiting for?”

Even if Cullen wanted to argue—and part of him did, though he knew it would be fruitless—none of the rest of Hawke’s companions were remotely inclined to disagree (indeed, Isabela was already waxing on about sparkly Orlesian wine), and he felt himself jostled along by Varric and Isabela, Aveline’s badly suppressed chuckle behind them.

“ _So_ , kitten,” Isabela began from behind them, striding beside Varric as they all walked past the lines of guards, “big sister’s taken the plunge.  So when are you and Broody going to take that leap off the plank?”

Amelle’s cheeks turned pink; she covered her blush with a laugh, shaking her head and replying, “When you stop with the nautical metaphors, I imagine.”

“I could do that easier than you imagine, sweet thing.”

“Maker’s breath, Isabela, even when you’re not innuendoing, you’re  _still innuendoing_.”

“What can I say?  It’s a talent.  Now, about  _you and Fenris_ …”

Amelle’s complexion went an even deeper shade of pink, but before she could open her mouth to deliver retort or reply, Fenris turned his head enough to acknowledge Varric and Isabela, and said, with a decidedly pointed edge, “Perhaps some might do better to consider their own wedded state before interfering in the affairs of others.”

Isabela stumbled. Cullen, startled by the uncharacteristic lack of grace, nevertheless had a hand out to help her, should she require it. Varric, however, got there first, Isabela’s grasping fingers finding his sturdy arm. 

“No wonder you don’t wear dresses,” Varric said smoothly, as if nothing amiss had happened. Isabela ducked her head, the fall of her dark hair masking her face, but not before Cullen saw the heated blush infusing her cheeks. “So much easier to keep your feet with nothing to tangle between your legs.”

She lifted her chin and her blush slid sideways into a far more characteristic smirk. With more than even her usual dose of innuendo, she purred, “You can say that again, sweet thing.”

Amelle rolled her eyes. Fenris smiled a very private sort of smile. Isabela, Cullen noted, kept hold of Varric’s arm even after she’d regained her footing. And no one mentioned any nuptials but the most recent ones as they made their merry way inside.


	104. Chapter 104

After childhood, after Amelle’s magic blossomed, Kiara had never truly let herself imagine her own wedding. It was too remote a possibility. Oh, she had occasionally permitted herself daydreams of dancing until dawn on Lothering’s village green with some discreet village lad willing to accept her in spite of the magic in her family. Later, in Kirkwall, she’d allowed herself one or two painful fantasies of hosting a ceremony at the Hawke estate, though her choice of groom was rather problematic, as at the time the only candidate was sworn to rather inviolable vows. Never, ever, had she imagined something like this. Some dreams were too big even for the most overactive imaginations, and no one had ever accused her of dreaming small.

And yet, in the end, Kiara mused, though the details and trappings and—in this case—expense were vastly different, weddings were weddings. Like most, this one had music and dancing and food and drink. It also, of course, had infinitely more guests than she’d ever have thought to invite on her own. Maker, Lothering’s entire population could’ve fit in the Great Hall twice over and still left room for half of Gwaren on the dance floor. And if the drink was finer than any even available in Lothering, and the food comprised of dishes each more fanciful and delectable than the last, and the dancing rather more courtly than country jigs, the people who mattered were all present. From her table, Kiara had an excellent view of them.

As if this table were merely a transplant of his massive monstrosity at The Hanged Man, Varric sat at the head, Isabela beside him. The pirate was casting rather speculative glances at the silverware and the fine, filigreed candlesticks. Aveline, rosy-cheeked and smiling, nestled close to her husband, and Donnic, as always, gazed upon his wife with the moon-eyed wonder of a man who couldn’t quite believe his own good fortune. Even after all this time. Kiara cast a surreptitious glance at her own husband— _husband!_ —and found him already looking her way, expression fond and tinged with no small amount of his own wonderment. Reaching over, she squeezed his hand. Half the red ribbon that had bound them was still wrapped around his wrist; the other half curled around hers. His was embroidered with the Amell and Hawke crests, and hers with the Vael, and she thought, perhaps, it was the dearest accessory she’d ever owned.

Looking back to the table of her friends, she found Merrill in earnest conversation with a bemused-looking Cullen, while across the table Fenris bent his head to whisper into Amelle’s ear. Whatever he said made her sister smile, as bright and free and unfettered a smile as Kiara had ever seen. From this angle she couldn’t quite tell, but Kiara suspected they were holding hands under the tablecloth. With her free hand, Amelle snatched something from her plate and deftly slipped it beneath the table, where doubtless Cupcake was happily ensconced, fed by people well-trained to indulge him.

Kiara allowed herself a moment to think of the absent faces, the missing friends, but the grief did not linger. She imagined her parents, ever-elegant in movement, leading a dance. She imagined Carver pretending very hard not to enjoy himself. She even, for a moment, let herself picture Anders down at that table of laughing friends. Beside Varric, perhaps. She imagined not the Anders of the very end, but the one who’d patched her back together every time Amelle wasn’t there to do it, the one who laughed at her jokes and offered ones of his own, the one whom she’d called friend.

Her reverie was cut blessedly short by her husband— _husband!_ —leaning so close to her ear she could feel the sweet warmth of his breath on her cheek. “Dear heart,” he whispered, “ought I be worried?”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

With his free hand he reached across and tapped her wine glass. “You haven’t even _tasted_ it, and I assure you the vintage puts even Fenris’ Aggregio to shame.”

This startled a laugh from her so loud Amelle looked up from her table and smirked. She didn’t have to say _Inside voice, Kiri_ for Kiara to hear it loud and clear. Lifting the wine glass, she raised a silent toast to her little sister. Amelle echoed her gesture, and they sipped at the same time. It was, indeed, an exceptional vintage, but Kiara hardly tasted it. Weddings were weddings, and formalities were formalities, but that part would be over soon enough. And then? Then the _party_ would start.

Sebastian huffed a brief laugh, as if reading her thoughts, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Not content with this chaste little gesture, Kiara caught him before he could pull away and returned his kiss rather more forcefully. He grinned against her, but didn’t retreat. Imagining Lady Aileene’s horror at the _scandal_ of _kissing_ in _public_ , Kiara held tight to her husband a little longer than strictly decorous. 

Kiara knew she’d been truly successful at horrifying all the staid old guard when she heard an approving whistle so loud and piercing it could only belong to Isabela.

“You’re going to drive them all mad,” Sebastian whispered against her lips when she finally pulled away. He did not, she noted, sound entirely disapproving, and his eyes shone with amusement.

She grinned, pressing a final kiss to the tip of his nose. “That’s the plan, my love. That’s the plan.”

#

It had been a good day and was, as it happened, shaping up to be a lovely evening.  Her sister was married, positively glowing with happiness, and the festivities were such that if anybody wasn’t happy for the newlyweds, they were keeping it to themselves.  The day also hadn’t been interrupted, which had been Amelle’s most secret fear.  It was almost enough to make her forget their lives had ever been anything—could ever _be_ anything—less than entirely idyllic.

A cold nose nudged Amelle’s hand, pulling her from her reverie; she glanced down to spy a pair of plaintive dark eyes above a lolling tongue.  Cupcake was only too happy to take yet another sliver of perfectly roasted pheasant from Amelle’s fingers, giving her a hopelessly slobbery palm in return.  

“Beast,” she muttered on a laugh, scrubbing away the saliva with her napkin.  “We’re going to have to roll you out of here at this rate.”

“Wouldn’t happen if you weren’t feeding him under the table,” Aveline said, grinning.

“If I wasn’t feeding him under the table, somebody else would be,” Amelle riposted, sliding a look Fenris’ way.

Fenris paused, wineglass halfway to his lips, to send Amelle a look.  “You are mistaken.”

“Please,” she said, gently nudging Fenris’ shoulder with her own.  “Spero knows exactly who to go to, begging food in exchange for pathetic, wide-eyed looks.”

“Yes,” Fenris replied evenly.  “Your sister.”

This pulled another laugh from Amelle, and even Donnic was chuckling, but Aveline was looking between them both with a narrow gaze, like she’d never seen anything quite like them before.  

“Something amiss, Aveline?” Amelle asked.  As she spoke, Fenris’ fingers slid across her arm up to her wrist and she sent up silent thanks she hadn’t been taking a sip of wine just then.

But Aveline shook her head slowly, a faint, fond smile playing at her mouth.  “Just wondering how I hadn’t noticed this—” she nodded at the two of them, but it was clear enough what she was indicating, “before.”

“It is fair to say you were… otherwise occupied,” Fenris replied.  Aveline made a face.

“I think what my wife means,” Donnic interjected with a fond look at the woman in question, “is how Kirkwall’s notoriously incisive Guard Captain could manage to overlook something that— _now_ —is as plain as the nose on her face.”

“Don’t feel bad.  Kiara didn’t figure it out either.”  She sent a sidelong grin Fenris’ way.  “We out-rogued the rogues.”

“Not these rogues,” drawled Varric, jerking a thumb between himself and Isabela, who was likewise looking smug.  “Broody and Firefly didn’t put anything past us.  Why else do you think we had you collect all that firewood together?”

“And clear camping spots,” Isabela chimed in.

Varric nodded.  “Forage for breakfast.  Prep the horses.”

“Ugh,” Isabela groaned, rolling her eyes, “the _horses_.  Oh, and then there was the time you suggested they make dinner together, Fuzzy.  That was a nice one.”

“Gotta admit,” he said, buffing his nails against his shirt, “I felt inspired.  It was a pretty good stew, too. Seasoned liberally with unresolved sexual tension.”

Closing her eyes, Aveline shook her head.  “Did the two of you do _anything_ on the journey?”

“Of course they did.  Who do you think,” Amelle drawled, arching an eyebrow, “was in charge of suggesting nightly card games?”

“Somebody had to,” Isabela sniffed.  “It’s not as if _you two_ were going to suggest anything _fun._ ”

Beside her, Fenris bowed his head slowly, brow creasing in thought.  Then he lifted his gaze, took in their friends lining the table, and slanted an altogether pleasantly inscrutable look Amelle’s way.  After another moment Fenris stood, never relinquishing his hold on her hand.

“Fenris?” she murmured, amused and confused and, Maker, her breath still caught when his fingers were on her wrist, when he _looked_ at her that way.  “What are you doing?”

He tipped his head to the side, indicating the wedding guests at the opposite end of the hall, arranged in an intricate twist of what Amelle supposed to be the current Starkhaven dances.  “Is it not common practice to dance at a wedding?” He held her gaze for a long, promising moment before adding, “Is that not considered ‘fun’?”

Slowly, Amelle stood, her eyes searching Fenris’ face for any hint of jest.  But no, he was simply watching her in a way that made warmth prickle at the base of her scalp and bloom deep in her belly, which was _entirely inappropriate_ given the time and place. But once the warmth of his hand pressed against the small of her back, there was nowhere Amelle _wouldn’t_ have let Fenris lead her.  

Amelle turned her head, breathing a whisper into Fenris ear, trying—and failing—to feel gratified when he shivered.  “I should warn you I don’t know any of the dances they favor in Starkhaven.”   

“Nor do I,” he returned in a low tone.

“I might step on your toes,” she confessed.  

The corner of his mouth twitched and Amelle tamped down hard on the sudden, mad urge to kiss that very corner.  “Then it is lucky for both of us I am wearing shoes,” came his quiet reply.

“It could go badly, you know.  These shoes?  This dress?”  For as much as she loved the froth of skirts and the sheen of gold against her skin, it was all far, far more than she was used to.  “Maker’s breath, what if I _fall_?”

They were barely halfway across the hall when Fenris stopped and turned minutely, bringing the rough, warm fingers of his free hand up to rest beneath her chin, tipping her face until she was looking him in the eye.  What she saw there banished her uncertainty.

“If you fall, Amelle Hawke, I will never be so far away that I cannot catch you.”

Words momentarily stolen by his earnest intensity, Amelle leaned a little closer. His hand on her back tightened approvingly. “That’s all well and good, Fenris,” Amelle mused, the warmth of a blush heating her cheeks ever so slightly, and _oh, Maker_ what a challenge it was to keep herself from launching herself at that enticing smile, “except I’m pretty sure the weight of this gown could crush you.”

“Mmm.” The smile grew fractionally wider. In the language of Fenris’ expressions it meant he was infinitely more amused.

She held her skirts as wide as she could, and still it seemed fathoms of fabric swirled about her. “If I fall at the right angle, you’d suffocate before rescue could arrive.”

“I trust I’m agile enough to avoid the worst of the avalanche, should such occur.” He paused, tilting his head. “Do you not wish to dance?”

“Ahh. No. It’s—it’s not that. I suppose I… am so used to blending in. Or trying to. This is something altogether different.”

“And yet everyone here is aware you are a mage. Is there not some measure of relief in that?”

She sighed. “Magic won’t save me on the dance floor. More’s the pity.”

Another small change in the grammar of his smile turned the gesture a little… impish. “Then do not try to blend in. We’ll make our own dance.”

“Is this where you break out those mansion dances you teased Varric about?”

Heedless of the milling people and the eyes on them, he pulled her as close as her skirts would allow and bent his head to close the rest of the distance, his lips brushing her ear. “Who,” he murmured, low and thrilling, “said I was teasing?”

#

Aveline and Donnic soon followed in Amelle and Fenris’ footsteps, wandering off to the dance floor. After an interminable amount of ribbing, Isabela dragged Varric off to, in her words, check the lay of the land (Cullen decided he didn’t want to know), and Cullen found himself at the table with only Merrill and the mabari for company. Cupcake was curled in as small a ball as it was possible for a giant hound to make, keeping Merrill’s bare feet warm, while the elf, with several winding tangents on half a dozen different subjects, told him about Dalish ceremonies. Her eyes took on a strange, faraway gleam. A little melancholy, perhaps, which was why he found his mouth opening and the words, “Wouldn’t you like to dance?” falling out.

“Oh,” she said, blinking at him. Longingly, she gazed out toward the dancing. Beneath the weight of the dog, he was certain her foot tapped along with the beat. “Everyone’s busy. Varric said he might, later.”

Cullen flushed a little, and wished he still had food on his plate to distract him. He turned to the half-drunk glass of wine instead. He was mid-sip when Merrill laughed and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Creators. You weren’t asking me were you?”

“Ah.” He choked a little on the wine. “I only—you needn’t feel obligated—”

“You’re allowed? You all seem so… well, you know.” She waved, taking him in. He wondered then how she saw him—staid and stern and disapproving of her very existence? He found himself thinking of Solona Amell, then, laughing Solona who’d sometimes looked at him like he wasn’t just staid and stern and disapproving of her very existence. With the hand she’d used to wave, she reached over and patted him on the back of his hand. “Of course. If you’re allowed. You needn’t, you know, if it’s only to make me feel better. Cupcake and I are good friends, after all.”

It seemed needlessly hurtful to ask why she’d always been the one left to keep the mabari company, so he rose to his feet. When she lifted her hand to wave him a goodbye, he captured her hand in his and said, “I daresay the hound will manage well enough on his own for a turn or two. There are plates for him to scour, if nothing else.”  

Cupcake’s agreeable bark made the silver on the table clatter.  Merrill blinked once, down near the vicinity of her knees, then looked up again, her expression far brighter than it had been a moment before.  “Well.  _He_ seems to agree with you, in any case.  I don’t suppose it could hurt, provided you’re sure you’re allowed.”  She wiggled bare toes against the floor.  “And provided you don’t step on my feet.  That might hurt as well.”

“I am confident we’ll not be struck down by lightning for attempting a turn around the floor,” Cullen replied, offering Merrill his arm.  Her lingering hesitation lasted no more than seconds before she pushed away whatever concerns she might have had about leaving the dog alone, to say nothing of Cullen’s vows and how dancing related to them, and slid her arm into his.  He knew precisely none of the dances most of Hawke’s guests were engaged with, but that hadn’t stopped Amelle and Fenris, or Aveline and Donnic, and Cullen had by now learned that oftentimes being a part of Hawke’s family— _family,_ he hadn’t dared think that word prior to this point, prior to… Cullen hadn’t thought that word at all prior to his posting at Kinloch Hold; so strange it should come so naturally to him now—went hand in hand with not belonging somewhere else.

As he settled a hand on Merrill’s waist, Cullen saw Hawke’s enormous mabari from the corner of his eye, huge front paws planted on the table as he voraciously licked clean every remaining plate.  

And there was Hawke, doing a very poor job of _not_ laughing at the sight.

#

“It looks like Cupcake’s having a good time.”

Amelle’s whisper was warm against Fenris’ ear, such that he shivered, and the next breath—this time of laughter—told him she’d done it entirely on purpose.  He stole a glance at the dog, who was being coaxed away from the table by a manservant offering a soupbone roughly the size of a femur.  The mabari’s head came up at the sight, ears pricking and his short stump of a tail wagging excitedly before he reared up—the table jostled back into place with a heavy thump as wineglasses wobbled precariously without tumbling—and bounded over to the manservant, who clearly had not thought things through to that particular point, for he tossed the enormous bone at the dog and backed away as if he’d narrowly missed his own leg being put on the hound’s dinner menu.

“Do you suppose they’ll grow accustomed to him?” Fenris asked as they moved—Amelle was a better dancer than she’d given herself credit for, and the longer they moved together, the more confident she became.  Her hand no longer gripped his shoulder or clenched around his own, and she’d long since stopped sneaking glances at their feet.  Confidence suited her, and Fenris was not the only one to think so; the younger Hawke was the object of several looks on the dance floor, many of them openly admiring.  Amelle had, however, noticed none of them.

“I don’t suppose they’ve got much choice,” she murmured, flashing him a dimpled smile.  “He’s probably got a title now and everything—Royal Mabari to the Princess of Starkhaven—because I doubt anybody’s going to be able to call him ‘Cupcake’ with a straight face.”

The dog in question now had the bone braced between his giant paws and was gnawing determinedly on it, tearing away tendon and sinew, the abandoned dinner plates long forgotten.

“I believe,” said a familiar voice at Fenris’ shoulder, “it’s Lord Cupcake, Master of the Dinner Scraps. And woe to any who snicker at the majestic hound’s given name.”

The very tips of her toes trod on Fenris’ foot as they stopped mid-step to find Sebastian smiling behind Fenris, Hawke at his side. Amelle’s sister was gazing fondly after the mabari in question, but the entirety of Sebastian’s attention was focused on Amelle. He inclined his head, smiling. “I wonder if my new sister might permit me the next.”

“Oh,” Amelle said, a blush coloring her cheeks as she stole a glance Fenris’ way, her eyes darting down uncertainly to his feet before turning an apologetic grimace back to Sebastian. “Well.”  She scuffed her foot, gently bumping the toe of his boot. “I. Well. I’m not really very—”

Hawke waved airily. “Trust me, he knows the steps well enough you’ll think you were born dancing. It’s quite the experience, really.”

“You flatter me, my own one.” But he said it fondly, and when Fenris took a moment to look at the two of them—to _truly look_ —he realized he had never seen either of these particular friends so thoroughly happy.  Happiness of any sort had proven elusive for Hawke for so many of the years he’d known her; that she was in possession of such now was… reassuring.

“What do you say, Fenris?” Hawke asked, with a little smirk, though her cheeks still glowed pink with either wine or joy. He suspected the latter; at the table she’d recently vacated, her abandoned glass was still almost entirely full. “Shall you and I find a terrifically expensive bottle and demolish it? We are both, I think, entirely too sober for an affair such as this one, and I’ve got money on Isabela and Varric trying to start a card game before the night is through.”

“At your… wedding?” Amelle choked. “They—well, they _would_ , I suppose. Even if they shouldn’t.”

“When has ‘shouldn’t’ ever stopped Isabela?” Hawke replied, though she was grinning, and Fenris began to suspect perhaps the idea hadn’t been entirely _only_ Isabela’s. He knew Hawke’s expressions well enough to surmise she was as interested in shaking up the staid status quo as certain pirates of their acquaintance.

But Amelle still looked somewhat ill at ease, and given her initial reluctance to come dance with him, Fenris did not imagine for a moment she was displeased at the prospect of being left in her new brother’s company.  

“Amelle?” Fenris asked quietly, reading her hesitance and sliding a hand to the small of her back; warmth rushed over him when she tipped her head up and smiled.

Amelle squeezed his hand. “Fear only for the prince of Starkhaven’s feet.”  And then she read _his_ reluctance with such ease it surprised him. “Oh, go on,” she said, her smile warming into a grin. “Look at Kiara’s eyes. It must be quite the bottle she’s got hidden away.”

“Quite the bottle!” Hawke crowed. “You don’t know the half of it. Why, the vintage—”

“Would be entirely lost on me, I’m sure,” Amelle murmured. “I think I’ll take the dancing.”

“More for me. And Fenris.” Hawke made a face. “And probably Isabela. She has the most alarming knack of showing up _just_ as the good stuff comes out. And then she doesn’t ever rave over it as much as she should.”

Sebastian dropped a kiss on Hawke’s temple, “I think she does it purely to spite you. Her taste does trend quite fine, after all. Just remember those Hercinian gowns.”

Hawke let out such a laugh half a dozen nearby guests turned to cast shocked expressions her way, only to hide them the instant they realized the source. “But did you notice she had her parasol outside today? A fine gift.”

“Um,” Amelle said, “very… ruffled. Also… uh, _very_ pink.”

“Just you wait until _your_ next birthday.” Hawke waggled her eyebrows at Amelle in a very alarming manner. Sebastian chuckled before bowing slightly to Amelle and offering his hand; Amelle’s fingers tightened around his own, briefly, before she let Sebastian lead her off. Fenris didn’t miss the way the crowd parted soundlessly for them as Sebastian led Amelle to a better spot, nearer the musicians. Nor did Fenris, as he and Hawke turned, miss the way the crowd parted just as effortlessly for them. Unlike when he and Amelle had been moving through not-quite-the-right-steps, no one came too close.

“What do you say, old friend?” Hawke asked, linking arms with him. “Shall we find that bottle?”

“Indeed,” Fenris replied. “And see how long it takes Isabela to find us, afterward.”

“My bet’s ten minutes.”

“I,” he said, “give her five.”

#

“So all this fuss is nearly over,” Amelle said, sending Sebastian a conspiratorial grin as he guided his new sister into another pattern of steps; she followed his lead with scarcely a stutter.  “Relieved?”

Sebastian glanced around them, then tipped his head forward, lowering his voice, likewise conspiratorially.  “I’ve no idea what you mean, Amelle.  I’m sure I’ll miss the endless talk of flowers and colors and bunting and your sister’s increasingly inventive attempts to… avoid those very matters.”

“Avoid,” she echoed quietly, tilting her head.  “That’s probably the most diplomatic way I’ve heard it put.”

“Mm,” he replied, shooting a knowing look Amelle’s way, “especially since my sources told me you were hiding together.”

Amelle’s own expression turned to one of instant and entirely unbelievable guilelessness.  “Sebastian Vael,” she gasped, eyes widening in mock affront, “I am shocked and appalled you’d accuse me of assisting my sister in avoiding that gaggle of over-perfumed harpies.”

“A thousand apologies,” he replied archly, inclining his head.  “I did not intend to cast aspersions on your character, sister.”

But then there _was_ a stutter in Amelle’s steps, her breath catching in a tiny gasp as she blinked up at him, too startled for her reaction to be anything but genuine. Sebastian’s own surprised twisted into alarm when he realized Amelle’s eyes were bright with tears.  He slowed their dance, preparatory to stopping entirely, but Amelle squeezed his hand tightly and gave a brief shake of her head.

“No,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically thick.  “No, it’s all right.”  His skepticism must have shown, for Amelle sent him a tremulous smile, pleased and yet sheepish at the same time.  “I suppose it’s silly.  It only just hit me.  I… _am_ your sister now.”

“Aye,” Sebastian replied, breathing a short laugh of his own.  “And I, your brother.”

“I’m glad.”

“Well, that is a relief, as I suspect it’s a bit late to undo the damage.”

Amelle let out a more muted version of one of Kiara’s sharp barks of laughter and shook her head. “It was… it was a beautiful ceremony,” she said after a few turns, her voluminous skirts swirling out gently one way, and then the other.

Sebastian smiled softly. “I daresay she will never admit to it, but your sister’s sentimental streak is prodigious.”

Her smile going crooked, Amelle looked up at him. “Yes, because it’s _such_ a secret to anyone who knows her.”

“You wouldn’t shatter her illusions, would you?”

“Perish the thought, brother.” Amelle gestured with her chin in the direction Kiara had disappeared. “It was… her idea, then?”

“For the most part, yes, though one I was happy to accede to. Some traditions must always be acknowledged—for the sake of those over-perfumed harpies, as you say—but others… there is room for more than tradition has known before us, we hope.”

Amelle grinned as he spun her out, changed his grip, and pulled her back again. “In more ways than one, I suppose.”

“In many more ways that one.” The pace of the dance shifted, and Sebastian, effortlessly, changed along with it. Amelle, to her credit, added a little skip to her step and fell immediately back in position. Her exhale was a little breathless. “I—we, really—do hope you’ll lend some of your experience.”

“As a mage?”

“Partly. Also as a sister. As… an observer. I think, perhaps, younger siblings often see things their elder ones do not.” He shrugged, and then bowed as their dance came to an end. Another began and he raised his eyebrows in question, but she shook her head, already looking to where Kiara and Fenris had gone. “It is not always comfortable in the shadow an elder sibling casts,” he said, tucking her arm close to his and managing to guide them from the dance floor without looking as though they were fleeing it. “And though your sister has a keen eye for many things, and an even keener edge when it comes to dealing with people, she cannot see everything. Nor can I, nor you. I hope… my dearest hope is that all those lessons we learned tromping around slaying dragons and giant spiders—” Amelle shuddered. “—Can be put to good use here.”

“You think your nobles are dragons?”

He chuckled, whispering close to her ear, “Indeed, with their plots and plans and webs, I think they are closer to the giant spiders.”

She blinked at him once, as if not quite comprehending his words, and then she raised a hand to hide her giggle. “I always was particularly good at taking out the giant spiders.”

“Yes, well, I do believe it’s because you were _terrified_ of them.”

Those laughing eyes narrowed. “Was not.”

“Please, Amelle. Your feelings about giant spiders are as well known as your feelings about regular baths. Though they fall on rather opposite ends of the love-hate spectrum.”

She dropped her hand, but was still smiling broadly. “I’m going to assume you don’t actually want me to burn them with fire and smite them with lightning and then freeze the remains _just_ to make sure they’re _definitely dead._ ”

“We’ll attempt to refrain from carnage. Though I reserve the right to change my mind.”

“Sebastian,” she said, touching her fingertips to the bare skin of his hand, her smile shifting and changing, becoming more subtle. “I am so… so very happy for you.”

He bent his neck and pressed a brotherly kiss to the top of her head. “And I for you, Amelle. Most sincerely. Now, I must claim my wife for a final tour of the room, and then I daresay we’ll join you wherever she’s sent Fenris and that excellent bottle of wine.”

“You’re leaving so soon?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Privilege of rank, as I once told your sister. Once the duty is done, I may leave and choose to spent the evening in… a less public manner. And in finer company. Less—” he waved absently, taking in the grandeur, the excess, the noise, the gossip.

“Spiders?”

“Indeed.” He laughed. “Fewer spiders.”

#

The scene upon entering Sebastian’s study reminded Amelle powerfully of the last time they’d all gathered here.  Kiara had clearly put the word out already, for Amelle and Sebastian were the last to arrive.  Cullen, Kinnon, and Donnic were maneuvering a large table to stand by the fire, while Tasia and Merrill moved chairs.  Aveline stood with Isabela; the unamused look Aveline wore, coupled with Isabela’s most guileless (and usually very full of guile anyway) smile told Amelle they were in deep conversation regarding the deck of cards in Isabela’s hand at that moment.  Varric stood by the fire, Cupcake curled by his feet and a glass of what looked a great deal like Starkhaven’s finest in hand, watching them all, as if committing the scene to memory that he might record it later for posterity.

At the far end of the room, however, sat her sister and Fenris, wineglasses in hand, their heads bowed in deep conference.  So deep, in fact, they neither of them noticed Amelle and Sebastian had entered the room at all until Sebastian rather pointedly cleared his throat.  When they both looked up, though, their reactions couldn’t have been more different.  Kiara’s smile was instant, wide, and dangerously smug.  Fenris, on the other hand, appeared as discomfited as Amelle had ever seen him, and—was that a tinge of color at his cheeks?  Amelle’s gaze—eyes narrowed now—slid back to her sister, but before she could say anything at all, the new Princess of Starkhaven got to her feet with enviable ease and swept forward, pressing a kiss to Amelle’s cheek before taking her husband’s arm in hers.

“Just in time, Mely.”

“Just in time for what?” Amelle asked, taking no pains to hide her suspicion.

“Cards, of course!” Kiara replied, still smiling.

Another glance at Fenris revealed him to have schooled his own expression back to something far more natural and neutral, but for the hint of color that would not fade.  Amelle looked back at her sister.  “What did you do, Kiri?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Kiara answered earnestly.  “I got married, organized a card game, found a _terrifically_ expensive bottle in the cellar—one Fenris and I haven’t quite managed to finish.  I told him I think you should share the last of it with him.  That’s the only way you’ll learn to appreciate the finer vintages, Mely—let someone share them with you.”

That all sounded far too… wise and metaphorical for Kiara, and Amelle narrowed her eyes anew.

“Maker’s balls,” Kiara huffed.  “My own sister—my _baby sister_ — giving me such a look on my wedding day.  What would Lady Caddell say?”

“That depends,” piped up Kinnon from across the room, “if she’d been smited or not.”  

To Kinnon’s right, Cullen—rather surprisingly—did not go beet red.  He merely bowed his head, shaking it with a rueful chuckle.  “I am fairly certain it’s ‘smote.’”

“A debate for the ages,” Kiara remarked, not unkindly, her smile quirking into a grin.

“Speaking of ages,” Sebastian reminded her gently, “we’ll never get back here if we don’t go make our farewells now, dear one.”

Kiara sighed. “Must we?”

“We must.” Sebastian bent and pressed a kiss to Kiara’s temple. “It will be over before you know it, and I’ll have someone rescue another bottle or two of that wine from the cellar for when we get back.”

“Ahh, you do know the way to a girl’s heart, Sebastian Vael.”

“I thought it was weaponry,” he murmured.

“Wine will do in a pinch,” she insisted. “Though a new bow never hurts.”

Fenris chuckled. “Do you not already have a dozen, Hawke?”

Varric, sipping from his tumbler, raised his brows. “And can we still call you Hawke, Hawke?”

“You can’t call me Vael,” Kiara said. “So I suppose Hawke’ll have to stand. Maker knows I don’t want to give you all fits by asking you to use my given name after all this time. It’s three whole syllables, after all. Enough to exhaust a person.”

“Hawke,” Sebastian purred, dragging the single syllable to thrice its usual length. “You are stalling.”

Kiara made a face. “Of course I am. I’ve thus far managed to avoid exchanging so much as a word with Aileene Caddell, and now my favorite holy-power-wielding bodyguard isn’t even in the room.”

“Why should you be afraid of her, though, Hawke?” Merrill asked, head tilted and braids dancing. “Aren’t you—well, you’re the _princess_ now. Shouldn’t she _have_ to listen to you?”

Kiara snorted a very unprincesslike laugh, and raised her hand to cover her mouth too late to cover it. Amelle didn’t miss the way her sister’s eyes shone. “You know, Merrill? You are completely right. Aileene Caddell should be so lucky, should I decide to grace her with Our presence.”

“Maker preserve us,” Sebastian said, offering Kiara his arm. “We’ve created a monster. One who uses the royal We.”

Kiara tilted her chin imperiously, and gazed down her nose in what Amelle thought was a truly prodigious impression of Lady Caddell. “We are not amused, Prince Sebastian. We are not amused at all.”

“ _We_ are,” Varric said, chuckling. “Have to say you win this one, Rivaini.”

“What was the bet _now_?” Amelle groaned.

“How fast the power would go to her head,” Isabela quipped.

Amelle gaped in false-horror. “And I wasn’t _included_ in this bet? I’d’ve put a sovereign on _instantly_.”  From his spot in front of the fire, Cupcake lifted his head and let out a bark, clearly objecting to such aspersions being cast upon his human.

“Hey,” Kiara protested, laughing.

Varric raised his brows and then lifted his glass in a subtle toast. “And that’s why we didn’t include you in the bet, Firefly.”

Kiara and Sebastian left the room, and Amelle privately thought it nothing short of a miracle that Kiara’s skirts fit through the door at all.  Breathing a contented sigh that the day’s madness was very nearly over, she sat upon the couch next to Fenris.

“I understand there’s enough left in that bottle for me to have a sip.  At least,” she amended, “I’m pretty sure that was the gist, however hidden under metaphor it was.”

Fenris’ answering smile was small and private as he inclined his head and poured what remained of the bottle into a delicate glass.  She took it, pressing a kiss to his cheek as thanks, and touched her glass to his.

“She seemed to think you would enjoy it.”

Amelle breathed in the aroma coming off the glass and took a small, experimental sip.  Then another, less experimental sip.  “It appears she was right.”  She pulled a face and looked at Fenris, saying, “Maker, we’re going to have to tell her she was right, aren’t we?”

“It has been my experience that is knowledge Hawke discovers for herself more often than not.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t try to hide it from her.”

“Just so.”

“And _speaking_ of people not trying to hide things from other people—”  The hint of color returned to Fenris’ face, much to Amelle’s amazement.  “What _were_ you and my sister talking about that had you both looking so bloody guilty?”

Discomfiture shifted swiftly to something else, some close kin to annoyance, perhaps—though for as often as Fenris wore that particular expression, something about it didn’t quite fit.  After a moment, he shook his head.  “Hawke is… Hawke,” he said finally, as if such a statement could answer anything.  That said, in Amelle’s experience, that was usually true.

“Teasing you, then,” Amelle said, for she’d already guessed as much.

Another hesitation. “Perhaps.”

“And I believe I can guess,” she drawled, taking another sip of what was turning out to be a most excellent wine, “at the subject matter.”  She raised a pointed eyebrow.  Fenris’ expression betrayed nothing, but that didn’t mean Amelle couldn’t read it anyway.  The corner of her mouth kicked up in a grin as she leaned close, saying, “If I might be permitted to paraphrase a certain elf?”

“Of course.”

“My nosy, meddling sister be damned—the rest will be _our_ decision.”

#

“Funny, isn’t it?”

Cullen looked up to see Ser Kinnon shooting him a crooked grin.  “I’m sorry?”

The knight nodded at Amelle and Fenris, engrossed in a conversation that appeared as deep as the one he’d been in with Hawke earlier.  The difference was that Fenris was smiling—well, as much as he ever smiled, in any event.  “He barely says a word to anyone in the practice yard, but when he does, be certain the men listen.  He can be bloody intimidating with a sword in his hands—intimidating even without.”

“Intimidating, unless you happen to be Amelle Hawke,” Cullen supplied.

Kinnon chuckled. “I’m not sure the Hawke ladies know the meaning of intimidation, actually. They only ever seem to get their feathers ruffled, and woe betide the poor fool whose plans to intimidate so spectacularly backfire.”

Cullen echoed the other man’s laugh. “You make a fair point, Ser Kinnon. It’s as if _being_ intimidated never really crosses their minds, and so on they go, doing the impossible because they haven’t realized they weren’t meant to be allowed to. It’s a certain kind of bravery, of self-reliance, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t have the strange effect of inspiring the same in others around them. It’s a rare quality.”

They were interrupted by Isabela’s throaty laugh, and when Cullen turned, he saw the pirate and Tasia in conversation, light head and dark bent together. He didn’t miss the way Kinnon’s gaze turned immediately to the fair and lingered. Isabela laughed again, and spoke something into Tasia’s ear. The maid glanced toward them, her lips turning up in the faintest smirk.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Kinnon asked. Cullen wondered if the man realized just how much longing came through in voice and demeanor, but decided not to draw attention to it. The poor fellow had it bad enough without making him self-conscious.

“I daresay Isabela’s teasing her,” Cullen said lightly. “Or flirting. Or both.”

Mournfully, Kinnon said, “She looks like she’s enjoying it.”

“Isabela is a rather accomplished flirt.” Cullen leaned back a little in his chair, swirling the untouched alcohol in the glass Isabela had earlier pressed upon him. “Though I think it is a little like a game.”

Kinnon’s brow furrowed. “She’s leading Tasia on, then?”

Cullen said, “Ser Kinnon, do you honestly think Tasia’s the type to be _led_?”

“Of course not!” Kinnon protested, gesturing weakly with empty hands. “It’s only… it’s only I wouldn’t like to see Tasia’s feelings hurt.”

The ladies laughed again, both of them this time, and Tasia leaned up on her toes and whispered something in Isabela’s ear, hiding her lips behind her hand. Kinnon’s cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t look away. Cullen, smiling faintly, remembered all too well the misery of loving from afar someone he’d deemed beyond his station, and though he knew he’d have never listened to the most well-meaning of advice then, he couldn’t quite stop himself from offering some now. “You might go speak with her yourself, you know.”

Kinnon shook his head, and tore his gaze from the gossiping ladies. “It’s not—you don’t understand, Ser Cullen. Begging your pardon. Perhaps I’m her favorite resident buffoon, but she’s _Tasia_.”

“Far be it from me to interfere, Ser Kinnon, but I’d suggest taking a page from the book of the Hawke ladies on this one.”

Kinnon’s shoulders slumped. “Would it were that easy.”

Cullen took a sip of the fine liquor, held it a moment on his tongue, and then let the warmth trickle down his throat. “An event happened today. A rather significant one, I believe. A wedding? Perhaps you recall it?”

Kinnon’s eyes narrowed. “I was there.”

“Mmm,” Cullen murmured. “And I was in Kirkwall when Kiara Hawke was no more than a guttersnipe Fereldan refugee. Today she became Princess of Starkhaven. At some point, I think she must have decided she could be more than the world told her she was.” He paused, gesturing toward the chaise where Amelle and Fenris still spoke quietly together over their wine. Fenris gave a low laugh; Amelle echoed it, her shoulder pressed to his. They made the very picture of ease and intimacy. “As I understand it, Fenris was rather vociferously opposed to magic in any and all forms for no small period of time, and yet there he sits, as happy as I’ve ever seen him, and in the company of a mage. Faint heart never won fair maid, Ser Kinnon.”

The knight’s brow creased into a pensive frown that lasted all of perhaps five seconds before he gave a determined nod and pushed out of his seat, making his way to Tasia and Isabela; the latter, at least, didn’t look at all surprised at the development.

“You’re fitting in well here, Knight-Captain.”

He turned to correct the speaker—he truly didn’t know _what_ his new title was now, short of _Private Templar Bodyguard to the Royal Healer,_ which was a bit of a mouthful, but calling himself _Amelle Hawke’s Keeper_ had earned him a threatening look and the promise of fireballs raining down on his head—but when he found Aveline sitting next to him wearing an arch smile, he only breathed a rueful chuckle and shook his head.  “I’d correct you on that front, but I suspect you already heard the story.”

“Correct me on which front?” she asked, propping an elbow on the table.  “Your title, or whether you’re settling in?”

“The former.”

Her shoulder lifted in a minute shrug.  “Might’ve heard something.”  Aveline’s expression turned shrewd then, which was far more familiar ground for Cullen.  “Might’ve heard a few things.”

Lifting his glass, Cullen took another small sip, savoring a moment before swallowing.  “I can only imagine.”

“It’s not often I’m wrong when I take the measure of a man.”  She lifted her chin.  “And when I am wrong, I admit it.”  Aveline’s eyes flicked back toward Amelle for the briefest moment before settling on Cullen again.  “I may have been wrong about you, Knight-C—Cullen.  Cullen. I may have been wrong about you.”

It perhaps wasn’t the most effusive of statements, and it only toed the line of apology, but Cullen appreciated the gesture nonetheless.  He inclined his head, touching his glass to Aveline’s.  “Given your, ah, past experiences, I doubt I can blame you your mistrust.”

“They’re like sisters to me.”  Her lips twitched as she suppressed her smile.  Then, reaching down to give Cupcake a brief scratch behind the ears, went on to add,  “A pair of bossy, troublesome sisters who can find a scrape without even trying, but… sisters.”  Then a flicker of sadness settled in Aveline’s eyes, but only a flicker, and the guard captain sat up a little straighter, as if to banish the emotion.  “You’ll watch over them.”

“I rather doubt Hawke needs me in that capacity, you know.”

She breathed a short bark of laughter. “Take it from someone who knows better—she will.”

“And you?” he asked. “Not tempted to… relocate? Hawke seems content to find positions for all her acquaintance.”

She laughed again. “And leave Varric and Isabela to their devices with no one to check them? Better not. They’d undo all my hard work and progress in a fortnight. And someone must look out for Merrill, especially if she intends to keep on with the clinic. It’s awfully visible a position for her.”

“Merrill tells me she’s to live at the estate? She says Hawke asked her to take care of the plants.”

“All the more reason for me to keep an eye on her. She’ll leave the door unlocked and be robbed blind within a week.” Aveline glanced toward her husband. Donnic was laughing with Varric, one hand actually clutched to his belly in mirth. “I was married to a templar, you know. Believe it or not, I have a great deal of esteem for your Order. For years I watched as Meredith ground the city beneath her iron-shod foot. I used to imagine what Wesley would say. I used to imagine what Wesley would _do_. Fight, I thought. Stand between the wicked and the innocent. Be a shield.” She shook her head sadly. “He was always too good a shield. And now I am married to a guardsman. A different shield, perhaps, but a shield nonetheless. Donnic—Donnic is a Kirkwaller, through and through. I think, perhaps, I’m nearly one myself. Kirkwall needs a shield, Ser Cullen. I’d like to believe I’ve made a small difference, these past years. I’d like to believe I can continue to do so, in the years to come, no matter what turmoil they bring.”

“I’d like to believe someone with foresight would name you Viscount, Ser Aveline.”

She snorted. “I’ve no wish for that honor, ser.”

“Perhaps that is why you’d be the best for the position. You are not wrong, after all. Meredith was a blight, and was permitted to be for far too long. Kirkwall’s power vacuum cannot continue in the manner it has. Someone must stand.” Cullen smiled. “Someone must be that shield.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” she murmured, though not unkindly. “I don’t see you volunteering.”

He gestured mildly toward Amelle. “I am a much smaller shield.”

“No less important, I daresay, for all that,” Aveline said. Then she sighed. “To answer your question, though, no, I am not tempted to remain here. I will miss them—Maker, but I’ll miss them—but they will always be my family. My sweet sisters who made a Blight and flight and poverty bearable with their laughter and their love. And Kirkwall is not, in the end, so very far away.”

The low hum of conversation was broken with the sound of Isabela slapping a deck of cards on the table and dropping into a chair, making an aborted movement to swing her feet up on the table, suddenly remembering she wasn’t wearing clothing that allowed for that particular brand of ease of movement. She made a face but remained seated.  “Lucky,” she said, addressing Kinnon, who until that moment had been deep in conversation with Tasia, “bring us a fresh bottle of the good stuff.  Let’s see if we can’t get a few hands in before Hawke turns up.”

“Before she turns up to catch you out when you try to cheat, you mean?” Amelle asked mildly as Fenris rose, offering her his hand.  She accepted it with a grateful smile and the two approached the table, Amelle sitting on Cullen’s other side, and Fenris sitting next to Amelle.  The mabari pushed to his feet, gave a stretch, and resettled himself against Amelle’s slippered feet. 

“You wound me, kitten,” Isabela replied, picking up her deck with a flourish and shuffling them.

“She won’t, but I might,” Aveline said, shooting Isabela a warning look.  “If we’re starting without Hawke, I’ll only play a hand Varric deals.”

The pirate snorted, turning an almost accusatory look Varric’s way.  “Why have they all got the idea you’re honest when you deal?”

“All part of being a reliable narrator, Rivaini,” replied Varric smoothly as he downed the last of his drink and slid into the chair next to Isabela.  While Isabela protested loudly that she too was _perfectly reliable, thank you very much,_ Varric pulled a brand new deck of cards from one of his coat’s inner pockets, and began to shuffle.  Across the room, Ser Kinnon was—with Tasia’s assistance, Cullen noted—searching through an open cabinet.  Bottles clinked as the two rummaged; Kinnon withdrew another bottle of Starkhaven’s most famous export, while Tasia came away from the cabinet cradling a dark green bottle, which she set in front of Fenris with a knowing smile.  The elf inclined his head and pulled the bottle closer, prying off the wax seal with a thumbnail.

Varric dealt the cards as drinks were poured and Cullen could not help but notice the difference in atmosphere from the last time they’d all gathered here.  Then, the room had been full of people who’d needed to heal, to remind themselves that life did not have to be rife with pain and difficult decisions, people who’d needed to be reminded what _living_ felt like.  Tonight, it was not reassurance and companionship they all needed, but… something different, and yet no less important: quiet intimacy among friends.

#

“You’re the cheatingest cheater who ever cheated!” Kiara cried, launching herself most of the way across the table but still falling a little short of her mark. She blamed the very excellent whiskey she’d been imbibing since the moment they fled the party—she and Sebastian nearly resorting to physically dragging Corwin away from what he’d assumed were his duties (the prince’s steward’s duties, as Sebastian reminded him, were to do whatever the prince said; a point upon which the steward had little room to argue)—and she was no longer required to be on her best, most sober behavior. 

Sebastian’s drink tipped, but luckily the tumbler was mostly empty and his quick reflexes saved the rest. Isabela, trying not to get caught, pushed herself backward from the table, underestimated the volume of her skirts, and fell back against the floor with a fabric-muffled thump. Kiara, crowing her delight at the uncharacteristic show of gracelessness, hoisted herself up, ran around the table, and jumped on Isabela before she could rise again. “Where are they hidden!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Isabela retorted, though her eyes shone with barely restrained mirth.

“I was dealt the Angel of Death in the first hand,” Kiara insisted. Her own skirts were no great help; she couldn’t get a good pinning grip with her legs. “So imagine my surprise when _you_ had one too! There’s only one in the deck, ‘Bela. Hence? Cheatingest cheater.”

Varric snorted. “And just what were you doing holding onto the Angel all this time, Hawke?”

Kiara blew a fallen lock of hair from her face and grinned at the dwarf. “Wouldn’t you like to know? But it hardly matters now, because Isabela is a cheating cheater and it’s time to make her pay.”

Isabela smirked up at her, not looking particularly put out, for all she was flat on her back and half-buried under a thousand yards of fabric. “Mmm. And just how do you intend to do that, Hawke? Because I’m really rather enjoying the view from here, and would hardly call it punishment. In fact, I’m suddenly reminded of that mud-wrestling match. What do you say we do this in a more civilized, less-clothed fashion?”

“How is less clothed more civilized?” Tasia asked. Kiara didn’t need to look at her to picture the exact disapproving eyebrow doubtless arching at the very thought.

“We could always ask Tasia to provide mud-wrestling gowns,” Kiara mused. “And you’d only find another way to cheat. Swathed in yards of skirt is the closest we’ll ever be to evenly matched.”

Isabela laughed a very startling, very unsettling laugh, and Kiara had about three seconds to regret her whiskey-fueled attack before she found herself on her back, glaring up at a very self-satisfied pirate. “Sweet thing,” Isabela purred, leaning close enough that Kiara felt the warmth of her breath against her ear, “I may _prefer_ the feel of the breeze against unclad thighs, but don’t assume that means I can’t fight in a dress.” Isabela tilted her head just enough to press a brief, chaste kiss to Kiara’s cheekbone. “And I will _never_ tell you where I keep them, kitten.”

“In her corset,” Varric supplied mildly, leaning back in his own seat. “And is deft with both her hands and her ability to provide distraction long enough to retrieve them.” Varric wiggled his fingers in Isabela’s general direction. “Before the memorable play of the double Angel of Death, you’ll recall she made our noble Turnip blush and then cast aspersions on poor Lucky’s manhood. Then she poured Hawke another drink, which necessitated quite the acrobatic lean over the table. I’m pretty sure that’s when the card came out. Still warm, I don’t doubt.” 

Isabela sat back hard, surrounded by the froth of her skirts, her eyes wide. “Fuzzy! How _could_ you?”

“What?” Varric asked with feigned innocence. “I didn’t tell them about the ones you keep in your boots. Or under your headscarf. Or that one time you—”

“Best stop now, Varric,” Sebastian mused, chuckling. “I’d rather not see this day end in murder.”

Varric crossed his hands over his belly and winked. “Also, I’m pretty sure she stole your necklace while she was kissing you just now, Hawke.”

Placing her hand upon her neck and finding it bare, Kiara swung her head around to glare at Isabela, who looked incredibly put out.  She rolled her eyes and, with no discernible movement whatsoever beyond a twist of her wrist, produced the pilfered necklace, hanging from one crooked finger.

“I know I should be horrified,” Amelle mused as she looked down at them, “but mostly I’m just impressed.”

“Maker’s balls, Mely, don’t tell her that.  You’ll just encourage her.”

“And when,” asked Fenris, “has Isabela ever _needed_ encouragement?”

“The elf speaks truth,” Varric intoned.

Grumbling, Kiara snatched the delicate necklace from where it dangled, the gold still warm from her skin, and refastened it, which she managed after two or three—okay, _four_ —attempts.  When she tried to get to her feet, a feat made far more difficult by the froth of skirts surrounding both her _and_ Isabela, she looked up to find her new husband doing a very poor job of hiding his mirth, even as he stood and offered her a hand up.  Even more annoying, Isabela had gotten to her feet with enviable ease, skirts or no skirts.

“I can get up perfectly fine on my own, thank you,” Kiara sniffed with as much wounded dignity as she could muster, which was a not inconsiderable amount; however, once she began the attempt to right herself, the sheer volume of material, which had felt positively cloudlike when she’d put it on that morning, was so billowing and unwieldy, she couldn’t manage to lever herself up again.

“You’re quite sure, my heart?” asked Sebastian, maddeningly straight-faced.

“Of course I’m sure,” Kiara returned, very carefully keeping the huffiness out of her voice.  “I’m simply not ready to get up yet, and this floor is surprisingly comfortable.”  She gathered her skirts more closely around her and sank down, pillowing herself against the fluffy, bunched material.

Somewhere above her, Tasia made a tiny, horrified sound. “Your _Highness_ ,” she squeaked, in a very unTasialike tone, doubtless helped by her own consumption of whiskey. “Have you _any idea_ what the _value_ of—”

Kiara rolled her eyes and flopped backward, a tacit invitation for Cupcake to come snuffling over if ever there was one. “Maker’s balls, Tasia, I’m hardly going to have occasion to wear it again.” As a cold nose pressed her cheek and dog hair doubtless found its way on the garment, she turned her head and grinned, blinking wide eyes at her horrified maid, “And I trust your superlative gown, uh, caring-for skills. If anyone can rescue it after its brief stint as a mattress, I know you can.”

Amelle laughed. “Is this our cue to leave, Kiri?”

“Any and all of you are welcome to join me down here. Sebastian, love, there are an abominable number of spider webs on your ceiling.”

Amelle’s laugh froze, mid- _ha_. “My bed is sounding better and better.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris murmured, “a strategic retreat is in order.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Amelle agreed.

“Oh, fine,” Kiara muttered. “If someone would be so kind as to lend me a hand or six, we’ll have a final toast and call it an evening. Isabela, so help me if you take that pot, I will have your ship impounded. I can do that now, you know.”

“Oh, Hawke!” Merrill cried as Corwin reached over her to add another splash of whiskey to her glass, “You wouldn’t! How would we get home again?”

“Over land, like civilized people,” Varric muttered. “Impound the boat. Please.”

“Ship,” Isabela growled, though she grinned and reached out to ruffle Varric’s hair as she did.

“I think I’d take seasickness over darkspawn and avalanches,” Cullen said. “And rain. And caves. And bandits.”

Varric raised his brows. “Says the Turnip who gets to stay safe and sound inside his nice warm castle. With a plethora of pretentious noblewomen to smite.”

“Better them than me,” muttered Amelle into her glass.

“You’re the one keen to head back,” Kiara reminded Varric mildly, leaning on one elbow. Tasia made another indignant noise. “Your invitation is an entirely open-ended one. My safe warm palace is your safe warm palace.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “And let Rivaini get up to no good without me? Won’t do, Hawke. Seasickness or no seasickness, I guess.”

As grim as only a onetime cabinmate could be, Sebastian said, “I’d wager on the seasickness.”

Kiara let her husband offer both his hands and use more than his share of leverage to pull her to her feet. Upright once more, she nestled under the weight of his arm and turned her face up to accept the warmth of his kiss.

“You’re not near as drunk as you were pretending to be just now, dear one,” Sebastian murmured against her lips.

“Am I not?” she asked with feigned innocence. “One might think I had other plans for the rest of this evening. Um. Night. Morning? Have we hit morning yet?”

The fire was dying now, leaving the room half-swathed in shadows, but she could make out every one of the smiling, familiar faces turned her way. Chuckling, she handed Sebastian’s nearly-empty glass to him and picked up her own, lifting it in a silent toast. He clinked the edge of his crystal cup to hers. “To the future?”

“To the future,” she said, moving her gaze slowly around the room, meeting the eyes of each and every one of her companions, old and new. A knot of emotion lodged in her throat as she remembered a very different night, and a very different drink, alone after the mess of the battle with Meredith and the loss of the Chantry. How different things were now. 

Here was her sister, glowing with happiness as she held Fenris’ hand; Aveline and Donnic, whole and hale, the hope for a city once deemed hopeless; Varric and Isabela, grinning, surprising wisdom couched in levity. Tasia and Kinnon weren’t quite touching, but Kiara didn’t miss the way the backs of their hands brushed and neither pulled away. Corwin smiled his fatherly smile, pleased and proud in a way she’d not seen since her own father died. Merrill’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, her hands clasped at her breast, the marks of her blood magic now faded to the dimmest of scars. Cullen gave Kiara a nod, serious but not reserved. Even Cupcake sat, alert and attentive, as if he knew perfectly well the significance of the moment. And Sebastian—oh, she’d never even allowed herself to dream an echo of this reality. His lips turned up as if he knew the exact tenor of her thoughts; perhaps he did. For once she didn’t swallow her tears or blink them away. She lifted her glass to each in turn. “And to family, _chosen_ family, strange and patchwork as we are, far-flung as we may end up. You are the best people I have ever known, and my life would have been incomparably poorer—and infinitely shorter, I think—without you in it.”

Murmured agreements followed this, and glasses were raised and brought together and sipped from.

“The future,” Kiara repeated, meeting Amelle’s eyes.

“The future,” Amelle agreed. “And home.”


End file.
